by Cathy Porter
10th March. Lyovochka has a headache; he has ridden off to Yasenki. I am not well either, and both the children have coughs and colds. For his brother’s mistress Masha I nurse a “silent hatred”, as he puts it, although for her children I have a special and genuine love (not without a tinge of condescension). Lyovochka has been much more affectionate today. He actually kissed me for the first time in days. I am doing a lot of copying and am glad to be of some use.
14th March. Lyovochka is playing some Chopin Preludes. He is in fine spirits, although with me he is distant and wary. The children absorb me completely. They both have diarrhoea; it’s driving me frantic. Our friend Dyakov* came, still the same irrepressible “nightingale”, as Tanya calls him. I am very fond of him, and find him sympathetic and easy to talk to. I long for spring, but it’s late this year. Lyovochka has been feeling the urge to visit Tula, as he apparently needs to see more people. I do too, but not people in general, just Tanya, the Zefirots,* Mother and Father.
15th March. Lyovochka has gone off to Tula and I’m glad. His brother’s son is dying* and I feel desperately sad. My headache is better today and I feel full of energy. The children aren’t completely well yet but they’re a bit better. The sun came out for a moment and its effect on me was like a waltz on a sixteen-year-old girl. I long for spring, for country walks, for summer. It’s such ages since I heard from my family. What can my lovely poetic Tanya be doing? Lyovochka and I are happy and straightforward with each other again. He told me he had felt very dissatisfied with himself recently…I love him terribly, I could never become a wicked person with him. His confession, and his knowledge of himself makes me feel very humble, and forces me to search out every single one of my faults.
20th March. For the past two days I have had a fever in the morning and a frightful headache. I was reading a review of The Cossacks when I suddenly realized it was I who stood in his way, and that his youth and his love were all spent, wasted on Cossack girls and other women. My children cling to me, I have given myself to them, and it is a great joy to know I am indispensable to them. When Tanya lies at my breast, or Seryozha hugs me with his little arms, I feel no jealousy, no grief, no regrets, no desires, nothing. The weather is wonderful, spring is here, but I am not destined to enjoy it. I admire Lyovochka, happy and strong in mind and body. It’s a terrible thing to feel so inferior. My only resources, my only weapons to match his, are my children, my energy, my youth, and that I am a fine healthy wife. Now I am just his mangy dog.
23rd March. Lyovochka is very busy with the dairy yard, and is writing his novel* with much enthusiasm. He is bursting with ideas, but will he ever write them all down? He sometimes talks to me about his plans and ideas, which is a tremendous joy. I always understand him too.
26th March. In a sudden fit of domesticity I tidied everything up—I always feel like this when I’ve put Seryozha and Tanya to bed. They are almost well now. Lyovochka is in a bilious mood. Today a terrible thought occurred to me: what would he do if, after taking my love and devotion for granted for so long and caring so little for my feelings, I were suddenly to grow cold towards him? It’s not possible, of course, which is why I can speak of it so lightly, and why he will continue to disregard me. His brother Seryozha has spent the past few days with us. He is very unhappy at present, and I am growing extremely fond of him. It’s dull and cloudy outside, but I am in a state of childish excitement and in a holiday mood. Tomorrow is Palm Saturday, a day I used to love at home. After that it will be Easter, which nowadays is just the same as any other weekday in Lent. In the past I used to cry so much, but now I am much calmer. Yesterday Seryozha said: “The only good things in life are love, music, nightingales and the moon,” and we had a long talk in which I didn’t feel at all shy with him. When I talk to Lyovochka he always looks at me as if to say, “What right do you have to discuss such things? You can’t feel it.”
1st April. Lyovochka is in Tula and I am depressed and beset by morbid thoughts. He keeps complaining of blood rushes, poor digestion and buzzing ears; all this scares me dreadfully, and I am even more a prey to these fears when I’m on my own, especially on such a lovely bright spring day. The children are almost well and I have been taking them for walks, one at a time; Tanya has now seen God’s world for the first time in her six-month existence. I have done nothing all day, just tried to escape my gloomy thoughts. He says bad health has shortened his life by a half. And his life is so precious. I love him intensely and it upsets me that I can’t do more to make him happy. I feel no bitterness towards him, just the most total and terrifying love.
3rd May. It’s a terrible spring. My sister Tanya has come, and the hunting, riding and snipe-shooting have all started again. Everyone has been in good health and I was getting on well with them all, but today everything went wrong and I quarrelled with Lyova; I am a spiteful, wilful person and must mend my ways. The children are ill. I am angry with Tanya for meddling in Lyovochka’s life. They go to Nikolskoe, or go off hunting, riding or walking. I actually made a jealous scene for the first time in my life yesterday. I am now bitterly regretting it. I shall let her have my horse, which I think is very nice of me. He is much too self-indulgent, though. The two of them have gone off to the woods alone to shoot snipe and I am imagining God knows what.
9th June. The day before yesterday everything was settled: Tanya and his brother Seryozha are to be married. They are a joy to see. Her happiness gives me more pleasure than my own ever did. I play chaperone as they stroll about the garden together, a role that both amuses and irritates me. Because of Tanya I now love Seryozha too—it’s all quite splendid. The wedding will be in twenty days or so.* I wonder how things will work out. She has loved him for a long time, she is a lovely person and has such a splendid character, and I am glad we’ll be even closer friends now.
12th July (Nikolskoe). Nothing has come of it. Seryozha has betrayed Tanya. He behaved like a swine.* It has been almost a month of constant grief—it breaks my heart to look at Tanya. To think that such a sweet, poetic, talented person should be ruined. And there are symptoms of consumption, which worry me terribly. I shall never be able to write the whole sad story in my diary. But my anger with Seryozha knows no bounds. I shall do everything in my power to have my revenge on him. Tanya has behaved extraordinarily well. She loved him very much, and he deceived her into believing he loved her too. Whereas of course he loved the gypsy woman more. Masha is a good woman, and I feel sorry for her and have nothing against her. But he is loathsome. Wait a bit, wait a bit, he kept saying, and all the time he was merely toying with her emotions and mocking her feelings for him. In the end she also began to feel sorry for Masha and the children; she could stand being made a fool of no longer and she loved and pitied him so much—and she broke it off. And that was twelve days after they had become engaged and had kissed, and he promised her the usual silly things and made all sorts of plans. What a brute. I shall tell everyone about it, including my children, in the hope that it will teach them never to behave like that.* My own family life is wonderfully calm and happy. What did I do to deserve such happiness? The children and Lyova have been well and he and I are on the best of terms, and outside it is gloriously warm. Summer is here, and everyone and everything is perfect. If only this vile business with Seryozha hadn’t disturbed our peaceful, honest life. We have been here in Nikolskoe since 28th June, our son Seryozha’s birthday. This morning a neighbour of ours called Volkov paid his first visit. He is a shy, agreeable, fair-haired, snub-nosed man, and I liked him. Life here is a series of impressions—swimming, the river, the hills, the heat, contentment of soul, red berries, Tanya’s grief. I am consoled by my children and my darling Lyovochka, who is in a wonderfully poetic mood. I am happy—who knows for how long?
16th July. I have quarrelled with Nurse* and feel desperately ashamed of myself, for she is a good woman. I tried to make it up and apologized to her, but one mustn’t get too deeply involved with these people for they wouldn’t understand. The poet Fet
and his wife are here. They are pleasant people, although he is a little pompous; she is rather plain, but good-natured. Poor Tanya troubles me terribly. She is still in a daze and we fear consumption. Little Tanya too has been ill, and I have been worried about her; she is better now. She is a sweet, lively baby, and her eyes and smile are adorable. Seryozha has been naughty recently, probably because he was ill; he is generally the sweetest, most good-natured child. I was terrified by the thunderstorm today. Lyova is reading the war scenes in his novel; I don’t care for these parts at all.
Why did I quarrel with Nurse? I am just like Maman. I have recently discovered an alarming number of things about myself which are like her and which I disliked in her, mainly my habit of announcing to the world what a good woman I am and expecting all my faults to be forgiven.
1866
4th April—a former student, Dmitry Karakozov, makes an attempt on the Tsar’s life. Hundreds of people rounded up and arrested. 3rd October—Karakozov publicly hanged. The end of the “era of reforms” and the start of a period of repression.
22nd May—the Tolstoys’ second son, Ilya (Ilyusha), is born.
12th March. We spent 6 weeks in Moscow and returned here on the 7th,* and in Yasnaya I immediately felt the old security; slightly melancholy, but imperturbably happy nonetheless. I enjoyed myself in Moscow. I loved seeing my family, and they loved seeing my children. Tanya is a clever, healthy, affectionate little girl. Seryozha is much stronger now; he is a reasonable child, less amenable than he used to be, but very sweet-natured. I am afraid I overindulge them, but I am delighted by them. Lyova and I have been cold and awkward together ever since P. behaved so rudely in Moscow in response to my inept treatment of him. It has put a great strain on our relations.* I now feel horribly ashamed, but it’s not as if there was the slightest blot on my conscience, now or at any moment in my marriage. Lyova has judged me too harshly. Yet even so it pleases me, for it proves he cares for me, and in future I shall be a hundred times more careful, and shall enjoy being so. Yet it’s terrible to think this incident is another “cut” in our relationship. I now feel even more contemptible, even more liable to abase myself, which means that I make even fewer claims on the happiness and self-esteem I need to survive.
We spent most of our time in Moscow with my parents in the Kremlin. In the morning the carriage would come for the children and we would go and see them for the whole day. Lyova would go off to his sculpture classes and his gymnastics. The friends of ours I saw most of were the Perfilevs, the Bashilovs and Princess Gorchakova; we also developed an acquaintance with Princess Obolenskaya. I went to some concerts and very much enjoyed the classical music. It was a nice life and I loved everything in Moscow, even our hotel on Dmitrovka Street, and our stuffy bed-sitting room and study, where Lyova modelled his red clay horse and the two of us sat talking in the evenings. My brother Petya* is a dear creature and I love him. I often think of them still, and it breaks my heart that I cannot see them now.
9th June. On 22nd May I was unexpectedly delivered of my second son, Ilya. I was expecting him in the middle of June.
19th June. We have a new bailiff here with his wife.* She is an attractive young woman and a “nihilist”. She and Lyova have endless lively discussions about literature and politics. This is quite improper in my opinion; their conversations go on far too long, and they may be flattering for her but for me they are complete torture. He was the one who preached against admitting any outsider, especially a young and attractive person, into the intimité of our family circle, yet now he is the first to do so. I haven’t let him know how much I hate it of course, but I haven’t a moment’s peace of mind. We have been sleeping in separate rooms since Ilya’s birth, which is wrong, for if we were together I would have it out with him this evening and blurt out all my resentment, whereas I shan’t go into his room now, and he won’t come in to see me. The children are the joy of my life. Having experienced the happiness they give me it would be a sin to ask for anything more. Yet it still grieves me that Lyovochka doesn’t observe his own rules. And why was he saying only today that a man always worries he might accuse his wife of something she didn’t do—as if one suffered only when one’s husband actually did something wrong. For even the most momentary private doubts about his love for his wife can be just as disastrous. It’s very wrong of him to honour Maria Ivanovna with these ardent speeches. It’s almost one o’clock in the morning but I can’t sleep. I have a horrible premonition that this nihilist woman will be my bête noire.
22nd July. Lyovochka invented some excuse for visiting that house earlier today. Maria Ivanovna told me so herself, and that he stood under her balcony talking to her. What reason can he have had for going there in the rain? It’s obvious: because he likes her. The thought is driving me insane. I wish her every conceivable ill, although I’m always especially nice to her for some reason. I wonder if her husband will turn out to be unfit for the job so they’ll have to leave? At the moment I am wild with jealousy. He treats me with the utmost coldness. My breasts ache, and it’s agony for me to feed the baby. Today I had to call in Mavrusha to give him some extra milk to allow my breasts to heal. These ailments of mine always make him treat me cruelly.
24th July. Lyovochka visited her house again today and came back saying how he pitied the poor woman and her dull life. Then he asked me why I hadn’t invited them to dinner. If I had had my way I would never have had her here in the first place. Oh Lyovochka, can’t you see you’ve been caught! My aching breasts rob me of so much time and happiness. And the worst thing is I have completely withdrawn from him and he has withdrawn even further from me. It disturbs him that I have Mavrusha to help me feed Ilyusha, and it grieves me to see him suckling another woman’s milk as well as my own. God only knows when my breasts will heal. Everything is going wrong. My heart rejoices whenever Lyova expresses his dissatisfaction with the way the farm is being run. Maybe he’ll dismiss the bailiff, and I shall be rid of my tormenting jealousy for Maria Ivanovna. I would be sorry for his sake, but her I hate.
10th August. There are days when you feel so happy and light-hearted that you long to do something to astonish people and make them love you. When I hear of others’ misfortune I count myself very fortunate. Yesterday Bibikov told us the dreadful story of the regimental clerk here in Yasenki who has just been shot for hitting his company commander in the face. Lyovochka was a defence witness at the open court martial, but of course the defence was unfortunately a mere formality.*
We had a lot of visitors all on the same day: the two Princesses Gorchakova, nice Prince Lvov and fat Sollogub with his two adolescent sons. He told me I was the perfect wife for a writer, and that a wife should be “the nursemaid of her husband’s talent”. I appreciate that, and shall try to be an even better nursemaid of Lyovochka’s talent from now on. All my jealousy of Maria Ivanovna has vanished—it was virtually groundless anyway—and our relations are much simpler and happier, if still somewhat reserved.
12th November. Lyova is in Moscow and has taken my sister Tanya with him. She is very poorly and I am desperately worried about her. The more hopeless her health is, the more I love her. She will probably visit Italy with the Dyakovs.* I am afraid I failed to realize how ill she was this autumn. We were having such a good time here in the first three weeks of September that I instinctively repressed all sad thoughts. When I don’t open my diary for a long time I always think what a pity it is I don’t record the happy times. The Dyakovs spent those weeks with us, with Lyova’s sister Mashenka and her little girls and Tanya, and there was so much friendship between us, so much simple affection; it’s not often one enjoys such happiness with friends. I shall always remember my name day, 17th September, with special joy.* To my surprise and delight, a band struck up a tune for me as we were eating dinner, and there was dearest Lyova gazing at me so tenderly. That evening we sat out on the veranda, which was lit by lanterns and candles. I shall never forget the young ladies darting about in their white muslin dress
es, and good-natured little Kolokoltsev; but it’s Lyovochka’s sweet cheerful face I remember most clearly, as he rushed here, there and everywhere, doing everything he could to ensure we all enjoyed ourselves. I quite surprised myself, dancing with such abandon. The weather was perfect and everyone had a wonderful time. I now spend most of my time copying out his novel (which I am reading for the first time).* It gives me great pleasure. As I copy I experience a whole new world of emotions, thoughts and impressions. Nothing touches me so deeply as his ideas, his genius. This has only been so recently. Whether it’s because I have changed or because this novel really is extraordinarily good, I don’t know. I write very quickly, so I can follow the story and catch the mood, but slowly enough to be able to stop, reflect on each new idea and discuss it with him later. He and I often talk about the novel together, and for some reason he listens to what I have to say (which makes me very proud) and trusts my opinions.
1867
May—a Polish émigré attempts to kill the Tsar in Paris. Summer—a small group of populists travel to the villages to teach the peasants.
