The Diaries of Sofia Tolstoy

by Cathy Porter

  Tomorrow I am going to Moscow on business. I generally find such expeditions hard work and nerve-racking, but this time I am glad to be going. They ebb and flow like waves, these difficult times when I realize how lonely I am and want only to cry, and know that I must somehow put a stop to it, make it easier. I pray for a long time every night now and find this a good way to end the day.

  5th December. I am going on with my diary. I went to Moscow, saw a lot of people and enjoyed a lot of hospitality, for which I thank my good fortune. My daughter Tanya was there too; I am always so happy to see her, and I value her company. Lyova is still very jumpy; whenever I go near him he recoils from me, which I find very hurtful. Yet he always senses when he is doing it, which is some consolation. I am sure he will manage to put this anxious, pessimistic state behind him somehow. When I got back, Lyovochka was just leaving for Krapivna with Masha, Vera Tolstaya and Vera Kuzminskaya to attend a trial. It was cold outside and there was a blizzard, but I hadn’t the strength to stop them. Thanks to Lyovochka’s influence the murderers received a very light sentence—deportation instead of penal servitude—so they all returned well pleased.* Misha was ill for five days with a high fever and an upset stomach. I spent all my time looking after him, which exhausted me, and I haven’t rested properly after my visit to Moscow. We have guests at the moment. Today I played Beethoven’s Una Fantasia and Adelaide, and sight-read some Schubert.

  6th December. Today is a holiday, Andryusha’s 13th birthday. We all walked up the hill and went skating. The girls and boys all looked so smart and cheerful; they had a marvellous time. I dragged myself around on the ice, I don’t enjoy it any more. Tanya went off to Tula for a name-day party given by the Zinovievs and the Davydovs. I did almost no work, just copied out a little of Lev Nikolaevich’s diary, then entertained our guests and played with the children. I spend all my time with Vanechka.*

  9th December. Once more I am ending the day with a heavy heart. Everything makes me anxious. I have been copying out Lyovochka’s youthful diaries. Today I went for a walk. It was a marvellous day, 14° below zero, frosty and clear, and every tree, bush and blade of grass was covered in thick snow. I passed the threshing floor and took the path into the plantation. On my left the sun was already low in the sky, and on my right the moon was rising. The white treetops gleamed, the sky was blue, everything was bathed in a rosy light, and in the distant clearing the fluffy snow was dazzling white. What purity. And what a fine beautiful thing this whiteness and purity is, whether in nature, in one’s heart, morals and conscience, or in one’s material life. I have tried so hard to preserve it in myself—and all for what? Wouldn’t the mere memory of love—however sinful—be preferable to the emptiness of an immaculate conscience?

  I played a Mozart symphony on the piano today, first with Tanya then with Lyovochka. We didn’t get it right at first, and he went for me peevishly; it was all very brief and insignificant, but I found it so hurtful that I lost all enthusiasm for playing and felt terribly sad. Then Biryukov came and we had to stop. I do hope he leaves soon, and that Masha will settle down. Now this silly business has started it won’t be easily laid to rest.* I read a novel in the Revue des Deux Mondes which describes a young girl’s joy at staying in the house of the man she loves, surrounded by all his furniture, his things, his life. How true that is! But what if these things are boots, boot-making tools, chamber pots and mud,* what then? No, I shall never grow used to it.

  10th December. I have to endure a sad time in my old age. Lyovochka has surrounded himself with the most peculiar circle of friends, who call themselves his disciples. One of them arrived this morning. This man, Butkevich, has been in Siberia for his revolutionary ideas, wears dark glasses and is a dark and mysterious person, and has brought his Jewish mistress with him, whom he refers to as his wife because she lives with him. As Biryukov was here too, Masha went downstairs to prance around and make herself agreeable to this Jewess. It made my blood boil—to think that my daughter, a respectable girl, should associate with such rabble, apparently with her father’s approval. I shouted at him in a rage: “You may be used to spending your life with riff-raff but I’m not, and I don’t wish my daughters to associate with them!” He sighed of course, and was furious, but said nothing and walked away. Biryukov’s presence is also oppressive; I can’t wait for him to leave. Masha was lingering in the drawing room this evening after we had left, and I thought I saw him kiss her hand. When I mentioned it to her though she angrily denied it. I suppose she is right, but how is one to know what is right in all the secrecy, lies and artificiality? They have worn me down. Sometimes I feel like letting Masha go. “Why hold on to her?” I think. “Let her go with Biryukov, then I can take her place beside Lyovochka. I shall do his copying, put his affairs and his correspondence in order, and gradually, without him noticing, send this whole hateful crowd of ‘dark ones’ packing.”

  Lyova still hasn’t come; I wonder how his health is. Andryusha, Misha and I thought that for our Christmas play we might put on a translation from a Japanese story. I knitted Misha a blanket, did some copying, gave the children two hours of religious instruction and shall now do some reading.

  11th December. At the dinner table Lyovochka told me that the peasants who had been arrested for felling thirty trees in our birch wood were waiting outside to see me.* Whenever I am told that someone is waiting to see me, and that I have to take some decision, I am seized with terror and want to cry. Being expected to manage the estate and the household “in a Christian spirit” is like being gripped in a vice, with no possible escape; it is a heavy cross to bear. If personal salvation and the spiritual life means killing one’s closest friend, then Lyovochka’s salvation is assured. But is this not the death of us both?

  13th December. I didn’t write my diary yesterday—I was too distressed all day by thoughts of the peasants who were found guilty, although I didn’t know this until the evening. Biryukov left and an Englishman named Dillon arrived; he has translated ‘Walk in the Light’, etc. I copied Lyovochka’s diaries all day yesterday, and there were moments when I felt quite sorry for him—how lonely and helpless he was! But he has always, throughout his life, followed the same path, that of the intellect. Today I learnt that the peasants had been sentenced to 6 weeks in jail and a 27-ruble fine. Once again a sob rose in my throat, and I’ve felt like weeping all day. I am sorry mainly for myself: why should people be punished in my name, when I have nothing against them and would never wish anyone any harm? Even from a practical point of view, it is not my property, yet I have become a sort of scourge! I taught the children for three hours without a break and was patient with them. Lyova and I had a talk about Tanya and Masha yesterday; we both want them to get married, though not Masha to Biryukov of course.*

  14th December. I copied Lyovochka’s diaries up to the part where he wrote: “There is no such thing as love, only the physical need for intercourse and the practical need for a life companion.” I only wish I had read that 29 years ago, then I would never have married him. I gave Misha his lesson, played with Vanechka. I taught Sasha* her “Our Father”, and did a little copying. I had a talk with Masha about Biryukov. She assured me that if I didn’t let her marry him she wouldn’t marry anyone. Then she added: “But there’s no need to worry. Anything might happen!” And I felt she actually wanted to be released from this entanglement with him. Tanya was deep in some long mysterious discussion with her today and they seemed to be having a good time.

  17th December. Lyovochka is beginning to worry about me copying out his diary. He would like to destroy his old diaries, as he wants to appear before his children and the public as a saintly patriarchal figure. Still the same old vanity!

  Some “dark ones” have arrived: silly Popov, some weak, lazy Oriental, and stupid fat Khokhlov, who is of merchant origin. To think that these people are the great man’s disciples—these wretched specimens of human society, windbags with nothing to do, wastrels with no education. Tanya and young Lyova went
off to see Ilya last night. The children’s lessons were interrupted by the arrival of Eduard Kern, who used to be a forester on the Zaseka estate and is now a landowner; he gave me some useful tips on the forests and orchards.

  19th December. I had an unpleasant scene with Andryusha: he often deliberately misunderstands, and simply refuses to make the slightest effort to think or remember. This evening I shall entertain our guests, then take a bath.

  20th December. This evening I copied part of Lyovochka’s article on the Church.*

  The Church as an idea, as the true religion, which guards the gathering of the faithful, cannot be denied. But the existing Church with all its rituals is unacceptable. Why should one have to poke a stick in a piece of bread instead of simply reading the Bible story about the soldier who pierced the rib of Christ? There is such a profusion of these primitive rituals and they have killed the Church. It is 10 o’clock. We shall have some tea, then read. I haven’t copied Lyovochka’s diaries today, and consequently feel much calmer and fresher.

  23rd December. A lot has happened these past few days. The day before yesterday we were woken up at 6 a.m. by two telegrams, the first saying that Sonya was ill, the second announcing that she had had a son.* I was excited and delighted by the news, but not for long, for I soon started thinking what an unreliable father Ilya will be, despite being so sweet and kind. I always feel a special tenderness for Sonya, mainly because unlike all of us, who are restless, nervous, hot-tempered and forever picking quarrels, she is gentle and even-tempered. Ilya, Tanya and Natasha Filosofova came back from Kursk on the train. I had the usual unpleasant discussion with Ilya about money and property, and he left this evening. I spent all yesterday in Tula, dined at the Davydovs’ and wearily bought some things for the Christmas tree. Christmas used to be fun, but now I am tired of it. We made flowers for the tree and gilded nuts, and the whole day passed in a rather dreary, futile manner. I received a very flattering letter from Fet which was almost a love letter. I felt terribly pleased, although I’ve never loved him in the slightest—I have always found him rather unattractive, in fact.*

  24th December. I got up late; Vanechka came into my room and I played with him for an hour. Then I went downstairs. Seryozha arrived and played the piano. He is being very affable and kind, like a man who has achieved something and can now take a rest. My Masha is pathetically thin and wretched. We had a cheerful dinner and afterwards Lyovochka read the Bible, much of which made us laugh. I cut out cardboard puppets for the children’s play I am putting on—what foolishness.

  25th December. Christmas Day. Everyone has been in a festive mood all day, and I have been busy decorating the Christmas tree. Lyova and Lyovochka started a heated discussion over morning coffee about happiness and the meaning of life, which all began when Lyova commented on the change of mealtimes here and his general dissatisfaction with the formalities in our life. Lyovochka replied in a reasonable and friendly manner that it all depended on the individual, on a person’s inner needs rather than external appearances. All this was very true, but when he points to his disciples as examples it makes me angry.

  We had a cheerful party round the Christmas tree, to which about eighty peasant children came; we gave them a wonderful time, and our children enjoyed themselves too.

  27th December. In the evening the servants all came in dressed as mummers, and danced to the harmonica and piano. It was Tanya who had arranged this, for she wanted some silly fun. She and Masha dressed up too, and when Masha walked through the door Lyovochka and I gasped: she was dressed as a boy, in a pair of tight trousers which showed her behind, and she showed not an ounce of shame. What a strange, foolish, inscrutable creature.

  These rowdy parties always make me depressed. I went off to my room, opened the window, gazed out at the bright, frosty, starry sky, and suddenly remembered poor U.* And I felt so unbearably sad that he had died, and I was robbed for ever of that refined, pure, discrete friendship, which was much more than friendship yet left nothing on my conscience, and filled so many years of my life with happiness. Who needs me now? Where will I ever find such affection and consideration? There is only Vanechka, I thank God for that joy.

  29th December. A heavenly bright, frosty day. Blue sky, hoarfrost on the trees, utter silence. We spent almost the whole day outside. The little ones and the girls turned the benches into toboggans, and Erdeli, Masha K., Lyova and I all went skating. I am a clumsy, timid skater, but I loved the heady soothing movement. The Zinovievs came for dinner, with Mme Giuliani* and her son. The Zinovievs are pleasant, straightforward people. Lyuba played the piano nicely enough, although too much like a beginner to give real pleasure. Mme Giuliani sang a duet with Nadya, then a solo. Her voice has great passion—her nature too I expect.

  30th December. I played with Vanechka all day until dinner time, as Nurse was visiting her mother. Lyova has gone to a party in the village.

  31st December. I am so used to living for Lyovochka and the children that I feel empty and uneasy if a day passes when I don’t do something for them. I have started copying Lyovochka’s diaries again and putting the accounts in order, but still cannot balance our total income over the past twenty months with our expenditure. It doesn’t surprise me, I keep the accounts so badly. A telegram arrived from Ilya asking me to be the baby’s godmother. Sofia Alexeevna* refused, so did Tanya, so now it’s my turn, faute de mieux. But I don’t care. It’s my little grandson I care about, not the others, and I am delighted to be his godmother. I shall leave tonight, or rather at 5 a.m., on New Year’s Day.

  1891

  Trans-Siberian railway line starts construction, opening up vastness of Siberia to colonization. Harvest, followed by famine in which thousands die.

  25th February—Volume 13 of the Complete Works (published separately containing The Kreutzer Sonata) seized and banned. March—Sofia successfully petitions the Tsar against the ban. (The volume is published in June, with many textual changes.) April—Tolstoy’s property redistributed amongst his family. Spring—Lyova Tolstoy forced to leave the university by a nervous illness. Autumn—Tolstoy works in the countryside, setting up canteens for victims of famine. Sofia joins him. Tolstoy denounced as “impious infidel” by the Archbishop of Kharkov.

  2nd January. I have just returned from seeing Ilyusha and christening the baby. The ceremony, renouncing Satan and so on, was as dull as usual. But the baby, his eyes tightly closed, had such a touchingly contented expression on his red little face, and I was deeply moved by the mystery of his soul and his new life as I prayed for him. There were crowds of Filosofovs in Grinevka, all very large and stout, but astonishingly sweet-natured, both in their manners and the way they live their lives. There is so much genuine unassuming simplicity about them, and they are so completely without malice. And that is splendid. Ilya was somewhat distracted, and seemed almost deliberately inattentive, rushing about on small errands. It was sad to get home, for it was obvious nobody was interested to see me back. I often wonder why they do not love me when I love all of them so dearly. I suppose it’s because of my outbursts of temper, when I get carried away and speak too sharply. Then everyone gathered round me, although they hadn’t bothered to make me anything to eat. Only Vanechka and Sasha were glad to see me—he with noisy delight, she with quiet pleasure.

  Masha and I had another angry argument this evening about Biryukov. She is doing all she can to re-establish contact with him, but I cannot alter my views on the matter: if she marries him she is lost. I was harsh and unreasonable with her, but I cannot discuss it calmly, and Masha really is the most terrible cross God has sent me to bear. She has given me nothing but pain from the moment she was born. She is a stranger to her family and to God, and her love for Biryukov is incomprehensible.

  3rd January. I worked all day on the puppet theatre. The drawing room was packed with children but it wasn’t a success. How disappointing that they liked Punch best when he was fighting. What nasty coarse values! I am tired and bored. We have guests and Lyov
ochka is cheerful; he did a lot of writing this morning on the subject of the Church. I am not very fond of these religious and philosophical articles of his—I love him best as an artist, and always shall. There is a blizzard. 7° below freezing.

  4th January. Terrible snowstorm all day, 10° below freezing. The wind is howling in the stoves, outside everything is buried in snow. We had some unpleasant news this morning: Roman the head forester got drunk last night and rode down to the marshes, where he and his horse fell into the lake. He got soaked through, but a Yasnaya peasant called Yakov Kurnosenkov managed to drag him out. The horse was drowned, however. It’s most annoying and a great pity, for it was a young horse. Roman himself ran home in a terrible state. Our steward Berger can’t be found either. I am very displeased with him, for he is frightfully lazy and a liar. Masha has bought a washtub and scrubs her own underwear. I angrily told her she was ruining her health and would be the death of me, but she answered me with calm indifference. All four of the young ones have coughs and colds, but they are up and about and in good spirits. Where can Seryozha be in this blizzard? He was visiting the Olsufievs—I only hope he didn’t leave. Lyovochka has been complaining that he cannot write.