The Diaries of Sofia Tolstoy

by Cathy Porter

  Volume 13 will come out any day now, and I should dearly love to send the Tsar a copy, enclosing a group photograph of my family, in whom he showed so much interest. Both he and the Tsarina asked in great detail after all my children.

  Spring fills the air. The apple trees are covered in flowers—there is something mad and magical about these blossoms, I’ve never seen anything like it. Every time one looks out of the window one sees an amazing airy cloud of white, pink-fringed flowers, set against a bright green background.

  The weather is hot and dry. Bunches of lilies of the valley fill the room with their intoxicating scent.

  Poor Lyovochka has inflamed eyelids and has been sitting alone in a darkened room for the past two days. He was a bit better today. Yesterday I sent for Doctor Rudnyov, and he prescribed bathing the eyes in Goulard water, which he sent us. Yesterday Lyovochka dictated to Masha a letter on religious matters for Alekhin (a dark one), and I was amazed by how good it was and how totally it corresponded to my own feelings. It dealt with questions of immortality and the after-life: we should not worry about such things, he said, once we had placed ourselves in God’s hands and said, “Thy Will Be Done!” We can never answer these questions anyway, however much we may worry about them.

  22nd May. Another busy week has passed. The Kuzminskys came, and Masha’s fiancé, Erdeli. The usual summer activities—swimming, lounging in the heat, admiring the beauty of the countryside, crowds of noisy, jostling children with nothing to do. Fet was here with his wife and read us some of his poems—nothing but love, love, love. He was in raptures over everything here at Yasnaya Polyana, and seemed well pleased with his visit and with Lyovochka and me. He is 70 years old, but his lyrics are ageless, lively and melodious, and they always arouse in me suspiciously youthful poetic feelings. Yet they are so good and innocent and always remain in the realms of abstraction—what if these feelings are inappropriate?

  My Masha went off with the Filosofov girls to stay with them at Paniki. Let her enjoy herself, poor girl, she’s only 20 but so serious and old for her age. We went out for a walk, but it started to rain and one by one we all made our way back to the house. Instead of reading, we spent a most interesting evening talking about novels, love, art and painting. Lyovochka said there was nothing more horrible than those paintings that depict lust in everyday situations, like the one of the monk looking at the woman, or the Tartar and the lady riding off on horseback together to the Crimea, or the father-in-law casting lascivious glances at the young bride. All this is bad enough in real life, he said, but in a painting you have to look at this filth all the time. I completely agree with him. I only like paintings that depict beauty, nature and lofty ideals.

  Today is Ilya’s birthday. The poor fellow lives in such a muddled and senseless fashion, preoccupied with his household, his family and his doubts, and permanently dissatisfied with his fate. It is sad that these disagreements over property have put a strain on our relations.

  27th May. Very cold and cloudy. There has been a strong north wind for the past three days so we all stayed indoors. Vasya Kuzminsky fired at Sasha’s eye with his toy pistol and left a red bruise. Vanechka had a stomach ache last night and didn’t sleep. I got up at 3 a.m. to be with him and didn’t get back to sleep myself until 5. The lilacs and lilies of the valley are over now. Vanechka and Nurse brought some night violets into the house, and the white mushrooms are out. It’s very dry and the grass is withering. Raevsky was saying there was a drought in the Epifania district. We had a letter from Masha. She is evidently enjoying herself at the Filosofovs, which I am happy about.

  1st June. Endless guests. First our friend Annenkova’s husband, a landowner, much preoccupied with legal affairs, and an odd, vulgar sort of man, although said to be infinitely kind and sensitive. He brought with him a man called Nelyubov, a thin dark idealist full of ecstasy and gloom, and the magistrate of Lgov, their county capital. Then Suvorin, editor of New Times, came for the evening. He struck me as a shy man, interested in everything. He asked whether he might bring with him or send along a Jewish sculptor from Paris,* to do a full-length sculpture of Lev Nikolaevich. I begged him to send him here, although Lyovochka said nothing as usual. I am sure he would like it. Yesterday P.F. Samarin was here, as well as Davydov and General Bestuzhev. Lyovochka walked to Tula to inspect the abattoir, but they weren’t slaughtering anything so he just looked round. Everybody is terribly interested to hear about my visit to the Tsar. Yet nobody knows my real motive for visiting St Petersburg. It was all because of The Kreutzer Sonata. That story cast a shadow over my life. Some people suspected it was based on me, others felt sorry for me. Even the Tsar said: “I feel sorry for his poor wife.” Uncle Kostya told me when I was in Moscow that I had become “une victime”, and everyone pitied me. So I wanted to show that I wasn’t a victim at all; I wanted people to say my visit to St Petersburg was something I had done instinctively. I knew in advance that I would be successful and prevail upon the Emperor, for I haven’t yet lost my powers of winning people’s sympathy; and I certainly made an impression on him, with my words and my demeanour. But it was also for the sake of the public that I had to vindicate the story. Everyone now knows that I pleaded with the Tsar for it. If that story had been about me and my relations with Lyovochka, I would hardly have begged him to let it be published. Everyone will see this now. I have had various reports of the Tsar’s flattering comments about me. He told Countess Sheremeteva he was sorry he had had urgent work to attend to that day and was unable to spend longer with me, as he found our discussion so interesting and enjoyable, and he hadn’t realized I was still so young and pretty. All this flatters my female vanity, and avenges me for all the years in which my husband not only failed to promote me in society, but actually did his utmost to drag me down. I can never understand why.

  It has been raining all day and it’s cold and windy. About three days ago we had a visit from a mother and her two sons who were selling koumiss. They weren’t the same people who came last year—they were quiet and looked very poor. Lyovochka keeps insisting he doesn’t want koumiss and refuses to drink it, but he has had a bad stomach upset these past few days.

  3rd June. A German from Berlin came and spent the whole of yesterday with us.* He had come to “take a look at Tolstoy”, and ask Lev Nikolaevich for an article that he could take back and translate for his German Jews—Loewenfeld and the others. He himself is a merchant and travels around Russia buying wool. He was a most unpleasant, ingratiating fellow, and ruined the whole day. That evening Lyovochka, my sister Tanya and I had a discussion about abstract matters. Lyovochka maintained that there were certain actions which were simply impossible, and this was why some Christians were martyred; they were unable to worship sacrificial idols, the peasant was unable to spit out the communion wafer, and so on. I said that of course one couldn’t do such things, but for some cause, or to help or save a person close to one, anything was possible. “Like killing a child, you mean?” he said. “No, not that,” I said, “because that is the worst crime one could imagine, and there couldn’t be any possible justification for it.” He didn’t like this at all, and contradicted me in a terrible angry voice. Then he began shouting, and I grew so exasperated I said a lot of unpleasant things to him. I told him one could never hold a conversation with him—his friends had realized this long ago—for he always preached at people. I couldn’t talk to him when he shouted and made those horrible noises, I said, any more than I could talk to a barking dog…I was far too hard on him, but I was feeling very angry.

  Lyovochka has only two “extreme” topics of conversation now: against heredity and in favour of vegetarianism. There is a third subject which he never mentions, but which I think he is writing about, and that is his ever more bitter denunciation of the Church.

  5th June. A warm fine day. My soul is uneasy. Lyovochka and I went to the village to look in at the boot-maker’s and visit poor sick Timofei Fokanov.* I sometimes long to be close to Lyovochka and talk to h
im, but he makes this impossible at the moment. He has always been severe, but now one is always touching on old wounds—as happened last night. We started talking about the children and he said that twelve years ago he had undergone a great change, and that I too should have changed with him and brought up the children in accordance with his new beliefs. I replied that I could never have done so on my own—I simply wouldn’t have known how—and that he had always talked a lot, and over the years he had written a lot, but in fact he had not only not brought up the children himself, he had actually quite often forgotten about them altogether.

  It ended quite amicably however, and we parted as friends. I have just finished yet another page of proofs for The Kreutzer Sonata. It is now 2 in the morning.

  7th June. Lyovochka went to Tula at the request of one of his “dark ones”, some follower of his I don’t know by the name of Dudchenko, to visit this gentleman’s mistress who is being transported from Tula, where she has been in exile. They told her she could make the journey on her own if she wanted to, at her own expense, but she refused, so now she will travel with the other prisoners. Why is he going? So he can brag and boast about his “principles”, or from a sense of conviction? I won’t decide before seeing for myself. It turned out the girl wasn’t in Tula anyway, and Lyovochka was evidently pleased to have done his duty without actually having to see her. He went to the slaughterhouse again, and told us in great distress what a frightful spectacle it was, how terrified the bulls were when they were led out, and how the skin was ripped off their heads while their legs were still twitching and they were still alive. It is indeed terrible—but then all deaths are terrible! I’ve had a visit from Lyovochka’s sister Maria Nikolaevna, the nun. She talks only of monasteries, Father Ambrosius, priests and nuns, John of Kronstadt and the holy powers of this or that icon, but she herself likes to eat well and frequently loses her temper, and seems to have no love for anyone. We went swimming this evening. It was terribly hot all day. I was cutting Vanechka’s hair and accidentally nicked his head with the scissors. The blood spurted out and he cried and cried. “Forgive Maman, careless Maman,” I said, but he went on crying. Then I stretched out my hand to him and said: “There, hit it!” But he seized it and kissed it fervently, still sobbing. What a dear little boy he is. I fear he will not live long.

  9th June. Whit Sunday. A heavenly summer day, bright, hot and beautiful, and a lovely, warm, moonlit evening. To think of all the Whitsuns I have lived through! The children went off to church this morning in the carriage, looking very solemn in their best clothes and carrying flowers. After I had had a rest and read, I took Vanechka and Mitechka into my room and told them fairy stories in bed. One must develop their minds. Then suddenly we heard the strains of peasant women singing as they approached the house, and we went out and followed the smartly dressed crowd to Chepyzh, where they wove crowns. There is something very moving about this endlessly repeated spectacle. Every summer, for almost thirty years, ever since I have been at Yasnaya, they have woven crowns and thrown them in the water. Almost three generations have grown up here before my eyes, and this is the one time in the year I see them all together. Today I felt such tenderness for these people with whom I have lived for so long, and for whom I have done so little.

  Ilya came yesterday, and in the evening we had yet another discussion about the division of the property. Lyovochka is eating very badly and won’t touch eggs, milk or koumiss, just stuffs his stomach with bread, mushroom soup and chicory or rye coffee. He has made himself a spade and says he is going to dig the wheat field instead of ploughing it. Yet another mad scheme of his—wearing himself to death digging the dry earth, which is hard as stone. I should be happy to see him healthy again, instead of ruining his stomach (in the doctor’s words) with all this harmful food. I should be happy to see him an artist again, instead of writing sermons which masquerade as articles. I should be happy to see him affectionate, attentive and kind again, instead of this crude sensuality followed by indifference. And now this new fantasy of digging the earth—it will be the death of him! And in this heat! He is a continual torment to me with his perpetual dreams and his restless heart.

  12th June. Yesterday we had a visit from two “dark ones”, called Khokhlov and Alekhin. Alekhin used to be a learned chemist and university teacher, but now wears a peasant shirt and wanders the country with his comrades in the faith. The same old Russian pilgrims served with another sauce—this wandering life is in the Russian blood. But it seems sad that he spent ten years working at the university and is now going to waste. Khokhlov is a technician, young and somewhat unformed. They are a silent, gloomy pair, like all the disciples; they won’t eat meat and wear rough peasant clothes. I cannot understand that scientist. He must realize this is no way to live, wandering about and living off others. Lyovochka keeps telling me that they do work, but I have yet to see any evidence of this: as far as I can see they do nothing but sit around in silence with downcast heads.

  13th June. I got up at four this morning to see the children off to Ilya’s. It was a bright cold day. Then Lyovochka announced that he and his “dark ones” were setting off on foot to see young Butkevich, some 20 miles away. I am afraid it will exhaust him and I’m unhappy about the friendship, but I realize he’s in a restless mood and if it’s not this it will be something else—some wild venture he’ll think up just for a change I suppose. So they slung their rucksacks over their shoulders and all three set off in the blazing heat. The nights are very cold, but the days are hot and dry. It is dreadful to hear people complaining on all sides about the probability of famine. I can’t imagine how most Russians are going to get through this year. In places there has been an almost complete crop failure, and they’ve had to plough the land all over again. The situation at Yasnaya Polyana is still tolerable, but there are parts of the country where people have no crops for themselves or their cattle.

  We all gathered on the veranda this evening to drink tea, shivering in the cold, while Masha told us in horrified tones about the debauchery that goes on among the servants. I was appalled that she and the little girls should know such things, but it could hardly be avoided I suppose, considering the sort of life she has led. She spends all her time with the common people, and they talk of little else.

  14th June. I had a pleasant busy day, although I didn’t sleep at all last night. This morning I read some Russian stories in a journal, then tidied the house until it was all neat and clean. I don’t know why, but whenever Lyovochka is away I am always filled with energy. Then we all went for a swim. Before dinner I read the German proofs of a biography of Lyovochka that Loewenfeld had sent us. After dinner I gathered up the children and we all walked across the rye field, picking cornflowers as we went, to the Cherta forest. There we gathered bunches of night violets, then sat down to marvel at the evening. How extraordinarily lovely, peaceful and fresh it was! Then I took another turn around the park and examined the oaks and firs I had planted. I went into the house, read through the Russian proofs of the Second Reader, wrote some letters and drank tea with Tanya.

  15th June. I went to Tula with my daughter Masha, to attend to the division of the property and apprentice the boy Filka to a boot-maker—which she did. The reason for our visit was her refusal to accept her share of the property. I realize that the poor girl doesn’t know what she is doing, and can’t imagine what it will be like to be left without a kopeck after the life she is used to, but she is acting under hypnosis, not conviction. She is waiting for her father to return so she can ask his advice, since she must at least sign some papers and accept my guardianship.

  This evening we discussed death, premonitions, dreams, and all the things that affect our imagination. We were interrupted by a visit from a lady from the Caucasus, the wife of Doctor Kudryavtsov. She had come to see Lyovochka, and she missed him. Then my sister Tanya’s son Misha arrived, and told us some fascinating stories about a madwoman here. What had happened was that various things of Tanya’s had disappea
red from the pavilion,* and there was clear evidence that it was the mad sister of Mitya’s wet nurse who had made off with them. So Misha went off with the wet nurse to see the woman, and tactfully asked what she had done with the things. It was a highly peculiar business. Gradually she showed him where everything was: she had buried the little work box with its keys in the cemetery near the church and covered it with stones; she hid two towels and a shirt under the bridge; she trampled her own peasant dress and a pair of her husband’s trousers into a muddy ditch; and she hung the antique silver ink pot on its chain from a tree in the orchard at Telyatinki. She remembered exactly where everything was, and slowly went round collecting it all except for the ink pot, which they couldn’t find in the dark. It rained this evening, and got a bit warmer. But it didn’t rain enough. God grant us more.

  16th June. It rained all day and there was a thunderstorm; the countryside and people are looking more cheerful. Lyovochka has returned from the Butkeviches in a sombre, silent mood. My daughter Masha is learning the most frightful things from the workers and peasant girls in the village. All this moral corruption grieves and shocks her dreadfully, and she insists on bringing this filth home with her and telling us about it. It’s quite horrifying! When I told Lyovochka, he said we mustn’t turn away from such things, we must help them forsake their vile ignorance. Help them—yes indeed, he and I might possibly try to help them, but she is an innocent girl of 20!