The Commissariat of Enlightenment (6 page)

And for the cinema spectator, world events had been made immediate and tangible. History was no longer a story about the past. It was now. History had crystallized into a single point, a geographical and temporal nexus at the end of a smoke-and-dust-filled shaft of electric light.

Astapovo in November of 1910 was how the world sounded close to its pivot. Gears meshed, sparks flew, men roared, and exhaust was spewed—and Dr. Makovitsky declared that his patient needed quiet and rest. With the tents pitched between the railway sidings and armed gendarmes patrolling the area, the station looked like a military campsite. The government expected mass demonstrations at news of the Count’s death.

Gribshin engaged a young farmhand to keep a nightly vigil at the station. The youth, who knew the old post-house and had a horse at his disposal, promised to alert him to any precipitous decline in the Count’s health. He seemed quick-witted enough and had been loitering around the station hoping to find work, and also to cadge cigarettes from foreigners.

The young man observed, “That girl’s about ready to pop.”

Gribshin knew immediately about whom the youth spoke, even though he hadn’t thought of her once since that morning. He said vaguely, “I suppose.”

“So, what d’ya think? Will she deliver a genius or a fool?”

Gribshin shrugged. He didn’t care to discuss the girl and was annoyed at the familiarity with which the young man had addressed him. “I don’t know.”

“I suppose it would depend on your opinion of the groom,” said the youth. And then he emitted a harsh laugh. “Is
he
a genius or a fool?”

“Listen, boy,” Gribshin said, even though the farmhand was probably a year or two older than him. “Don’t worry about that. Just be sure to wake me if anything happens. Gallop like the wind.”

Gribshin left scowling. The obscureness of the youth’s remark had left him less confident in his reliability, but he recovered his good mood on the walk back to the post-house. Tonight and in the following evenings he found himself progressively charmed by the muted colors of the night-cloaked countryside. As he became more accustomed to it, the featureless terrain was more easily distinguished. Every morning and evening some detail seemed to have been added: a little pond, a grain silo, a half-built home. Although he had left his traveling case in the house, his hosts were surprised every evening when he turned up. After some display of exasperation, the old woman Marina agreed to provide him with a samovar. Occasionally he brought the peasants foreign delicacies purchased for outrageous sums at the train station, sold by Tula or Lipetsk merchants quick to grasp a business opportunity.

The three adults drank tea and ate German salami in the front
parlor, while the girl remained seated in her corner of the room and didn’t speak at all. They called her Galya. Sometimes she played with a small rag doll; like a four-year-old, thought Gribshin. It was Gribshin who usually initiated their table talk, which tended to revolve around the weather and the price of bread, neither of which were trite items of discussion in rural Russia. When he spoke of Moscow, or even of the goings-on at Astapovo, the peasants didn’t reply, except to mutter from time to time, “Well, that’s
there
!”

No aspect of their poverty dismayed Gribshin more than the fact that they had never been to the cinema; or, worse, that they had no desire to attend the cinema. “You could see moving pictures of the Hottentots and llamas in Peru,” he told them. “Our company brought a touring show through Lipetsk last year. Crowds walking on the Champs-Elysées. The pyramids, the Parthenon, Sarah Bernhardt taking tea. Monkeys in Africa. The circus. Aeroplanes and steamships. Georges Clemenceau and the Kaiser, prizefights and horseraces. A tour of the Louvre: you can see the real Mona Lisa! A man going over Niagara Falls in a barrel!” Cinema was nothing new: the world had been attending the cinema for fifteen years already. As far as Gribshin could determine, no religious prejudice had deterred Marina and her husband Semyon.

The couple were simply ignorant of the new century and they wished to remain that way. All the advantages of progress had escaped them: literacy, plumbing, the use of machinery to lighten their physical toil…They would live their lives out as their parents had, so would their daughter and, he presumed, so would their imminent grandchild—the thought of it nearly drove Gribshin mad. The couple’s unworldliness hung around them like a cloud. Something else was suggested as well in the crabbedness
of their lives, in their reticence to speak, and even in the eagerness with which they devoured the salami and which left them looking a little ashamed afterward. Gribshin had been among peasants before and knew what to expect of them. He guessed that there was a secret and that the secret rested on the girl in the corner. Well, she was pregnant, pregnant with the secret. He regretted not having asked the farmhand what he meant to speak about.

EVERY
day at Astapovo more celebrities stepped down from the train onto the station platform—minor politicians, religious figures, writers, and artists—though none of the accompanying turmoil rivaled that produced by the arrival of the Countess on Tuesday morning, when the drama of her marriage was laid bare. Alerted by telegraph that she had departed Yasnaya Polyana in a private coach, Meyer began cranking the camera once the first threads of blue smoke became visible along the line of the horizon. As the train approached the Astapovo station, gendarmes on horseback cleared the area around the siding designated for it. Coach No. 42 was detached and the engine and the rest of the train departed without blasting its horn, in deference to Dr. Makovitsky’s pleadings.

For once attention shifted from the stationmaster’s house; the Count may have sensed the shift. Perhaps he guessed the reason for it. More than an hour passed while No. 42 stood silently on its siding, a steel-wheeled sphinx. The crowd congregated at the edge of the station platform and an electric hum of expectation rose
from it. Men and women spat sunflower shells at their feet. A hawker sold broadsheet tracts relating to perpetual motion. Reporters shoved their way to the coach’s steps. Finally, by some ruse to which even Gribshin was not privy, Meyer gained permission to board the coach, as if he were a tribal emissary to a great naval power.

In her private cabin, Meyer spoke at length with the Countess, who lay on a divan, a cold compress wrapped around her forehead. Her eldest son Sergei and her doctor attended to her with the delicacy of suitors. After the negotiation of an agreement that both parties would always deny had been an agreement at all, Meyer bowed, kissed her hand, and left. The reporters and onlookers were pushed back from the train car. A half hour later the Countess gingerly descended from the coach. The crowd roared and some youths called to her by name; someone suggested that the Count was about to get a good hiding, or frigged. Sergei and her doctor each kept an arm around her. The expression on her heavy-set face was resolute and severe. She lumbered toward the station platform, struggling on the moist, broken ground.

Meyer’s cinematography camera lay in between. The Countess’s course kept her directly in its gaze for close to a minute. Only once did a darting glance at the audience, which was wreathed in fluorescing cigarette smoke and dust in countless cinema galleries and music halls, betray her awareness that she was being filmed. Her pace was unsteady and she clutched a purse to her abdomen, grimacing as if the sun were in her eyes, though this day was as overcast as the others. And then she passed from the frame.

More pictures of the Countess would be taken that week. The principal question posed by them and by the telegraphic reports from Astapovo was whether she would be admitted to the stationmaster’s house to say farewell to her husband. Chertkov, the
chief disciple who had reached Astapovo days before the Countess, said that the Count had not been told of her arrival for fear that the shock would kill him. Meyer was gladdened by the presence of these two antagonists, elements essential to the narrative. “Everything at Astapovo can be pictured,” he told Gribshin. “Except the Count. That’s all right, we’ll make a story without him.”

No wife had ever hated her husband’s mistress more than the Countess hated Chertkov. He had long conspired with the Count to obtain the right to publish his Complete Works. Arguments about the copyright had roiled the Count’s domestic life for decades and had contributed to his impulsive flight from Yasnaya Polyana. The Count had intended to forswear all royalties and bequeath his works to the world, with Chertkov as his literary executor; it was an only incidental oversight that this arrangement would have left no financial provision for his wife and children. The Countess had once accused the two men of abominations.

That evening the reporters and the cinematographers stood by as the Countess circled the stationmaster’s house, stepping from window to window. Meyer’s camera was running. She peered in, her hands cupped around her eyes as she tried to distinguish the gray figures within the darkened house. Newspapers covered the lower portions of the windows in the dying man’s room. The diminutive woman in somber, aristocratic dress raised herself upon the toes of her black pumps, but her eyes reached only to the newspapers’ upper margins, beneath the unobscured sections of the windows. Gribshin wondered if the placement of the papers had been deliberately calculated, taking her height into account. She fell back to earth and the thought visibly crossed her mind as well. And then it precipitated through the minds of the cinemagoers.

It was reported that the Count asked his sons and daughters
who were gathering around him now if their mother had come. He fretted: “What is she doing? How does she feel? Is she eating at all? Isn’t she going to come?” The children replied that she remained at Yasnaya Polyana, that they had come on their own.

But the Countess had brought her husband’s favorite embroidered pillow with her. Meyer got a shot of it. She convinced Dr. Makovitsky to take the pillow and place it under her husband’s head. The Count recognized the pillow at once and became alarmed. Concerned about his patient’s weak heart, Makovitsky told him that it was one of his daughters who had carried it from home.

Waiting for the news of the Count’s death, the reporters interviewed each other, they interviewed state officials and church representatives—would the Count be accorded a Church burial? they demanded—and they interviewed the writer’s friends, distant relations, and associates. One of them was the artist Leonid Pasternak, who had painted the cover of the Count’s last novel, as well as portraits of the philosopher Nikolai Fedorov. He was accompanied by his son, a reticent student-type about the same age as Gribshin. The elder Pasternak announced his intention to paint a portrait of the Count on his deathbed.

VLADIMIR
Grigoryevich Chertkov was a handsome man with sympathetic eyes and an aquiline nose. Enthusiastically fluent in English, he marveled at its flexibility and the ease with which even uneducated immigrants to England acquired it. He used English in his correspondence with the Count’s non-Russian disciples and his love for the language expanded to comprise the island from which it sprung. During his long sojourn there—the Tsar had struck at the Count by exiling his chief apostle—Chertkov had fervently supported the Bournemouth football club. And, as it happened, before his return to Russia he had been a daily subscriber to the
Imperial.
Grakham Khaitover’s name was possibly familiar to him.

Now that the Countess had arrived in Astapovo, it would be necessary to counter whatever malicious impressions had been formed, particularly abroad. Chertkov acceded to the
Imperial
’s urgent request for an interview. In exchange for being named the first foreign reporter allowed into the stationmaster’s house, Khaitover promised not to seek entry to the Count’s sickroom.

As Khaitover waited in the parlor he took note of his surroundings, particularly the long, shivering shadows projected from the room in which the Count lay. Perhaps no more than three or four people were actually there with the famous author, but the figures thrown upon the ceilings and walls suggested multitudes, gesturing to him from another plane of being, or at least Khaitover would tell his readers so. He surveyed the parlor’s pressed pink-and-white curtains, piano, glass bookcase, and other pretensions to refinement. The icon corner seemed nearly an afterthought, almost obscured by a linen chest. He wandered over to the bookcase. He would cable London in truth that several of the Count’s most famous books were entombed there.

Chertkov came out in a rush, sufficiently grim and preoccupied to be mistaken for one of the consulting physicians. “The
Imperial
! Sir, I would have been grateful for your acquaintance if it were not occasioned by so much tragedy.”

The reporter murmured, “I hope we meet again in happier times, Vladimir Grigoryevich. How is the Count faring this afternoon?”

“Happier times? No, never again…” Chertkov waved his elongated, bony hands. The pallor in his face accentuated his eyes’ gemlike brilliance. “I can’t believe this is happening…That he should pass from this earth…Why? Why? Is this a judgment on mankind?”

Khaitover nodded, reminding himself that the man in the next room was eighty-two. “Has he spoken today? Any words at all? Anything?”

Chertkov shook his head gravely. “He’s too ill and has slept all day. He needs peace. He has to avoid emotional distress. The doctors have given the orders.”

“Does he know that the Countess has come—”

The chief disciple interrupted him with a fierce wag of his head. It signified that even though the Count’s pulse was faint and his breath labored, and he was only skimming the surface of consciousness, he heard every word.

Chertkov said, “The Count is being attended by the most accomplished medical men in Europe. Write that his every want is met. And if there’s one thing that all of us know and feel every minute we’re with him, it’s that here in Astapovo lies a man with true Christian love in his heart; with love for all mankind. He loves the poor and wretched; he loves the priests who heap calumny upon him; he loves everything on this earth. For the Count, love is the true meaning of life.”

“Right,” said Khaitover, scribbling into his notebook. “But our readers would better understand the situation if I could take a quick look in the room. I’ll be quick, I promise. It’s just so that I can describe the scene, the attentiveness of the doctors…”

Chertkov handed him a broadsheet, printed on both sides in English, with the title, “All You Need Is Christian Love,” in globby, heavily serifed letters that threatened to smear at the first touch. Khaitover accepted the page gingerly.

“
Here
is the Count’s message to your readers.
Here
is his spiritual last will and testament. Print it! It’ll be a sensational exclusive. On my word, it’s been given to no other English-language newspaper!”

This was not exactly true nor, in fact, even remotely true. The
Times
had it and so did the
Standard.
Chertkov was not a cynical man. He knew perfectly well that he had given the tract to several newspapers—and that it had already been circulated in England by the Count’s disciples—and he was also convinced that he was offering the
Imperial
an exclusive. Faith easily triumphed over conflicting data.

“I’m honored, sir, but no more so than the
Imperial
’s readers.” Khaitover respectfully slid the tract into his portfolio. In return he removed another sheet of paper and handed it to Chertkov.

From the page stared a likeness of the Count’s face. The sketch was well executed, without a single excess line. His beard was full yet neat and an intricate webwork surrounded his clear, far-seeing eyes. The suggestion of a peasant’s smock lay beneath the beard.

Chertkov studied the drawing, puzzling over why it had been handed to him. Khaitover declared, “I’ll cable the Count’s statement to my editors at once. The
Imperial
will be delighted to publish it.”

Chertkov hummed in assent and looked up. “But what is this?”

“A drawing of the Count as he will be known all over the world,” Khaitover replied. “Of course many photographs and pictures of the Count are being distributed right now. But this is the Count in his essence, as he will be remembered best. This line drawing can be reproduced by the most primitive printing press in the most backward country anywhere in the world. Composed by a distinguished Russian artist of my acquaintance, it will stand as an icon for the Count and everything that he represents.”

The chief disciple shook his head, still unsure about what Khaitover sought from him. The word
icon,
however, had given him a start. The Count detested the icon as a token of organized religion.

Khaitover had no intention of cabling the Count’s tract. Not only would the
Imperial
never publish it, but at sixteen kopecks a word it would have exhausted his ready cash. Now he pressed his point. “Vladimir Grigoryevich, the Count’s legacy is being contested even now while he lives. Imagine the assaults on his character once he’s gone. What did he stand for? For whom did he write?
How can you prevent the Count’s ideals and thoughts from being appropriated by others for their own purposes, perhaps purposes the Count would have opposed?”

Chertkov was listening hard now. His eyes were bright. “That is, of course, what happened to Jesus…” he said cautiously.

Khaitover’s face was suddenly cast in a Levantine radiance. It was like bagging a grouse on your first shot. He fought a grin.

“Exactly. Here’s my proposal, Vladimir Grigoryevich. First, authorize this copywritten sketch as the official depiction of the Count. You will require it to be used in every book and other item related to the Count’s life and work that you and only you will distribute. This is how you will lend the Count’s posthumous imprimatur to your faithful efforts. Those items that do not have this imprimatur—brought out by rivals or antagonists—will have no credibility with the public.”

Chertkov pondered the drawing. One rival and antagonist irresistibly came to mind.

“Are you suggesting that this imprimatur shall be bestowed by the
Imperial
? That is quite out of the question—”

Khaitover shook his head emphatically. “No, this is a private venture, unconnected to the
Imperial
in any direct way.”

Indeed, it was not connected to the
Imperial
even in an indirect way. It had come into Khaitover’s head the day he learned of the Count’s flight from home. The newspapers had retold the story of the discord between Chertkov and the Countess and Khaitover had seen an opportunity like a shaft of light descending from a cloud-clotted sky. He had found the artist in a tavern on the Arbat.

Chertkov pursed his lips; he had been dealing with all kinds of propositions since his arrival in Astapovo. Some involved outlandish medical remedies. Others had to do with social move
ments demanding supportive deathbed statements from the Count: on pacifism, on vegetarianism, on nudism. A few words would do, a sentence or a phrase. The Church had even sent two representatives in the event that the Count sought a reconciliation. “And you seek to have the Count’s literary estate pay you a fee for this service?”

Khaitover raised his hands, as if to ward off the fee. “No, not at all. On the contrary, it’s the
Company
that will pay fees to the Count’s estate.”

“A company?”

“Incorporated in Moscow last week under the laws of the Russian Empire, comprising several gentlemen of capital and vision.”

Chertkov shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t catch your meaning. A company has been established in Moscow, already, without the Count’s consultation? For what purpose?” A grave look descended upon his face. “This is irregular, I’m sure. In any event, we have all the legal matters in hand now, the Count has named us the editor and publisher of the Complete Works; he has stated this in numerous wills and codicils.”

“Yes,” Khaitover said agreeably. “There
are
numerous wills and codicils, six to my knowledge…” He paused to allow Chertkov to reflect that these documents, composed with minimal legal assistance, were in sharp disagreement with each other and were contestable in the courts. As history unfolded, they would be tied up in the courts until the courts themselves were abolished by the Bolsheviks. “But whatever editions are printed, only one edition will be legally permitted to include this drawing on the frontispiece. It will be the mark of the Count’s authority. And all the world will know it, through notices in the newspapers and broadsheets, placed at the Company’s expense. This imprimatur will not
only embrace his books, but also the other items associated with the Count: commemorative plates, commemorative pins, children’s schoolbags, a motorcar rally, chocolate, tea tins, perhaps a European-class hotel in Moscow, perhaps a line of home shoemaking implements…”

Chertkov sputtered, “A hotel, tea tins…”

“Through the Company, which will manage and protect the copyright, accrued royalties will directly support the vital activities of the Count’s followers. They will fund communes, village schools, and literacy campaigns. Under your direction, of course.”

“But tea tins?”

Khaitover waved his hand. “All right, it doesn’t have to be tea tins. That was just an example. Think of a line of biscuits, with this famous sketch of the Count on the box, but not just any ordinary biscuit made in a factory. These will be good Russian biscuits, manufactured by peasants in the Russian countryside, using Russian flour and butter and traditional Russian methods of biscuit-making.”

The chief disciple clenched his jaw. One of the Count’s innumerable sons had come into the parlor and was now, his arms crossed, coldly inspecting the intruder. Some of the children were allied with Chertkov; others with the Countess. Khaitover couldn’t keep them straight.

“I don’t know how to make biscuits,” said Chertkov. “I don’t see what any of this has to do with the Count’s thought.”

“But of course it does.” Khaitover spoke in a hurry. He had hoped to deal with Chertkov alone. “The Count is an idea all to himself, an idea incarnate. The idea can be expressed as, well, it might be hard to express…”

“Love,” Chertkov said sourly.

“Right,” Khaitover agreed with vigor. He pointed again to the
sketch. For him, it was more than a business scheme: it was a herald of the future. “Love. And every time people see this sketch, fixed to whatever item it’s associated with, they’ll recall the Count’s idea. Love.”

“Tea tins and biscuits…”

“
Forget
the tea tins! I don’t know why I said tea tins. Think about the schools, the communes, the Complete Works. You need this!”

“Please, see to it that your editors have the opportunity to print the Count’s statement,” said Chertkov, glowering.

The Count’s son, his face impassive, joined Chertkov. The two walled themselves between Khaitover and the sickroom.

Khaitover urged himself on, as he always did. Sometimes things turned around at the very last minute. “I realize this seems like an inopportune time, but in fact it’s the crucial moment, because once the Count passes on, many others will seek to capitalize on his name. Please, consider my proposal. Of course you may need some time to reflect, but if we can obtain some kind of verbal agreement from the Count—”

“Get out!” cried the son. “In the sacred name of my father, get the fuck out!”