by Cathy Porter
“Do forgive me, Countess, for keeping you waiting for so long,” he said. “It was impossible for me to receive you earlier.”
I replied: “I am deeply grateful to Your Majesty for doing me the honour of receiving me.”
Then the Tsar began to talk about my husband (I don’t remember his exact words), and asked me the nature of my request. I spoke in a quiet but firm voice:
“Your Majesty, I have recently observed that my husband seems disposed to resume his literary endeavours. Only the other day he was saying to me: ‘I have moved so far beyond these philosophical and religious works now that I think I might start on some literary work—I have in mind something similar to War and Peace, in form and content.’ Yet with every day that passes the prejudice against him grows stronger. Volume 13 was banned for instance, although it has now been decided to pass it. His play The Fruits of Enlightenment was banned, then the order was given for it to be performed on the Imperial stage. The Kreutzer Sonata was banned…”
“Surely though you wouldn’t give a book like that to your children to read?” the Tsar said.
I said: “The story has unfortunately taken a rather extreme form, but the fundamental idea is that the ideal is always unattainable if the ideal is total chastity.”
I also recall that when I told the Tsar that Lev Nikolaevich seemed disposed to write literary works again, he said: “Ah, how good that would be! What a very great writer he is!”
After defining what I took to be the main point of The Kreutzer Sonata, I went on to say: “It would make me happy if the ban was lifted from The Kreutzer Sonata in the Complete Collected Works. That would be clear evidence of a gracious attitude to Lev Nikolaevich. And who knows, it might even encourage his work.”
To this the Tsar replied: “Yes I think it might very well be included in the Complete Works. Not everyone can afford to buy it after all, it won’t have a very wide circulation.”
On two separate occasions in the conversation (I don’t remember exactly when), the Tsar regretted that Lev Nikolaevich had left the Church. “There are so many heresies springing up among the simple people that are having a very harmful effect on them,” he said.
To this I replied: “I can assure Your Majesty that my husband has never preached any philosophy either to the people or to anyone else. He has never mentioned his beliefs to the peasants, and not only does he not distribute the texts of his manuscripts to people, he is actually in despair when others do so.”
The Tsar was astounded. “Why that’s disgraceful, absolutely disgraceful! It’s a wicked thing to do, to steal someone’s manuscripts!”
The Tsar is rather shy and speaks in a pleasant, melodious voice. His eyes are warm and kind, and he has a friendly bashful smile. He is very tall and somewhat stout, but he is sturdily built and looks strong. He is almost completely bald, and his head is very narrow at the temples, as though it had been squeezed in at the top. He reminded me a little of Vladimir Chertkov, especially his voice and manner of speaking.
The Tsar then asked me how the children felt about their father’s teachings. I replied that they couldn’t but feel the greatest respect for the lofty moral standards he preached, but that I considered it important for them to be educated in the faith of the Church. I had fasted with them over August, I said, but in Tula, not in the village, as several of our priests, far from being our spiritual fathers, were in fact police spies who had been sending in false reports about us.
“Yes, I have heard about that,” the Tsar said. Then I told him my eldest son was a leading zemstvo official, my second was married and had his own home, my third was a student, and the others still lived at home. Oh, and I forgot to note that when we were discussing The Kreutzer Sonata, the Tsar said, “Could your husband not alter it a little?”
I said: “No, Your Majesty. He can never make any corrections to his works, and besides, he says that he has grown to hate this story and cannot bear it to be mentioned.”
The Tsar then asked: “And do you see much of Chertkov, the son of Grigory Ivanovich and Elizaveta Ivanovna? It seems your husband has completely converted him.”
I was quite unprepared for this question and for a moment I was at a loss for words. But I soon regained my composure. “We haven’t seen Chertkov for over two years now,” I said. “He has a sick wife he cannot leave. His relations with my husband weren’t initially based on religion but on other matters. Seeing how many stupid and immoral books were being published for popular consumption, my husband gave him the idea of transforming this popular literature and giving it a moral and educational direction. My husband wrote several stories for the people which sold millions of copies, but were then suddenly found to be harmful and not sufficiently pious, and were also banned. Besides this they published a number of scientific, philosophical and historical books. It was a successful venture and doing very well—but this too has been persecuted by the authorities.”*
The Tsar said nothing to this, and finally I made so bold as to add: “Your Majesty, if my husband should start writing works of fiction again and I should publish them, it would be a great pleasure for me to know that the final verdict on his work rested with Your Majesty in person.”
To this the Tsar replied: “I should be most happy to do so. Send his works directly to me for my perusal.”
I cannot remember if anything more was said. I do remember though that at the end he said: “Rest assured, everything will be for the best. I am very happy to have met you.” And he stood up and gave me his hand.
I curtseyed again, and said: “I am sorry I didn’t ask to be presented to the Empress, I was told she was unwell.”
“No, the Empress is quite well today and will receive you. I shall give orders for you to be announced,” he said.
I then turned to go. The Tsar stood in the doorway leading to the little room next to his study and took his leave of me. “Will you be staying in St Petersburg for a while?” he asked.
“No Your Majesty, I am leaving today.”
“So soon? Why is that?”
“One of my children is sick.”
‘Really? What’s the matter?”
“Chickenpox.”
“Well, that’s not dangerous, so long as he doesn’t catch a chill.”
“Yes Your Majesty, I’m afraid they might let him catch a chill in this cold weather if I’m not there.”
The Tsar shook my hand very warmly, then I bowed again and went out.
I went back to the reception room, which was upholstered in red satin, with a statue of a woman in the middle, two statues of boys at the sides and two pier glasses in the arches separating this room from the main hall. Everywhere was a profusion of plants and flowers. I shall never forget the mass of bright-red azaleas I had looked at when I thought I was dying. Outside the window was a desolate view of a cobbled courtyard with two waiting carriages and some soldiers on parade.
An elderly footman, who looked and spoke like a foreigner, was standing at the door of the Tsarina’s reception room. On the other side stood a Negro in national costume. There were also more Negroes, three I believe, standing by the door of the Tsar’s study. I asked the footman to announce me to the Tsarina, telling them the Tsar himself had authorized it. He told me the Empress was with another lady at the moment, but he would announce me the moment she left.
I waited for fifteen to twenty minutes. The lady came out, the footman told me the Tsar had spoken to the Empress and informed her I wanted to be presented to her, and I went in.
The Empress, a slim woman, quick and light on her feet, came to meet me. She had a lovely complexion, and her beautiful chestnut-coloured hair was wonderfully neatly arranged, as though glued to her head. She was neither very tall nor very short, and was wearing a high-necked, narrow-waisted black woollen dress, very narrow in the arms. She gave me her hand, and like the Emperor immediately invited me to sit down. Her voice was loud and rather guttural, and we spoke in French.
“We have already me
t once before, I believe?” she said.
“I had the pleasure of being presented to Your Majesty several years ago at the Institute of St Nicholas in Mme Shostak’s house.”
“Ah yes, of course, and your daughter too. Now do tell me, is it really true that people have stolen manuscripts from the Count and published them without his permission? But that is horrifying—what a frightful thing to do!”
“It is indeed true, Your Majesty, and it is very sad. But what can we do?”
Then she asked me how many children I had and what they all did. I said I was happy to hear that her son, Georgy Alexandrovich, was better, and told her I had suffered for her, knowing how hard it must have been for her to be separated from her two sons when one of them was so ill. She said he was fully recovered now; he had pneumonia, the illness had been neglected, he hadn’t looked after himself properly and she had been extremely worried. I expressed my regret that I had never met any of her children, and the Empress replied that they were all in Gatchina at present.
She stood up, gave me her hand and warmly took her leave of me.
Tanya and the younger children welcomed me home. Lyovochka had gone to Chepyzh and then out to the park to wait for me. I got back before him though, and it was a long time before he returned. He was displeased about my adventure and my meeting with the Tsar. He said we had now taken on all sorts of responsibilities we couldn’t possibly fulfil. He and the Tsar had managed to ignore each other up to now, he said; all this could do us a lot of damage, and might well have disagreeable consequences.*
23rd April. Why is one’s own family so much more severe on one than others? How sad it is, how sad that they should spoil one’s life and relationships like this. It was a cold fine day. Tanya has just gone past my door and told me Lyovochka asked her to tell me he had lain down and put out the candle.
24th April. I went out for a little walk in the garden with the children, and, just by the lower pond, on the very spot where yesterday I planted all the oaks and firs, I saw a whole herd of village cows. Some village woman and girls were calmly tending them, until I let out a loud scream. I was furious about my little trees and my wasted labours. I then went to Vasily and told him to drive away any cows that got into the estate. The village people are very hard to deal with, for they have been spoilt by Lyovochka. When we got home I ran a bath for Vanechka, bathed him myself and put him to bed. Then I copied out Lyovochka’s diaries. It is now 11 o’clock. The wind is howling outside and I am afraid for anyone out in it. I sent the carriage to Kozlovka to fetch Lyovochka, but he will barely make it to Tula and catch the train. It was so cold he was glad of his fur jacket.
29th April. I haven’t written my diary for several days. The evening before last I had another asthma attack. I felt as though something was blocking my chest, and had dreadful palpitations and giddiness. I threw myself at Nurse and said: “I am dying!” Then I kissed Vanechka and ran downstairs to Lyovochka to take leave of him before I died. Physically I was terrified, but not mentally. Lyovochka wasn’t there, so I crossed myself and waited for death to come, unable to breathe. Then I went back to my room. On the way I managed to ask for some mustard for my chest and a pulverizer, and when I lay down and inhaled the steam I began to feel better. But even now my chest feels heavy, and I don’t think I have long to live. I have overstrained myself and broken something; I’ve used up my allotted share of energy—it’s all too much for me at my age.
The day before yesterday I wrote a letter to the Minister of Internal Affairs, asking him to remind the Tsar that he had given me his personal permission to publish The Kreutzer Sonata in the Complete Collected Works. We had a wretched letter from Lyova, saying he didn’t want to take his exams and was leaving the university.* Both Lyovochka and I wrote advising him not to abandon his university studies until he has clearly decided what he wants to do when he leaves. I don’t expect he will take any notice though. Let him do what he thinks is best, the main thing is for us to support him. Tanya is going to Moscow the day after tomorrow. I have been sitting at home ill for the past three days, but outside it is already quite green. The grass and the leaves are coming out, and the nightingales are singing.
1st May. Tanya left for Moscow this morning. Ilya arrived and went to Tula to see about the division of the property. Davydov came for dinner with his daughter and Prince Lvov. I find them both very pleasant, and the day would have passed most enjoyably had I not been unwell. I have catarrh in my respiratory passages, am feverish at night and feel very sluggish.
I copied Lyovochka’s diary. After dinner we all went for a walk, and afterwards I played Mendelssohn’s Lieder ohne Worte and a Beethoven sonata for two hours. It annoys me that I play so badly, I wish I could take lessons and learn properly. Over tea we had a discussion about education. I don’t want to send my children to the gymnasium, yet I see no alternative. I don’t know what to do for the best. I cannot educate them on my own, and Lyovochka is very good at talking, but when it comes to acting he never does a thing. It is warmer, and everyone keeps bringing bright fresh violets into the house. We have been eating morels, the nightingale is singing and everything is slowly coming into leaf.
15th May. Again, I haven’t written my diary for a long time, and again a lot has happened. On the 2nd or 3rd of May, we had a visit from Princess Urusova (née Maltseva) with her two elder daughters, Mary and Ira. Their presence reminded me painfully of the late Prince himself and I couldn’t get him out of my mind. Mary is strikingly like him, and played a Beethoven sonata so well as to leave us in no doubt about her exceptional musical ability. The Princess has changed very much for the better, is more resigned, and full of remorse. I don’t know why she is always telling me of the exceptional love her husband felt for me. This time she told me in grave and earnest tones that he had loved me even more than he loved Lyovochka, and that it was I who had given him all the things that she, his wife, should have given him—true family happiness, sympathy, friendship, affection and concern. I told her she was quite wrong to imagine her husband had loved me, he had never told me so, and we had never been anything more than very good friends.
We spent three happy days together and parted on friendly terms.
They left for the Crimea, and I got a letter from my daughter Tanya summoning me to Moscow to make arrangements for Andryusha and Misha to take their exams. On the 6th the boys, their tutor Alexei Mitrofanovich and I set off for Moscow by express train. It was very hot, and I sat knitting while the children went into the other compartments making friends with the passengers, who gave them things to eat. We arrived at Khamovniki Street that evening, and I went off immediately to see Polivanov and make enquiries about the exams. Andryusha was so nervous he couldn’t sleep, but Misha, unperturbed, went to sleep at once. The first exam, on religious knowledge, went well—at any rate they became less nervous. We stayed five days in the apartment, and spent every moment of our free time in our wonderful garden. The boys did badly in their exams. I am not sure of the reason for this—whether it’s bad teachers or their poor abilities. Andryusha was accepted into the 3rd form and Misha into the 2nd. But I still cannot decide whether to send them to the gymnasium. I feel so sorry for them and so afraid of what will happen to them there—yet I see no alternative. I am leaving it for fate to decide. How different the two boys are! Andryusha is nervous, shy and cautious. Misha is excitable, talkative and loves the good things of life.
We went to a French exhibition, but it wasn’t ready, and apart from a dazzling fountain the only things we saw were some bronzes and porcelain.
Driving past the Kremlin, I saw an enormous number of carriages at the Small Palace. Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich has just been appointed Governor General of Moscow and has been receiving the whole city.
The censors are still refusing to release Volume 13 and are cavilling at three passages, which go approximately: “From the Eiffel Tower to universal conscription…”, “When all the European nations were busy teaching their young people
how to murder…” and “Everything is managed by people who are half drunk.” But these phrases had already appeared in the same article, which was published in the form of a prologue to Alexeev’s book On Drunkenness.* I wrote to the Moscow censor informing him of this, and also to Feoktistov in St Petersburg. A letter arrived for me in Yasnaya from the Minister while I was away, announcing that he had given permission for The Kreutzer Sonata and the ‘Epilogue’ to be published in the Complete Works. In Moscow I learnt of this at the press where it was printed. I cannot help secretly exulting in my success in overcoming all the obstacles, that I managed to obtain an interview with the Tsar, and that I, a woman, have achieved something nobody else could have done! It was undoubtedly my own personal influence that played a major part in this. As I was telling people before, I needed just one moment of inspiration to sway the Tsar’s judgement as a human being and capture his sympathy, and the inspiration came, and I did influence his will—although he is a kind man anyway, and obviously quite capable of yielding to the correct influence. Anybody who read this and thought I was boasting would be wrong and unjust.
