The Saint
I do not remember where I read it, but the story was about Tolstoy, who led a life of debauchery in his youth, and when his marriage was fixed with Sofia, a virtuous and innocent noblewoman of young age, Tolstoy sent his diary to Sofia, asked her to go through it, and then decide if she would still like to marry him. After reading all his exploits in graphic detail, Sofia naturally decided against the wedding. But then her mother persuaded by saying, "This man is a saint. Only a saint can tell you everything about himself without hiding anything. Would you miss the chance to marry such a man?"
Sofia eventually married her. Tolstoy, all his life, abused her. Finally, at the age of 83, Tolstoy left home for good, because, according to him, he was unable to live under the same roof as this evil woman.
And as the writer of that article mentioned, after a week or so, Tolstoy died in a stable, 80 miles away from home, lying on Sofia's lap.
I do not remember where I read it (it was about 25 years ago, when I was still a kid!), and I would never know how much of this is true.
The thought of a saint again came back to me, when decades later I was reading Marquez's short story collection, "Strange Pilgrims" where one of the stories was Entitled "The Saint". In it, Gabo talks about a father, who brought the dead body of his beloved daughter from the Latin America to the Vatican in an effort to get her beatified, because her body would not decompose.
Only after reaching Vatican, would the father realize that there were many other people with similar cases waiting there for years. The father would, in Gabo's infinite capacity for exaggeration, wait for 22 years (unless I am mistaken!) to get her beatified. As Gabo puts in, whenever he saw that old man carrying his dead daughter around, he felt that the old man himself was turned into a saint, a feat he never intended to achieve.
Why do I refer to this now?
Sofia eventually married her. Tolstoy, all his life, abused her. Finally, at the age of 83, Tolstoy left home for good, because, according to him, he was unable to live under the same roof as this evil woman.
And as the writer of that article mentioned, after a week or so, Tolstoy died in a stable, 80 miles away from home, lying on Sofia's lap.
I do not remember where I read it (it was about 25 years ago, when I was still a kid!), and I would never know how much of this is true.
The thought of a saint again came back to me, when decades later I was reading Marquez's short story collection, "Strange Pilgrims" where one of the stories was Entitled "The Saint". In it, Gabo talks about a father, who brought the dead body of his beloved daughter from the Latin America to the Vatican in an effort to get her beatified, because her body would not decompose.
Only after reaching Vatican, would the father realize that there were many other people with similar cases waiting there for years. The father would, in Gabo's infinite capacity for exaggeration, wait for 22 years (unless I am mistaken!) to get her beatified. As Gabo puts in, whenever he saw that old man carrying his dead daughter around, he felt that the old man himself was turned into a saint, a feat he never intended to achieve.
Why do I refer to this now?
