by Cathy Porter
3rd March. We have heard some shocking news: four students in Petersburg have been discovered with some bombs that they planned to throw at the Tsar while he was returning from his father’s funeral service.* It agitated me so badly it has driven everything else from my mind. This evil will beget many others. And any sort of evil distresses me so much at present! Lyovochka heard the news in despondent silence. He had so often imagined it happening.
The play is a huge success,* and both Lyovochka and I are quite satisfied with it. I was writing in my diary when he first started on it, but I soon had to do so much copying of the play that I had to break it off. On 11th November my mother died in Yalta and was buried there. On the 21st I travelled to Moscow with the family. Lyovochka has written a story about the early Christians,* and is now working on an article entitled ‘On Life and Death’.* He keeps complaining of stomach pains. We had a peaceful and happy winter. The new cheap edition has come out,* but I have completely lost interest in it. The money brought me no joy—I never thought it would. Miss Fewson, the new English governess, has arrived. Masha is ill and I have been reading King Lear to her. I love Shakespeare, even though he sometimes doesn’t know where to draw the line—all those brutal murders and deaths.
6th March. I have finished copying out ‘On Life and Death’, and have read it through carefully. I tried hard to discover some new ideas in it, but, although I found many apt expressions and beautiful similes, the fundamental idea seemed to me the same unquestionable eternal truth as before: that one should forswear the material personal life for the life of the spirit. One thing I find intolerably unjust, however, is the idea that one should have to renounce one’s personal life in the name of universal love. I believe there are obligations which are ordained by God that no one has the right to deny, and that these obligations actually promote spiritual life rather than hinder it.
My soul is oppressed. It grieves me to think of Ilya and his nasty mysterious life full of idleness, lies, vodka and bad company—and more importantly, the complete lack of any spiritual dimension. Seryozha has gone off to Tula again to attend tomorrow’s meeting of the peasant bank.* Tanya and Lyova irritate me by playing vint.* I seem to have lost all ability to educate the younger children—I always feel so sorry for them, and fear I may be spoiling them. I have an old woman’s anxiety for them and an old woman’s tenderness for them. Yet I still take their education very seriously. I have quite lost my bearings, yet there are some beautiful moments in my life when I contemplate death in solitude, moments when I clearly perceive the duality of the spiritual and the material consciousness, and know both are immortal.
We had a letter from Chertkov.* I don’t like him—he is sly, malicious, obtuse and narrow-minded. L.N. warms to him only because he is so obsequious. As for Chertkov’s work on popular reading, however, inspired by L.N., that I do respect; I must give him credit for that.* Feinerman* is in Yasnaya. He has left his pregnant wife and his child somewhere and has come to us, without a penny to his name. Now I support the principle of the family, so for me he isn’t a person and is lower than an animal. However fanatical his beliefs may be and however beautifully he may express them, the fact is that he has left his family to eat at others’ expense, and that is grotesque.
9th March. Lyovochka is writing a new article, ‘On Life and Death’, which he is to read to the University Psychological Society.* He has been on a vegetarian diet* for the past week, and his present state of mind is ample evidence of this. He deliberately started talking about the evils of money and property in my presence today, hinting that I wanted to hold on to it for the children’s sake. At first I kept quiet, but then I lost my temper: “I sell 12 volumes for 8 rubles and you sell War and Peace for 10!” I shouted. This made him very angry, but he said nothing. All these so-called friends of his, these “new Christians”, are trying desperately to set him against me—not always unsuccessfully either. I read Chertkov’s letter describing in joyful tones his deep spiritual communion with his wife, and commiserating with L.N. for being deprived of this joy: what a sad thing it was, he wrote, that L.N., of all people, should be denied this sort of communion*—it was so obviously referring to me I felt quite ill when I read it. To think that this sly, devious, stupid man has fooled L.N. with his flattery and now wants (like a “good Christian”, I dare say) to destroy all the things that have kept us together for nearly 25 years!
He must end this relationship with Chertkov, for it involves nothing but lies and rancour; we must get as far away from him as possible.
We had guests today, all young. We ate dinner together, after which they played vint. What a sorry thing this passion for vint is! Cold. 14° below freezing at nights.
14th March (Moscow). I am sitting here on my own, the house is quiet and I am enjoying myself. The three little ones are asleep, Tanya, Masha and young Lyova are out visiting the Tatishchevs, Ilya has been confined to barracks for three days for being late for drill,* and Lev Nikolaevich has gone off to a meeting of the University Psychological Society with Nikolai Gué to read his new article ‘On Life and Death’. Gué and I had to copy it in a great rush and I was busy writing it all day. L.N. is unwell; he has bad indigestion and stomach aches, yet he eats such a senseless diet; first it’s rich food, then vegetarian, then rum and water, and so on and so on. He is gloomy but kind. We had a visit from the gentleman sent from Petersburg to Yasnaya Polyana for the costumes for our play.* I took the children skating but did not skate myself. All the pleasures of youth are gradually forsaking me. Lyovochka worked very hard on his article and I like it a lot. He is now beginning to bend some of his more eccentric rules: Grigory* often cleans his room for him nowadays; when he is ill he sometimes eats meat, and when we play vint he occasionally sits down for a game. He is no longer angry about the sale of his books either, and is pleased that the collected edition is selling for eight rubles.
30th March. Lyovochka is still in bad health—for three months he has had pains in the pit of his stomach. Doctor Zakharin diagnosed catarrh of the stomach and prescribed the following, which I am jotting down from memory:
1) To wear warm clothes
2) To wear a piece of unbleached flannel around the stomach
3) To avoid all butter
4) To eat little and often
5) To drink half (½) a glass of fresh Ems Kranchen or Kesselbrunn water, heated up, three or four times a day i) on an empty stomach, and ii) an hour before and a quarter of an hour after lunch—and the third an hour before dinner. He should follow this regime for three consecutive weeks, then stop, and repeat again if necessary. It should be as hot as he can drink it without burning himself, hotter than fresh milk.
6) To fight his fondness for smoking.
18th June. Lyovochka walked to Yasenki with his two daughters and my sister Tanya’s two. It started raining, so I sent the carriage and some warm clothes after them. Now that he is no longer surrounded by Chertkov, Feinerman and the rest of his apostles, he is just as he used to be before, a sweet, happy family man. The other evening he played the piano accompaniment to some violin sonatas by Mozart, Weber and Haydn; he played with such feeling and clearly enjoyed himself immensely. The violinist was the young man I have hired to teach young Lyova. He is called Lyassota; he is only eighteen and is from the Moscow Conservatoire.
When we got back from Moscow on 11th May I firmly insisted that Lyovochka should drink the waters as Zakharin had ordered him to; he consented, and I now silently hand him a glass of heated Ems, which he silently drinks. When he is out of sorts though he says: “They tell you to pour this stuff down me and you believe them. I’m only doing it because I don’t suppose it can do me much harm.” But he has been taking the waters for three weeks now and has not resumed his vegetarian diet. In my view his health has improved considerably; he walks about, is much stronger, and the only problem now is that he gets a mere seven hours’ sleep a night, which is not enough. I suppose it’s because his work is so intellectual and sedentary.
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br /> He is delighted by his success, or rather by the favourable response to him in America—although fame and success generally have very little effect on him. He looks radiantly happy and keeps saying “How good life is!”
I miss Ilyusha and am sorry I haven’t visited him yet.* But he has had so little time for his family this past year and has been so distant from us that it must be supposed he has no need of us. The poor fellow is drifting and has deteriorated mentally; this is why he seems so despondent and sick at heart. I must visit him very soon.
Hordes of sick people visit me every day. I try, with the help of Florinsky’s book,* to treat them all, but what torture it is when I cannot recognize what is wrong and don’t know what to do! It happens so often that I sometimes feel like abandoning the whole business, then I go out and the sight of their sick pleading eyes and their touching trust makes me feel so sorry for them that although I dread to think I may be doing the wrong thing, I hand the poor dears their medicine then try to put them out of my mind. The other day I didn’t have the medicine I needed and had to give the poor woman a note and some money to take to the chemist. She burst into tears, returned the money and said: “I know I’m dying, take back your money and give it to someone worse off than me. Thank you all the same, but I don’t need it.”
2nd July. I went to Moscow to see Ilya—I was so happy to see his friendly face, and could see he was overjoyed to see me too. He lives in squalor; his landlord and landlady are very fond of him, yet he leads such a disorderly life. As his mother, who can remember feeding him at her breast, I felt sad he should be spending all the money I send him to repay his debts. And he never has a proper dinner, just buys snacks and sweets on credit. But it doesn’t bother him. All he can think about is Sofia Filosofova, and he lives on memories, letters and hopes. He is here at the moment—he has just been hunting and has killed three snipe—but he is leaving tomorrow. This makes me very sad; I must accept that the fledglings have flown the nest.
Lyovochka is busy with the mowing, and spends three hours a day writing his article.* It is almost finished now. The other evening he came into the room where Seryozha was playing a waltz on the piano and said: “Shall we take a turn around the floor?” And away we danced, to the delight of the young folk. He is very lively and cheerful, although he’s not as strong as he used to be and tires more quickly when moving or walking. I have bought a camera and intend to do landscapes and family portraits. My daughter Tanya is in Pirogovo.
3rd July. Seryozha is playing Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata, with Lyassota on the violin. What power! It expresses every conceivable human emotion. There’s a bunch of roses and mignonettes on my table, we are just sitting down to a splendid dinner, the storm has passed and it is mild and calm outside, and my dear children are with me. Andryusha has been hard at work upholstering the chairs in the nursery, sweet gentle Lyovochka will soon be back—this is my life and I revel in it and thank God for it, for in it I have found true goodness and happiness. And when I copy out Lyovochka’s article ‘On Life and Death’ I realize he has given me a completely different kind of happiness. I remember when I was very young, long before I was married, I longed to live for others: I yearned with all my soul for the joys of renunciation, even asceticism. But fate granted me a family, so I lived for them—only sometimes I am forced to admit that this wasn’t what I had longed for, that this wasn’t life. Shall I ever be able to see it as such?
Yesterday Seryozha and I made some experiments with my new camera.
19th July. For the past few days we have been in turmoil. Seryozha was in Samara but hasn’t settled anything.* We had a visit from Pavel Golokhvastov, an extreme Orthodox and Slavophile, and he and Lev Nikolaevich had a discussion about religion and the Church, and it was most unpleasant. Golokhvastov described with great pathos the magnificent cathedral in New Jerusalem (Voskresensk), with its beautiful construction and 10,000 worshippers. After listening to him talk on, L.N. said: “And they go there to mock God.” He was being ironic, not to say malicious, and I then spoke up and said it was arrogant to say that 10,000 people would go merely to mock, and to assume that he alone professed the true faith, and that he must admit that such vast numbers of people must have a more honourable reason for attending the cathedral. After dinner Golokhvastov started talking about the Patriarch Nikon and his fascinating life and personality. Lev Nikolaevich read his newspaper throughout, then suddenly burst out in the same tone as before: “He was a Mordvinian peasant, and if he did once have something to say he certainly didn’t say it.” At this Golokhvastov flushed crimson and said: “Either you are laughing at me, or—since I am accustomed to respecting what other people say—I should ponder upon that remark.” All in all a very difficult evening.
We also had a visit from Butkevich, a former revolutionary who has twice been in prison, once for political activities, the second time under suspicion. He stayed for two days, in which time I grew to dislike him intensely. He is very dark and silent, has a squint and a fixed expression on his face and wears blue-tinted spectacles. From the few words he utters there is no way of knowing what he believes in. And now he is a “Tolstoyan”. What unattractive types Lev Nikolaevich’s followers are! There is not one among them who is normal. And most of the women are hysterics. Like Maria Schmidt for example, who has just left. In the old days she would have been a nun—now she is an ecstatic admirer of Lev Nikolaevich’s ideas. She used to be a schoolmistress at the Nikolaevsky Institute, but left because she lost her faith in the Church, and now she lives in the village, supporting herself by copying out Lev Nikolaevich’s banned works, and bursting into hysterical sobs every time she greets him. Lyovochka’s friend and biographer Posha Biryukov is also staying: he is an excellent man—serene, clever and also a proponent of “Tolstoyism”.
All very noisy, difficult and tedious. I long to be alone with my family and for life to resume a more sensible leisurely course. These guests take up all my time.
The days are hot, the nights are cool. We go swimming. There is an abundance of fruit.
19th August. The painter Repin* visited on the 9th, and left on the night of the 16th. He did two portraits of Lev Nikolaevich; the first he started painting in the study downstairs, but he wasn’t satisfied with it and started on another in the drawing room upstairs, against a bright background. It’s extraordinarily good, and is still drying. The first he finished in a rough-and-ready fashion and gave to me. Lyovochka’s “dark ones”* are here: Butkevich, Rakhmanov and a student from Kiev. What peculiar and disagreeable people they are, and what a strain they put on our family life. And what a lot of them there are! This is the price we must pay for Lyovochka’s fame and the originality of his ideas.
He has been reading Gogol’s Dead Souls aloud to us in the evening. I have neuralgia.
25th August. I spent the day sorting out Lyovochka’s manuscripts, setting aside the ones I want to take to the Rumyantsev Museum for safekeeping. I had a terrible job trying to put in order this jumble of papers, which I am sure will never be properly sorted and read.
Lev Nikolaevich started taking Ems Kesselbrunn water on 17th June, 1888. He drank these waters for four weeks starting in June 1889, and for four weeks starting on 8th May, 1890, and he drank mare’s milk all summer.
He brought me this flower in October 1890, at Yasnaya Polyana.*
28th February, 1888—Ilya Tolstoy marries Sofia Filosofova. 31st March—Sofia Tolstoy gives birth to Ivan (Vanechka), her last child and her ninth son. Tolstoy starts writing The Kreutzer Sonata. The Power of Darkness produced in the Théâtre Antoine in Paris.
Autumn 1889—Tolstoy finishes The Kreutzer Sonata. November—800 copies secretly lithographed in the Intermediary offices and circulated in St Petersburg before being passed by the censor. This (and the story’s contents) provokes furious arguments between the Tolstoys. Sofia’s eleventh edition of Tolstoy’s Complete Works published, Volume 12 separately, and Volume 13, containing The Kreutzer Sonata, still not passed by the
censors.
1890
Sofia Tolstoy involved in litigation with priest from nearby village of Ovsyannikovo over some disputed land. Tolstoy working on The Kingdom of God Is within You. November—The Kreutzer Sonata published. Sofia writes her story ‘Who Is to Blame?’, her riposte to The Kreutzer Sonata. Vanechka becomes the centre of her attention.
20th November (Yasnaya Polyana). I have been copying Lyovochka’s diaries, which cover his whole life, so I decided I would start writing mine again, because I’ve never been more lonely within my family than I am now. My sons are all over the place: Seryozha in Nikolskoe, Ilya and his family in Grinevka and Lyova in Moscow. Tanya too has just gone for a visit there. I stay here with the little ones and give them their lessons. Masha and I have never been close; I don’t know whose fault it is,* mine most likely. And now Lyovochka has broken off all relations with me. Why? What can the reason be? I simply cannot understand. When he is ill he lets me nurse him, but only in the most rude and grudging manner, and only so long as he needs his poultices and so on. I have done everything in my power to achieve a deeper, more spiritual intimacy with him—it’s what I want more than anything in the world. I secretly read his diaries too, in the hope of discovering how I could help him, and myself, understand how we might be reunited. But these diaries have reduced me to even greater despair; and he must have discovered I was reading them, for he has started hiding them away. He hasn’t mentioned it though.
I used to copy everything he wrote, and loved doing it. Now he conceals everything from me and gives it to his daughters instead. He is systematically destroying me by driving me out of his life in this way, and it is unbearably painful. There are times in this useless life of mine when I am overwhelmed with despair and long to kill myself, run away, fall in love with someone else—anything not to have to live with this man who for some reason I have always loved, despite everything. I now see just how I have idealized him, how long I refused to realize that there was nothing in him but sensuality. Now my eyes have been opened, and I see that my life is destroyed. I envy people like the Nagornovs, for they are together, and have things in common besides the physical bond. And plenty of other people live like them. As for us—my God, he is always so unfriendly, so querulous and so artificial when he speaks to me! How can he treat me like this when I am so open and cheerful with him, so eager for his affection!
