A Genius for A Husband: Tolstoy and Bradbury
in search of the blueprint of a happy marriage
As a happily (so far) married woman, I want to believe that marital bliss is not a rare occasion but a general rule. Otherwise, the opening of Leo Tolstoy’s “Anna Karenina” would not make any sense. “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Doesn’t this “all alike” hint at not only the possibility but the routine occurrence of happily ever after?
It’s a pity that Tolstoy preferred delving into Anna’s feelings about her husband’s unfortunate ears to the exploration of the tedious matter of someone else’s happy home life. Then again, it’s understandable that Tolstoy, a habitual adulterer knew more about sexual cravings than spousal commitment. The scene in “Anna Karenina,” where a 34-year-old character presents his diaries to his 19-year-old fiancée, is purely autobiographical. Tolstoy himself had given his diaries detailing all his affairs to his young future wife, Sophia.
That gesture more or less undermined Sophia’s confidence in her husband. Every time he would kiss her, she would think about other women he had been with before. It’s no wonder that she wasn’t as invested in the physical part of marriage as Tolstoy wished. Sophia was exceedingly jealous of peasant serf Aksiniya, with whom, according to his diaries, Tolstoy had been “more in love than ever.” The fact that the object of her husband’s affection could be someone so “simple, fat and pale” had almost driven Sophia to suicide. Still, Tolstoy’s marriage was admired by contemporaries due to Sophia’s obedience, devotion, and readiness to follow her husband in every possible way.
The expectation of what an ideal wife should look like still has its place in modern Russia. I knew men who thought they were entitled to be served hand and foot because they were good providers. On the other hand, one of my girlfriends told me that she didn’t mind “putting her life on the altar of marriage.” She was happy to stay in man’s shadow, especially if he would do something worthy of her admiration, i.e. curing the world of infectious diseases. The enthusiasm in my girlfriend’s voice forced me to swallow the objection that had almost slipped from my tongue. Isn’t a husband supposed to be a partner, not a monument I should care for? Although the idea of being married to a genius didn’t sound half bad, considering that even as a little girl, I had a disturbing interest in the personal lives of creative people.
One of the subjects in the Children’s Music School attended in Soviet times was music literature. After the lecture about yet another famous composer, the teacher, a tall lady with a crescent-like profile and gorgeous hair, would ask if anyone had any questions. My classmates would shrug their shoulders indifferently and turn to me. I’ve always had questions. The day finally came when my teacher had enough.
“We study biographies of the great musicians,” she reprimanded me, “but all you care about is if Tchaikovsky was married and how many children Bach had!”
I haven’t evolved as a person since. I still care if people that shaped the souls and minds of generations were happy at home. Another friend of mine, also fed up with my obsession, pointed out once that there is no use in examining how others lived. The perception of happiness is unique, so relying on the experience you haven’t lived is like building a house with bricks that don’t exist. What she said sounded true to my ears but not to my heart, so I kept digging. It’s not the bricks I was after, but the blueprints.
The saddest thing was, the more I learned, the more disillusioned I felt. Talented and happily married people were such a rarity that any other passion project, say, Nabokov’s lepidopterology, seemed like a more fruitful and enjoyable path. Even the most delicate butterfly wings would appear solid than a pipe dream of happy family life.
It seemed I caught a break when stumbling upon a biopic of Ray Bradbury, one of my favourite writers. In “The Bradbury Chronicles: The Life of Ray Bradbury,” Marguerite McClure was described as the only wife and the love of Bradbury’s life. For her part, she thought of Bradbury as an amazing father and admired his creative longevity. Bradbury himself believed it was a happy marriage.
I had no reason to doubt the journalist, who spent hundreds of hours interviewing Bradbury. I’m sure the information relayed was correct, and it was not the biographer’s fault that what Bradbury had said was not necessarily true. People tend to accept some interpretations of events more than others.
So, the fact: one fine spring day in Italy, admiring the view, Marguerite asked Bradbury for a divorce.
The interpretation by Bradbury: even talking about the event, sensitive Ray burst into tears. “I didn’t know she was unhappy,” he said to the interviewer. Later on, he gave an additional explanation, saying that he understood that she was tired of taking care of four children.
Another fact: at that moment, Ray and Marguerite had three daughters. The fourth came along later.
Bradbury’s reaction to his wife asking for a divorce was dramatic. He realized that he “couldn’t trust his wife completely” because she “might leave him at any time.” That led to the appearance of two other women one after another in his life. Both of them had found him, which means he didn’t run around in search of affairs, I suppose. And both of them were impressed by his talent, which tells us that Bradbury was into women who thought he was genius. I’m just stating, not judging, at least not yet.
Marguerite brought up the subject of the divorce a few times more and then stopped. So Bradbury concluded that they had a long, happy life together. I don’t believe that his wife would agree. Yes, she stayed married but became a shut-in. She read, drank wine and smoked. She took care of the garden and had conversations with her cats. And then she died of lung cancer.
Feeling suffocated, I sought refuge on my husband’s shoulder. I told him what I’ve learned.
“You said she smoked,” my husband said.
“She preferred smoking and having conversations with her cats to the company of an incredible, charming storyteller, capable of hypnotizing huge audiences.” I said, “Isn’t that odd for a woman married to Bradbury, wеll-known as a warm and open person?”
“Talking and listening are different abilities,” my husband said. “And cats are excellent listeners.”
“Why does he think about himself as her other child?” I asked, changing the line of questioning.
“So, that’s how it was,” my husband said, “geniuses are like that. They need to be taken care of.”
“What’s this bull shit about being your wife’s child,” my twenty-year-old son Tim jumped into the conversation, “isn’t that called incest?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, flustered, while my husband raised an eyebrow with interest.
“How can he be her child,” Tim continued. “He’s her husband, not her son, right?”
“And?”
“Is she sleeping with her son then?” Tim said, looking uncomfortable. “It gets me whenever women talk about their husbands as if they were their children. It’s crazy. Talk about an Oedipal complex. It’s even weirder if a man sees his wife as his mother.”
As if trying to make his point, Tim walked towards me with his arms open.
“Stay away from me, you,” I said, stiff-arming him.
“See,” he smirked.
We ate and talked. I looked at my husband and my son, relieved that there were no geniuses in my family. My husband didn’t pretend to be my son, and my son was glad about that. I hadn’t been force-read my husband’s dairies, as there were none, and I didn’t have cats. I was a simple, plump, pale woman having conversations with her men.
