Lunch With Tolstoy Part 1.

Lunch With Tolstoy Part 1.

I heard a thud on the floor and the clatter of my letter box. The postman had been. A pile of mail had landed.

I picked them up. One letter looked strange. The stamp was unfamiliar. The envelope had been sealed with wax. The year is 2023 yet the date on the letter said 1899. It made me smile. Nice marketing.

Carefully I snapped the red wax seal. Before I snapped it the stamp inside the seal simply read, Tolstoy. I was curious. I then opened the letter. Inside was a simple invite that read as follows.

‘My dear friend and writer,

I would like to extend an invitation for you to visit me in Moscow for tea and conversation.

Here are the details for your visit.

April 17th, 1899

Yasnaya Pollyanna, Moscow.

I look forward to meeting you.

Your friend in words.

Lev Tolstoy.’

How can this be? It’s true, and those who know me that I am the biggest Tolstoy fan on the planet. Yet over 120 years have passed and I am receiving an invite from the long-since-dead Tolstoy.  

I decided for fun to make a reply.

‘Dear Lev

Some years have passed since we communicated. I accept your invitation and will arrive on the date mentioned.

By the way, your story The Death of Ivan Ilyich is one of the greatest short stories I have ever read.

I look forward to meeting you in person.

Your friend and fellow writer,

Alan Forrest Smith’

I then wrote out the envelope, put a stamp on it and then posted it.

To:

Mr. Lev Tolstoy

Yasnaya Polyana

Moscow

On the walk to the post box, I was smiling endlessly to myself. It felt childish, fun and frankly a little crazy to write a reply to the most famous but most certainly dead author of all time.

Once home again I went online and booked a train to Moscow. The train from Manchester to Moscow would of course take forever, but I thought to myself planes never existed in 1899 so it would be more authentic to take a train.

Finally, the day arrived. I have to tell you I was questioning my sanity. I was on my way to Moscow to meet someone who had died in 1910. Even more crazy was the fact the same person had sent me an invite.

It all felt very strange yet the adventure was here and I was up for it.

This would be a 47-hour train ride. I packed my bag with the bare minimum. I also decided to pack a book of short stories by Tolstoy that included The Death of Ivan Ilyich.

I arrived at Manchester, Piccadilly. The guy at the gate asked, “where are you heading mate?” I replied, “Moscow.” Moscow he replied. “By train are you nuts?” I replied, “I am going to meet a famous Russian writer who died in 1899.” The conductor looked at me and said enjoy your trip.

Manchester

Belgium

Austria

Poland.

Belarus.

Moscow.

I feel tired. Although the map read 48 hours it’s now been 58 hours. The beds were nice.  The food was terrible. The final train from Belarus was ancient and clearly Soviet-built. To compare the train, the height was twice the height of a British train, much wider and it looked like it had been welded together with massive slabs of steel. 

Now I have to get to Yasnaya Pollyanna. It should take around 90 minutes. I'm on the train and feeling very nervous. Strangely, I have convinced myself I am actually going to see this dead writer. I keep imagining myself walking up to him. Tolstoy wearing his famous peasant clothes, his dark trousers, long black boots and his famous long white beard. 

I've been practising my greeting just in case in some strange universe he is actually there.

“Hello Mr. Tolstoy I am so happy to meet you.

Is that too formal?”

“Hi Lev, so cool you got in touch greet to hang out.”

“God that sounds stupid.”

OK, let's see what happens.

Finally, I arrived at the famous Yasyana Pollyanna. I walk through the entrance to the grounds and before I knew it there is his house. Incredibly it looks exactly the same as it looked in the old black and white photos. The grass surrounds the house like water surrounding a small island. There is no one around.

I am around 10 seconds from walking to the stairway up to the door. I can’t see anyone I can't see any life and why the hell am I here to meet someone that died in 1899?

I knock on the door three times, knock, knock, knock.

No one comes I repeat the same again twice and it's clear to me no one is here. OK let's look at this positively. I am standing on the porch and outside the house of one of the greatest writers that has walked this earth and for me that’s a thrill.

Time for a selfie or two. I take one overlooking the balcony. Then with the large front door and now with the staircase behind me. That’s it, time to walk back to the train station and find a place to stay in Moscow.

As I get to the top of the stairs I have one last look back. I don't feel disappointed in fact the opposite I feel happy to have felt the energy from such an incredible place.

I decide to get my phone out and do one last selfie from the top of the stairs. I pull my iPhone out of my pocket, lift up my arm and prepare for the most perfect shot. I forget to reverse the camera so I can see myself. I hit the front camera and then lifted the phone up to take the shot.

Shit, what the hell as I jump forward and turn around.