Tolstoy's House

I went to see Tolstoy's house. Two years I'd been waiting to go
there after I'd been driven past it in a coach, tourist fashion; now I
was back to see it for real. I'd done my homework, made my own way
there on the metro, local style, crushed on the way. More people use
the metro in Moscow than anywhere else in the world; sad that Tolstoy
never got to see it. I came up out of the station, disorientated, but
found my way with the help of my homework. Unobtrusive map, guide book,
memory. When I got there after two more beautiful churches his house
was being renovated.

Oh God no, renovated, after two years of waiting, but they still had
his desk on display in the stables. The stables! He loved horses but he
loved his desk more than that. He sawed inches from the legs of his
chair when his sight was failing so he could still see to write at that
desk. And they were showing a video of some old film, in the stables,
Leo riding his first bicycle, in the snow, at the age of eighty! How he
would have loved and hated a crowded metro to the Kremlin.

Leo's desk, his photographs, his table cloth embroidered over the chalk
signatures of his famous guests. His children, their toys, his wife,
his wife's possessions and her taste in d?cor. An old lady sat on a
chair outside the front door of the house being renovated with no smile
for me after all the time and distance I'd been waiting, as it turned
out, to see Tolstoy's stables. He would have laughed at me if he'd been
there; instead his ghost rode off on the bicycle down the ghost of his
snow bound street.

Leo cared about the way he lived his life. That's what his thoughts
were about, that's what he tried to write about, that's what his desk
was for. He loved everything life threw at him as long as he could put
it down in writing from his sawn-off chair. He had to be able to see
it. How should he live his life? It didn't stop him being a bad person
or a good person, but at least he asked. And he wrote.

I left the stables, had a final look at the house after my two year
wait, waved, not noticeably, to the old lady, do svidenya. At least I'd
done my homework, made it, even if only to the stables. And I'd seen
his bicycle which they'd thoughtfully placed next to his bed. At least
I'd seen his house from the outside. Got a glimpse through the windows.
How should we live our lives?

I got back to the Metro station and realised that I had some time. The
time I should have had in the house, not the stables. I remembered that
just across the bridge was Gorky Park. Maxim Gorky, the malcontent,
perhaps his park was not being renovated. Why not have a look? Less
Tolstoy, unscheduled Gorky, homework on the hoof. I negotiated lots of
Moscow traffic, three sets of pedestrian lights, the bridge was
slightly nearer. By the foot of its far arc I could see a little
fairground wheel, not turning, in the park. Then trees, lots of
trees.

Then my path went wrong, misled by the crossings. Instead of going over
the bridge I was being led down beside it towards the riverbank. There
were some houses on the right, the wall of the bridge on the left and I
tried to see if there was another way up to the bridge. Out of one of
the houses came running a tiny girl, crying. A bigger girl followed,
grabbed her, pushed her down onto the pavement and began hitting her.
The tiny girl was terrified.

I was struck motionless, couldn't quite believe what I was seeing as
the tiny girl cowered on the pavement, arms held above her head to
protect it. I looked around, there was no-one else, just the cars
choking across the bridge up above. The tiny girl wailed and screamed
as the bigger girl grabbed her arm, dragged her along the ground and
shouted at her. All I could say in Russian was hello, thank you and two
beers please, not much use when words were the weapon I needed and for
the first time in my life my words were powerless. I think I said out
loud, please God, what am I supposed to do here? Where are the Russian
police when you need them!

The only thing I could have practically done was to physically
intervene, but this could have got me into a lot of trouble with God
knows who. But I couldn't just leave her?. To my own disgust I turned
and started to walk back up the slope. I didn't look back, I stopped
listening, just walked. I didn't go to Gorky Park, just crossed the
crossings back to the Metro, back to the throng, the comfortably
anonymous crowd who didn't know about the tiny girl, but most of whom
could have helped her with a word?.

If I'd been in my own town, my own country, America, Australia,
anywhere that spoke English?.. it was no use rationalising, I felt bad,
a bad person. It wasn't 'till later that night that I wondered what
Tolstoy would have done. I don't know what he'd have done, but I know
that when he got home he would have thought about it, then he'd have
sat on his sawn-off chair at his desk and written about it. How to live
your life. How should we live our lives? And even if we decide how to
live our lives, will we be true to that decision, whatever the
situation?