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On the tree-lined walk bordering the back of the Engineers' Castle, two men emerged from the wooded cover and approached the finely decorated ironwork of the Pantaleimonov bridge, suspended on chains from cables that spanned the canal. Both looked about 50 and were dressed according to the dicatates of fashion, without being at all fashionable. The clothes of the shorter of them were so poorly wedded to his form that they might have been inherited, although in fact they had been cut for him. His extremely high forehead, his receding chin, everything in his face and bearing spoke of the mildness, even blandness, of his disposition.
The larger man presented a more robust, vigorous figure. His firmly set jaw gave him a stubborn, not to say defiant, air and his eyes burned with almost Gothic intensity. He too was dressed in clothes that fit without appearing do so, but only because his massive physique seemed ready to burst out of whatever constraints, cloth or otherwise, threatened to inhibit him. Both wore greying beards, but not the well-trimmed rounded type that was fashionable in that year of 1878. The big man had a great unruly growth with stray shoots and wisps which gave him the look of a peasant patriarch; the smaller man, with a long rectangle going straight down from his chin, looked more the divine. The latter was walking slightly ahead, with an air of eagerness, but his friend held back, from time to time looking nervously at the lecture hall, and especially at the crowd of people streaming toward it on the other side of the canal. This hesitation on the part of the larger and more vigorous of the two men gave him the air of a large farm-animal reluctantly allowing himself to be led, towed, or even dragged by a diminutive peasant driver.
"Lev Nikolaevich, we must hurry," implored the smaller man, turning back toward his companion. "Why do you walk so slowly."
"The lecture doesn't begin for over a half an hour. We have ample time to cross the canal and the street, Nikolai Nikolaevich."
"But Lev Nikolaevich, we won't be able to find seats unless we arrive before seven. And besides, I had hoped to chat with some of the regular spectators beforehand." Nikolai Nikolaevich chuckled as he said this, thinking with fondness of the little group of friends that he hoped to see here.
The novelist Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy stopped in his tracks once again. "That's just what I don't want to do, my friend. All this polite society chit-chat--it has no value. No, worse than that--it is vulgar and disgusting. It sickens me."
"My dear Lev Nikolaevich, this is not a game of cards among the landowners of Tula! These are serious-minded people, the brightest of the intelligentsia in St. Petersburg!"
"Foo! A lot of bores, bowing and scraping to each other to keep up social appearances. I won't go in." "Your cousin, the one you call 'Granny', will be there."
"I know," the novelist hesitated, looking uncertain, "we were going to come together, but she didn't answer my note. Anyway, I spent the evening with her just a few days ago." Then, as though he had just taken this resolve, "I don't need to make small talk with her in front of a lot of hypocrites."
"But everyone would be so pleased to see you." Then shyly, under his breath, admitting it, "I would be so proud to accompany you."
"Showing me off, eh? That's sheer intellectual foppery! I'm surprised at you, Nikolai Nikolaevich!" His companion hung his head. "And mysticism. Worse yet!"
Even the gentle essayist and literary critic, Nikolai Nikolaevich Strakhov was piqued at this, and he looked up sharply. "One needn't be a mystic to agree to give the man a hearing. His mysticism bothers me as much as it does you--perhaps more. You know how I've complained of having to come to these lectures. The public that attends them is not capable of serious thought, and Solovyov's histrionic flights are irritating."
"So why do we attend?"
"I attend as a courtesy to my friends, and to hear what young Vladimir Solovyov has to say. I don't know why you attend, Lev Nikolaevich, but you did say that you wanted to come." The novelist emitted an expression of disgust. "I've changed my mind", he snorted. "A lot of foolish spiritualists showing off their high-society faith." "No one's asking you to have the beatific vision at the end of the lecture. I'm certainly not expecting to.
"You're too much the pure philosopher to have the beatific vision, Nikolai Nikolaevich, otherwise you'd gladly do it."
"You and I have agreed, haven't we, Lev Nikolaevich, both on the necessity of religion and its rational impossibility!"
"Exactly! Belief is a goal that lies outside of reason. One must believe as a peasant believes, not like these high-society spiritualists!"
"Of course, I share your feelings about the spiritualists, Lev Nikolaevich. It's appalling how they've taken over St. Petersburg in recent years. But there's no harm in giving the boy a hearing. This is a lecture, not a seance."
"It's perfectly obvious what he'll say, the puppy," growled the novelist.
"He does have a solid philosophical training," Strakhov objected. "His ideas are not uninteresting; he presents a mystical treatment of idealistic philosophy."
"Philosophical training--nonesense!" Lev Nikolaevich snorted. "It's the purest mysticism! I've met the boy. He was at my estate at Yasnaya Polyana a few years ago. Didn't much like him. Nervous, flighty sort of person. Worse than that damned historian, his father. You see, this is what comes of your association with all these soulful nationalists, theologians and...".
"Don't begin that again, my friend, interrupted Nikolai Nikolaevich in a surprisingly sharp tone. "You agreed to come to the lecture. Now are you coming in or not?"
"Forgive me Nikolai Nikolaevich. You go ahead. I'll come in when Solovyov is about to begin his lecture."
At this moment there was a flurry of activity on the other side of the bridge; one of the arriving spectators was attracting unusual attention. Strakhov craned his neck to see; Tolstoy turned his back on the scene and regarded the Engineers' Castle with a pained expression.
"I can't see clearly," said Strakhov, "but it's probably Dostoevsky. He and his wife come quite regularly to these lectures, you know. Fyodor Mikhailovich is devoted to the young Solovyov, and so is Anna Grigorevna." Lev Tolstoy said nothing in response to this, but he turned around enough to take a furtive glance at the scene that was unfolding across the street, careful to remain well behind the suspended bridge. Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky and his wife Anna Grigorevna had just arrived at the door of the lecture hall and were pausing for a moment to greet the little crowd of well-wishers that had already begun to form when they were still half a block away. Dostoevsky was a slender man of slightly less than average height with thinning light brown hair and a full, but not unkempt, beard. His face was creased and serious, but his nervous and somber air was tempered by the look of good natured surprise characteristic of self-absorbed men when they are receiving a great deal of attention and goodwill. Anna Grigorevna was a full bodied woman, slightly taller than her husband, with a face that was intelligent and kind, but tended more toward determination than to beauty. "It is the Dostoevskys," Nikolai Strakhov advised his novelist friend. "Do come and speak to them. I'll introduce you. How extraordinary it is that the two of you have never met. You, the colossus of Russian literature and he,.... well,... also a great novelist. You are exact contemporaries, with so many friends in common, yet you've never met. At least, I don't think that you have."
"There's nothing extraordinary about it," growled Tolstoy with rising irritation. "Our paths have never crossed."
"And I am perhaps the only person in all of Russia who is close to both of you. I knew him before I even became acquainted with you, you know. We worked together at Time and The Epoch."
"My dear Nikolai Nikolaevich, I am quite familiar with the source of your acquaintance with Fyodor Mikhailovich. I wonder that your career as a literary critic has survived, after such an inauspicious beginning!" "Lev Nikolaevich, don't be rude. Now do come and let me introduce you. Please!"
"Am I your trophy? Is this meeting a little spectacle you've arranged for your own glory? My God, you engineered the whole thing. It was you who encouraged me to come tonight. This is all your doing."
"What nonsense. You yourself wanted to hear Solovyov. You know that." Tolstoy's downcast look was a grudging admission that this was true. Strakhov went on, "Now are you coming in or not?"
"You go on," Tolstoy sighed. "I'll come in later, when the lecture is about to begin."
"You won't find a seat, I assure you."
"I don't wish to find a seat, Nikolai Nikolaevich. Now leave me!" Having said this Tolstoy turned back toward the Engineers' Castle. Strakhov backed up slowly a few steps, then turned toward the bridge that spanned the canal. "And Nikolai Nikolaevich," shouted Tolstoy, not turning around. "Tell no one that I'm here. Do you understand?"
"Alright," said Strakhov, faintly and hesitantly.
"Especially Dostoevsky!"
"Especially Dostoevsky."
Had Lev Nikolaevich turned around during this exchange, he might have seen his favorite cousin Aleksandra Andreevna Tolstaya alight from her carriage, look around as though seeking someone, then, apparently deciding that the person she sought was not present, turn and enter the lecture hall with a purposeful gait. But the novelist did not turn just then; he continued to look fixedly at the old castle. Only after Strakhov had crossed the bridge and the street and entered the building did Tolstoy turn around again. His face was working violently. When the last stragglers had arrived and entered the building, Tolstoy finally crossed and, with timidity that was comic in a figure so imposing, took up a position under the windows outside the auditorium, where he remained until he heard the calming of the crowd and a voice from the lectern, signalling the beginning of the event all had so eagerly awaited.
Everyone knew that the great novelist Fyodor Dostoevsky attended these talks without fail, as a personal friend of the speaker, and his arrival was anticipated much as one waits for the appearance of a famous landmark on a sightseeing tour, with the certainty that it will be there, yet with an air of excitement all the same. Another celebrated "regular" was the countess Aleksandra Andreevna Tolstaya, the cousin of the novelist Lev Tolstoy, an intimate of the royal family, and a woman whose social sophistication detracted not a bit from her religious devotion. Extremely pious, she was a leader in the social life of the capital. In fact, some thought that it was her example that had initiated the faddish interest in mysticism which had become so strong in St. Petersburg society in recent years. Unmoved by fads herself, she followed her own interests and worshipped in her own way, with little interest in the greater or lesser authenticity of her imitators' ecstasies. Indeed, her calm self assurance and intellectual independence contributed to the impact of her ideas on society. She was past 60, and her beauty had faded a bit; indeed, she had never been particularly noted for it. It had always been the warmth of her character that had made her so beloved, and this quality had increased in her with the onset of old age, seasoned with the irascability that is the privilege years confer.
Upon entering, she looked around briefly, as though still seeking someone in the crowd. In fact she had seen her famous novelist cousin Lyova a few days before. He was in town for the week on business, and they had discussed religion long into the night as usual. She knew that he despised "mystical nonsense," as he called it, although he wanted to believe in religion . . . wanted to believe, but could not bring himself to it. She had urged him to give Solovyov another chance, thinking that the philosophical brilliance of the young thinker would satisfy Lyova's need for an intellectual basis for religious thought.
In fact it was Lyova who had suggested that they come to the lecture together, but she had left his note unanswered. She knew how volatile he was on this issue, and she frankly feared he would make a scene. She did not really expect him to show up, in any case, and a glance around the room assured her that she was right. His large frame and unique physiognomy would have been immediately evident in the crowd, and in fact would have caused quite a stir.
Not finding a seat (she had intended to come earlier) she went up to one of the wide window sills and, asking the assistance of a masculine acquaintance who happened to be standing nearby, hoisted herself unceremoniously onto the windowsill to sit. She did this quite without self-consciousness; it was a practical necessity and she seemed unaware that the crowd would think it eccentric.
A decrescendo in the general buzz of conversation was accompanied by a wave of tittering through the crowd, and in a moment another woman on the opposite side of the hall imitated her action, shrieking in mock dismay as her skirt billowed up in front of her and laughing excitedly as she struggled to return it to a more decorous position. Here and there around the room other ladies followed suit, and soon the back of the room was lined with ladies sitting on the windowsills, and a wave of laughter replaced the normal noises of conversation. The Countess Tolstaya, oblivious to, or perhaps slightly irritated by, the stir she had created, had already struck up a conversation with the acquaintance who had assisted her ascent.
The stir had barely subsided when there was another change in the conversational buzz. The crowd around the entrance door, at the rear of the hall, fell silent and backed up, making way for Dostoevsky and his wife, who were entering. A few bold folks muttered "Good evening, Fyodor Mikhailovich; Good evening Anna Grigorevna," while others did not presume so much but merely stepped back in silence and nodded deferentially. The novelist beamed with bemused pleasure, as embarrassed as he was gratified by the attention he was receiving; his wife had the regal air of one who understands that the role of royalty has devolved upon her and gracefully discharges her queenly responsibilities.
The pair nodded to Tolstaya as they passed her, exchanging first names and patronymics, and did the same with several others as they moved through the crowd. Two men at the end of a row toward the back rose and offered their seats to the Dostoevskys, who declined the offer at first, but finally accepted.
A rotund priest in a black cassock and pendant cross came out at the last moment and insisted that the aisles must be cleared. A number of men who had sat on the steps of the aisles were required to move to the back of the auditorium. A few stragglers entered through the back door, among them Nikolai Strakhov, whose eyes nervously sought out the Dostoevskys before he took up an inconspicuous place among those standing at the back.
Finally, about 10 minutes after the time scheduled for the lecture, three figures emerged from a door behind the podium, and the crowd fell silent. The first two were priests, dressed in the same black cassocks and crosses as their chubby predecessor, but with round, flat-topped, black hats that signified a higher rank.
The third was Vladimir Solovyov. He was a tall, slender youth, whose large hands and facial features made him seem even more gangling than he was. His unusually large head, adorned with large, puffy lips and long hair, appeared misplaced on his stringy frame, and his huge, deep-set eyes gave him the look of a huge bird perched at the front of the auditorium. His movements were nervous, or rather, excited, but not awkward, and his elegant clothing, a white cravat and double-breasted coat, contrasted with the air of childlike excitement that he projected. The first of the priests began to introduce him.
"Highly esteemed ladies and gentlemen, we are pleased to present the sixth in a series of lectures on God-manhood by the young theologian Vladimir Solovyov, sponsored by the Society for Spiritual Enlightenment. We are pleased that so many have shown an interest in these lectures, and we apologize for the invonvenience caused by the limited size of the lecture hall. Mr. Solovyov is well known to all of you and many of you have attended the entire series of lectures, so there is little need to give a lengthy introduction of our speaker. It will be sufficient to say that Mr. Solovyov's ideas have been worked out in the course of his studies at the theological faculty here in our capital city and will be published in the forthcoming issues of the Journal for Spiritual Enlightenment. Allow me to present Vladimir Solovyov."
From her perch on the windowsill Aleksandra Tolstaya could see the speakers' platform quite well, but her ability to hear was diminished by the street noises which reached her through the window. Liteiny Street was not awfully busy at this time on a Friday evening, but the occasional clip-clop of a passing carriage was enough to cause her to lose a word here, a phrase there, occasionally a whole sentence. Then another noise penetrated the window pane, a noise not immediately identifiable, and she turned, quite uncharacteristically, to see what it was. Someone was rustling about in the bushes beneath the window, a rather large man. He was pulling aside the branches of a small tree in order to get closer to the window, as though trying to eavesdrop on the proceedings inside. Aleksandra was not one to lose her composure, even when irritated, and she returned her attention to the speaker, resolved to ignore the disturbance. But a moment later, the "creak-snap-thud" of a branch breaking, followed by the impact of a heavy body on the ground made her turn and look again, ane this time she gaped at what she saw--it was Cousin Lyova, the novelist Lev Tolstoy!
When her initial amazement passed, it was replaced by anxiety about his safety. He was lying on the ground outside the window, where he had fallen when the branch he had been leaning on had broken. When he began to pull himself up, making it clear that he was unhurt, her anxiety turned quickly to outrage. He was behaving outrageously, the pompous fool. He ought to have come to the lecture just like anyone else, rather than hanging about ridiculously under windows, trying to hear without being seen. It was vanity, she was sure of that, vanity and that strange fear of society that had so often been expressed as revulsion in his novels.
That was a fear Aleksandra Andreevna had never understood in her cousin--why one so attractive and strong should fear contact with others, especially when their attentions were likely to be adulatory--this baffled her completely. Her own social skills were legendary; she had mastered the social scene so completely that it bored her. Why her cousin Lev, whose talents certainly surpassed her own, feared it was a mystery. In any case it was best to ignore his ridiculous behavior, and since she felt sure he had not seen her, she turned away from the window a second time, resolved once again to ignore him. Meanwhile her outrage had faded imperceptibly into bemused sympathy and finally on into a purer amusement, and she found it impossible to repress a giggle as she tried to refocus her attention on the solemn scene in front of her, while still conscious of Lev's foolish antics behind her.
Lev Nikolaevich rose on his elbow, lying on the ground after his fall, and caught sight of a woman's face in the auditorium window above him. She was in profile, as though she had been looking out at him and was just turning back to the scene inside, and she looked like, yes, he could not be mistaken, it was "Granny," as he affectionately called his older cousin Aleksandra Andreevna. But why would Granny be sitting on the windowsill? Surely there were men seated in the auditorium; what an outrage that none of them had risen to offer such a woman his seat. Visceral outrage filled him and irrationally blocked his interest in the lecture and his anxieties about his relationships with the other spectators.
He sat up in the dirty snow and tried in vain to listen to Solovyov's talk--he could barely hear it anyway--the progress of man toward God-manhood, the synthesis of Kantian skepticism and mystical gnosis, the bright future of mankind united in knowledge of God--it all seemed like so much gibberish to him. Surely the others would soon begin to realize this as well. Then they would begin to walk out on the lecture. Soon the doors would open and the spectators would begin streaming out, a few at first, then en masse, breaking into laughter over the ridiculousness of all this mystical nonsense, leaving that absurd young man in there waving his arms about.
Leaving Dostoevsky with him, their forces in disarray, their ideas exposed as ludicrous. Leaving Strakhov too, silly Strakhov--who had wanted to introduce him to Dostoevsky. What an impossible scene. What would he have said? What would either of them have said? Oh, Dostoevsky would doubtless have mumbled some polite nonsense or other. But that sort of false pleasantry would stick in his own throat--far better to spit and walk away.
But it would mean leaving Aleksandra Andreevna as well, for she would not walk out. Leave Granny? No! A wave of sympathy for his cousin washed over him and swept away the welter of confused vituperations. He must see Granny, right away--she would understand; she would know what to say; she would know what he should do. He turned and stared at the back of her head. The barest hint of a profile was visible through the window--a sharp dark silhouette portrait against the brightness of the auditorium, framed by the blue darkness of the night around him.
Inside the auditorium, Aleksandra Andreevna had no sooner gotten the better of her impulse to laugh out loud at Cousin Lyova's antics when she heard a light tapping at the window behind her head. Could that be Lyova? He wouldn't! Probably not. But an instant later a repetition of the sound, a light hail of pebbles against the window, assured her that her fears were well grounded. What on earth could he be thinking of? What should she do? Ignore it, hoping that he would have the good sense to stop? Turn around and try to persuade him to stop? A third hail of pebbles against the window forced her to do the latter, as the whole ruckus was beginning to arouse attention in the immediate area around the window.
"Come outside. I must speak with you!" implored his look.
"Have you lost your senses? Stop this at once!" hers replied.
"Please come out," he continued to look so pathetic that she almost softened her sternness.
But not quite. "I will not!" she glared. "Come inside and listen," she mimed. "I'll speak with you after," she wasn't sure this complex mime had gotten across. But the first part had, for the colossus of Russian literature submissively retreated from the window and lumbered up the front steps of the building.
A moment later the back door to the lecture hall opened timidly and Lev Tolstoy tiptoed in to stand, as inconspicuously as he was able, in the very back of the hall. He looked imploringly at Granny; she smiled and nodded, then looked firmly away to fix her eyes once again on the speaker. Strakhov had noticed him and was trying to exchange glances, but Tolstoy avoided his eyes, trying once again to concentrate on the lecture. Solovyov was gesticulating vigorously and explaining the intricacies of God-manhood.
The boy's talk was more irritating to Tolstoy than he had expected it to be. Solovyov looked alternately like a Byzantine icon and a tall, skinny flagpole as he gazed intently into space and waved his arms, yet the elegant white cravat at his neck added the incongrous air of a bohemian artist to his already incongruous figure.
"That's just what's wrong with these mystical intellectuals," thought Tolstoy, "they try to make religious ideas fashionable, when in fact the tiniest particle of true religion would send all of this high society falsity to the very devil."
His reverie was interrupted by the realization that some of the others standing at the back had noticed him. They were whispering and nodding in his direction. He tried to shrink, to vanish, to escape their notice somehow or other. He looked down at his feet, put his hands to his face in mock meditation, looked the other direction, but he knew that it wouldn't work--he was too big, too famous, too obvious, and with a last imploring look at Granny, he slipped out the door.
Tolstoy wandered among the museum exhibits that shared old Salt Town Hall with the lecture hall of the Society for Spiritual Enlightenment. Across from the main doors of the lecture hall was a large textile exhibit, including displays of women's dresses, in both peasant and aristocratic styles. Lev Nikolaevich tried to look at the displays disinterestedly, keeping his mind on the fabrics and the details of their manufacture, but images of bosomy farm women filling out the peasant dresses and white fleshed aristocratic ladies wearing the low-cut gowns persistently crowded into his mind, as though all of the dresses were coming to life in some wierd Gogolian nightmare.
Tolstoy could still hear Solovyov's otherworldly yammering from the other side of the double doors of the lecture hall, as the excitable boy dramatized his spiritualistic thoughts in ecstatic tones. At last, feeling pursued by the birdlike Solovyov at the head of a brigade of voluptuous semi-naked women, the colossus of Russian literature retreated to the end of the hall where he darted up the stairs as rapidly as his large frame would let him. They did not follow. It was quiet.
The top floor of Salt Town Hall was home to Baron Steiglitz's Drawing Academy, and also contained exhibits attatched to the pedagogical and agricultural museums. Both education and agriculture were topics in which Lev Nikolaevich had an active interest, and both were quite far removed from the threats posed by nervous young theologians and full-bodied women. Lev Nikolaevich relaxed somewhat.
But after just a few moments looking through the exhibits, his irritation rose again; education and agriculture were both areas which were so thoroughly misunderstood by his contemporaries that Tolstoy soon worked himself into a rage every time he thought about them. Indeed, it had been years since he had directly addressed the educational issues that had so preoccupied him in his youth, and although his life as a landowner necessarily involved him in agricultural decisions, all of his attempts to bring people to their senses on those questions had proven frustrating. The exhibits of new agricultural machines brought to mind the land purchase he had arranged a few days before. He had growing doubts about the morality of his position as a landowner. What could justify his pampered existence as a landed aristocrat? He thought about his imminent return to his estate, to his wife and children, but these thoughts brought with them their own anxieties, and they did not calm him.
Suddenly he heard voices coming up the stairs. He ducked behind a pillar to escape notice as the voices approached, but as they continued their ascent he realized that he would come into view as they reached the top. Dashing to the other end of the hall, he tried a few doors in desperation, and at last one of them opened, allowing him to escape into the dark quietness of Baron Steiglitz's Drawing Academy. After a moment, when his eyes were able to detect outlines in the windowless room, he saw basins, pitchers and cleaning materials lying about. He had entered the utility closet, used to clean up artists' supplies, as well as the artists themselves. No matter; he would be safe here.
But no sooner had he breathed deeply with relief than he realized that the voices were getting louder once again. They were coming to this end of the hall, approaching the door. Surely they would not come to this room! What could they want here? But it was undeniable--it was precisely to this room that they were coming. Lev Nikolaevich cringed as he thought how foolish he would look as the door to the mop closet opened to reveal the great novelist cowering in the dark.
At last he discerned through the darkness that there was another door, bearing all the marks of new construction, on the other side of the small room. He lunged at it and dove behind it, just as the turning knob and widening wedge of light announced the entrance of the two voices through the outer door.
The inner room was even smaller than the outer one, but a bit brighter, owing to the presence of a large, white object in its center. Lev Nikolaevich could not make it out at first; his mind was reeling anyway. It seemed to be a large chair with a high back.
"I tell you it's here," said one of the voices, "I've seen it. They put it in last summer. Old Steiglitz won't be outdone when it comes to the latest gadgetry."
"What did you say it's called?"
"An 'optimus valve water closet,' from England, the latest thing. It's right in here, behind this second door."
The colossus of Russian literature instinctively seized the doorknob, hearing this, and held it tightly shut, noticing as he did so that the door was equipped with a sliding bolt latch. He slid the bolt through the latch just as the man on the other side tried the door for the first time.
"It's stuck," said the first voice with irritation.
"Very likely," replied his friend derisively. "If you're making this whole story up, Koch, I'll get back at you, I swear I will."
Lev Nikolaevich held his breath. They now stood directly opposite one another; only the door separated them.
"I'm not making it up, Pestryakov. Try it yourself."
Suddenly the second man began rattling the door with all his might. Lev Nikolaevich stared in horror at the bolt dancing about in the latch and with dazed terror waited for it to leap out at any moment. This seemed quite possible, so powerfully was the man named Pestryakov rattling the door. He thought of holding the bolt with his hand, but the other might guess his presence. His head began to spin and he staggered back and sat down on the optimus valve water closet.
"Wait!" Pestryakov almost shouted. "Of course! Someone's already in there. It's latched."
"Well, then, why doesn't he say something."
"I don't know. Maybe he's embarrassed."
"Maybe it's a woman!" This was pronounced in a suggestive tone, and elicited further sniggering, which disgusted Lev Nikolaevich. "Perhaps she's sick."
"Maybe she's fainted!" The suggestion that the occupant was female had taken firm hold of both men's imaginations. Small wonder that they had felt uncomfortable in the mystical lecture. "Let's do this," said Pestryakov decisively. "Let's go get the janitor. Let him get it open." Sweat dripped from the brow of the seated colossus.
"Good job!" Both started out.
"Wait," Pestryakov again. "You stay here while I go get the janitor."
"Why should I stay?"
"You don't want our little prize to get away, do you?"
Lev Nikolaevich felt a new wave of disgust as he imagined how they winked and elbowed each other. The outer door opened and Pestryakov left. A minute passed, then another, still no one returned. Lev Nikolaevich could hear Koch beginning to move about restlessly. "To the devil with it anyway," said Koch suddenly, with an impatient air, and, leaving his post, followed his friend out the door, stepping quickly, then descended, his boots loud on the stairs.
At last the sound of his steps faded. The colossus mopped his brow, waited for a few minutes, then slithered out of the room and down the stairs, past the main floor with the entrance to the lecture hall, all the way down to the ground floor, which housed a number of offices connected with the agricultural museum and ministry. Oh for someone interesting to talk to, thought Lev Nikolaevich, a janitor or workman, someone with whom he would not have to engage in society chit-chat, with whom he could escape the burden of his image and position as a great writer.
One door, labelled "Workman: A Division of the Agricultural Ministry," was recessed from the main hallway enough to provide a secluded nook which might be safe from intruders. Lev Nikolaevich sat down here and resolved to while away the time working out the ideas for his current writing project; he had recently returned to his plan to write a novel about the Decembrist uprising of 1825 and its aftermath. But he couldn't keep his mind on the Decembrists either. He kept returning to the irritation produced by Solovyov's lecture. Of course the religious idea was of utmost importance in human life, but how could one believe in all this mysticism. To see Christ's teaching as anything but a great ethical message meant giving in to the worst excesses of obscurantism and ignorance--and submitting to the intellectual foppery of a man like that puppy Solovyov. No, he could not! But at last he was able to let go even of this thought, and before long he had fallen into a deep sleep, curled up under the label, "Workman," and looking, indeed, quite like the unlettered janitor he had hoped to find a moment before.
Strakhov, giving the appearance that he too was looking around for someone, perhaps for Lev Nikolaevich. Surely he would know what was troubling her cousin if anyone did. She approached him. "Good evening, Nikolai Nikolaevich. Have you seen my cousin Lev Nikolaevich this evening?"
"Good evening, madame. So delightful to see you." Nikolai Nikolaevich was abashed. His contacts with Lev Nikolaevich were purely literary and philosophical; he was not on a social footing with the novelist's aristocratic kin. He went on, apologetically, "I saw Lev Nikolaevich only earlier, before the lecture began."
"Did he come here with you?" This came out sounding more inquisitorial than she had intended.
"I did not intend to presume, my dear lady, that is, well, yes, he did."
"Nonsense! It isn't presumptious at all. Think nothing of it, my dear Nikolai Nikolaevich. It's true, we talked of coming together, but I declined his invitation. That's between Lev Nikolaevich and myself. I'm glad you could persuade him to come."
"Thank you, my dear lady."
"The point is he won't be civilized, and come on in, but insists on trampling down the bushes outside, threatening to break the windows, and in general disturbing the spectators, the silly fool."
"Permit me to observe, madame, he is very eager not to be seen here."
"Yes, yes, I know. Do you know where he is now?"
"I have no idea. He stepped in at the back for a moment, but then he vanished."
"Yes, I saw him. And he was afraid some others noticed him as well." At this moment, as though summoned by their conversation about him, Lev Tolstoy's familiar physiognomy appeared above the crowd by the back stairway. His eyes found Aleksandra Andreevna's with the same imploring look she had seen looking in at her through the window earlier. No one had noticed him yet, but it was only a matter of time until they would, and he looked ready to bolt and run if that happened. "There he is," said Aleksandra Andreevna to Strakhov. "Let me go to him."
"Of course, my dear lady." She moved off quickly through the crowd, and Strakhov followed her with his eyes
It was just at this moment that the Dostoevskys finally freed themselves from the admiring crowd at the other end of the foyer. Anna Grigorevna gently took Fyodor Mikhailovich's arm and urged him toward the spot where Strakhov was standing, hoping to say 'hello.' Strakhov was unaware of their approach; his eyes were nervously fixed upon Tolstoy and on Aleksandra Andreevna, who was approaching her cousin. So that when Anna Grigorevna touched him on the shoulder--"Good evening, Nikolai Nikolaevich"--he jumped and even cried out slightly.
"Oh, good evening, Anna Grigorevna, Fyodor Mikhailovich. You startled me, it's just that I was looking...someone else...please pardon me."
"Never mind. Don't you think Fyodor Mikhailovich's protege has surpassed himself, Nikolai Nikolaevich," Anna Grigorevna blurted out enthusiastically.
"Oh, quite," replied Strakhov, still looking anxiously over his shoulder.
"My dear, you exaggerate. He's not a protege. He's worked these ideas out quite on his own."
"Nonsense, Fedya. Everyone's saying it. Aren't they, Nikolai Nikolaevich?"
"Oh yes, everyone is saying it," said Strakhov absently, with another quick look toward Tolstoy. Aleksandra Andreevna had reached her cousin now and the two were talking earnestly.
"Anna Grigorevna is my most ardent supporter, as you know, Nikolai Nikolaevich. Just don't tell Vladimir Sergeevich that you think of him as my protege, my dear. He might be offended, or worse yet, he might think that I myself had planted the idea in your head."
"Planted the idea in my head? So I'm your protege!" laughed Anna Grigorevna. "Don't worry," she continued with mock seriousness, "not a word about this to Vladimir Sergeevich. My lips are sealed."
By this time Strakhov had completely lost the thread of their conversation, so intently was he concentrating on the spot where Tolstoy and his cousin had just vanished down the back stairs. "I hope we're not hindering you, Nikolai Nikolaevich,..." Dostoevsky was just beginning to say.
"Excuse me," interrupted Strakhov, "there is someone,...that is...I must see...Oh dear...." And with this Strakhov left them and made his way hastily through the crowd toward the back stairs.
"Don't forget dinner on Sunday. Four o'clock, as usual," called Anna Grigorevna to Strakhov, and he absently replied "Your guest," over his shoulder as he hurried away. "Whatever could be the matter with Nikolai Nikolaevich," whispered Anna Grigorevna to her husband. Lev Nikolaevich and Aleksandra Andreevna had indeed just gone down the back stairs. Tolstoy was apologizing for coming to the lecture with Strakhov instead of with her. She dismissed this as nonsense (after all it was she who had not responded to his invitation), but shamed him for his childish behavior at the lecture. She soon relented, however, and merely tried to calm his nerves and get him out of the building and home. "Don't give it another thought, Lyovushka. Go home and get some sleep."
"But what about you, and...and Nikolai Nikolaevich. What will he do?"
"Don't you worry about Nikolai Nikolaevich. He can take care of himself. Go home and calm down."
"Yes." He became quite childlike. "Can I get out this way?"
"I'm sure you can."
"I'm returning to Yasnaya Polyana immediately. I won't see you again."
"Have a good trip. Give my best to your Sonya."
"Thank you. Good night, my dearest Granny." He went out the back door and looked about for a path of escape. Strakhov arrived at the back door only in time to see his friend hoist himself and leap over the alley fence with all the agility of a barefoot street urchin and disappear down Pantaleimonov Street into the darkness.
"During Lent in 1878, V. S. Solovyov gave a series of philosophical lectures, sponsored by the Society of the Friends of Spiritual Enlightenment (the large auditorium), in Salt Town Hall. These lectures brought a full house; many of our mutual friends were among the spectators. Since everything was going well for us at home, Fyodor Mikhailovich and I went to the lectures together. Returning from one of them, my husband asked me, 'Didn't you notice how strangely Nikolai Nikolaevich [Strakhov] behaved toward us this evening. He didn't approach us on his own as he usually does, then when we met during the intermission, he barely said "hello" and began speaking with someone else right away. Maybe he's offended with us or something--what do you think?' 'Yes, I too thought he seemed to be avoiding us,' I answered. 'However, when I said to him in parting, "Don't forget Sunday," he replied, "Your guest."' I was a bit worried that I had, in my impetuous way, said something offensive to our usual Sunday guest. My husband valued his conversations with Strakhov highly and he would often remind me before the approaching dinner to lay in a supply of good wine or prepare our guest's favorite fish.
The following Sunday, Nikolai Nikolaevich came to dinner. I decided to clear up the matter and asked him directly if he was angry with us.
'What's put that idea into your head, Anna Grigorevna?' Strakhov asked.
'Well, it seemed to my husband and me that you were avoiding us at Solovyov's last lecture.'
'Ah, that was an unusual circumstance,' he laughed. 'I was avoiding not only you, but all of my friends. Count L. N. Tolstoy had come to the lecture with me. He asked me not to introduce him to anyone--that's why I was staying away from everyone.'
'What! Tolstoy was with you!?' Fyodor Mikhailovich exclaimed with pained astonishment. 'How I regret that I didn't meet him! Of course I wouldn't try to strike up an acquaintance if someone doesn't want that. But why didn't you whisper to me who was with you? I would have liked to have had a look at him at least.'
'But of course you know what he looks like from his portraits,' laughed Nikolai Nikolaevich.
'What good are portraits? Do they really show what a person is like? The important thing is to see someone in person. Sometimes one glance is enough to make an imprint of the man in the heart that will last a lifetime. I'll never forgive you, Nikolai Nikolaevich, that you didn't show him to me.'
And later on, Fyodor Mikhailovich expressed regret more than once that he had not met Tolstoy face to face."
"I just received your letter, dear Nikolai Nikolaevich, and I hasten to answer it. Of course you may quote my letter [of September, 1880]. How I wish I knew how to say all that I feel about Dostoevsky! In describing your own feelings you have in part expressed mine. I never saw the man and had no direct relations with him, yet suddenly, upon his death, I realized that to me he was the very closest, dearest, most necessary person. I have been a writer, and writers are all vain and envious; I at least am such a writer. And never has it entered my head to measure myself against him--never. Everything he did (the good, the genuine in what he did) was such that, the more he achieved the better, as far as I was concerned. Art makes me envious; so does intelligence, but things of the heart only gladden me. So I even considered him my friend, and I never thought but that we would meet someday (it simply didn't seem appropriate now); still I always felt that [our meeting] was up to me. Then suddenly at supper [today]--I had arrived late and was eating alone--I read that he had died. Something that had sustained me seemed now to slip away. I was upset, but then I saw how dear he had been to me, and I wept; I am weeping now. A few days ago, before his death, I read The Insulted and the Injured, and my heart was warmed. I knew instinctively that there was genuine feeling at the funeral, no matter how much the newspapers have gone and shit all over everything.
What do you say to my wife's letter? I don't need the book [about Philo (of Alexandria?)] right now. Thanks very much. With all my heart I embrace and love you.
Your Lev Tolstoy"