The Diaries of Sofia Tolstoy

by Cathy Porter

  I was quite unnerved and wanted to take her charm. But when I got back to my room I crossed myself and realized this would be foolish and wicked of me.

  I felt very depressed—there was still no telegram from Tanya to inform me of L.N.’s arrival. After I had something to eat I drove to the telegraph office and there were two undelivered telegrams waiting for me: one from Tanya, and the other a long, touching one from L.N. asking me to return to Moscow.

  I went straight to the station.

  At home Lev Nikolaevich was waiting for me in the hall with tears in his eyes, and we fell into each other’s arms. He agreed not to publish his essay in the Northern Herald (he had already said this in the telegram to me that Tanya had sent); I promised faithfully not to see S.I. again, and to serve and care for him and do all I possibly could to make him happy.

  We had such a pleasant talk, it was a joy for me to promise this, I loved him very deeply and was eager to love him…

  Yet today in his diary he writes that I had “acknowledged my crime”* for the first time, which had brought him much joy! God help me endure this! Once more he has to present himself to future generations as a martyr, and me as a criminal. But what is my crime? L.N. was angry with me for visiting S.I. with Uncle Kostya a month ago when he was in bed with a bad leg. It was because he was so furious about this apparently that he didn’t come to Moscow; this, according to him, was my “crime”.

  Yet when I told him that considering my pure and blameless life with him, he could surely forgive me paying a visit to a sick friend—and with my old uncle too—the tears came to his eyes and he said: “Of course that is true, your life has indeed been a pure and blameless one.” No one saw his tears of contrition, no one knows about our life together, and in his diaries he writes only of my “crimes”! God forgive him for his cruelty and injustice to me.

  11th December. Gurevich visited Tanya, weeping and telling her how wretched she was not to have L.N.’s essay. He didn’t go out to see her. He has now asked her for the article back. What will happen now! I no longer trust him after he deceitfully sent it to the Northern Herald.

  If I wasn’t living under this domestic despotism I would go to St Petersburg for the Nikish concert. As it is, I’ve had to abandon my music again. Dora and Lyova left for Yasnaya today. He was very irritable in Moscow.

  14th December. Today I took Vera Kuzminskaya and my Sasha to Gluck’s Orpheus. It is a marvellous opera, graceful and melodious, and the choruses, the dances and sets were airy and elegant. Yesterday I went to a symphony concert—Beethoven’s lovely ‘Pastoral’, Tchaikovsky’s 1st Symphony, and some other works of no interest.

  The fact is that although I put a brave face on it I feel a deep grief in my heart that L.N. and I are not on better terms, and a lot of anxiety about his health. I have done my best—I truly want us to be friends. But oh how difficult it is! As I was leaving for the theatre today I was waylaid by some woman—the wife of a chemist—sobbing and imploring me to give her 600 rubles, then 400 rubles, to settle her debts. It’s even harder for her. But we are all tempting the Lord…

  16th December. Yesterday I paid social calls. Everywhere I go it’s the same question: “What is the Count writing at present?”, “Qu’est-ce que vous faites pour rester toujours jeune?”* and so on. My youthful appearance has become an invariable topic of conversation in society. But what is it to me when my soul is sad? And Lev Nikolaevich is so unfriendly. There is definitely something he is concealing from me. I see nothing of S.I. and try not to think about him.

  17th December. This morning I had a piano lesson with Miss Welsh. Then a call from Annenkova and a visit to the bathhouse.

  An astonishing incident there. There has been a lot of talk in Moscow recently of the Solovyov family, whose three children all died of scarlet fever in one week. Well, I just happened to be sitting next to the mother of these children. We got into conversation, and I shared with her my painful memories of Vanechka’s death; I told her of my grief, and of the (religious) solution I had sought and partly found, and this consoled her a little. Then she asked me who I was, and when I told her she burst into tears and threw her arms around me, kissing me and begging me to stay with her a little longer. What a dear, lovely, pitiful woman.

  This evening there were guests: Chicherin, Masha Zubova, Annenkova, Rusanova and Taneev. His appearance alarmed me for Lev Nikolaevich’s sake, and at first I felt awkward and anxious. Then I had to preside at the tea table. I was happy to see him of course, and would have been even happier to hear him play, but he didn’t.

  I had a dream last night; there was a long narrow hall and at the end of it was a piano, on which S.I. was playing one of his own compositions. I observed him more closely, and saw Vanechka was sitting on his knee. I could only see him from the back, his golden curly hair and his white shirt. He was leaning his head against S.I.’s right shoulder, and I felt so peaceful and happy listening to the music and seeing Vanechka and S.I. together. Then someone banged the shutters and I woke up. The tune he was playing stayed clearly in my mind even after I had woken up, but I didn’t manage to retain it for long. And I was overwhelmed with sadness.

  Lev Nikolaevich was telling us today about a woman who was giving birth in the Kremlin. It was a difficult birth and she was thought to be dying, so they sent to the monastery for a priest. A monk came with the sacraments, and it turned out that this monk had once been a doctor, and saw that he could save the mother and baby with the standard forceps procedure. It was the middle of the night; he went back to his cell, fetched his surgical instruments and performed the operation, and both mother and baby were saved. It is said when this news reached the ears of the Metropolitan he was going to defrock the monk, but in the end he was merely transferred to another monastery in another town.

  21st December. Where is it, human happiness?

  Today was yet another painful, dreadful day. Tanya had a letter from Gurevich, insisting that L.N. give her his essay. Both Tanya and Seryozha, who came today, berated me for my unwillingness to do so (I find these dealings with the Northern Herald so disagreeable), and they sent me to L.N. to beg him to let her have his ‘Preface’ to the translated Carpenter article. So I went in to him and asked him to give it to her, since he and his family wanted it so much.

  But when I foolishly said something to the effect that I found his relations with Gurevich as unpleasant as he found mine with Taneev, I looked at him and was terrified. His face has changed so much recently: his thick bushy eyebrows beetle over his angry eyes, and his expression is wild, ugly and full of suffering; his face is pleasant only when it has an expression of kindly sympathy or passionate affection. I often wonder what he would do to himself if I really did something sinful! I thank God for sparing me from sin and temptation.

  This morning L.N. swept the skating rink in the garden and went skating, then rode to Sparrow Hills. He is doing no work at present.

  25th December. The day before yesterday Lev Nikolaevich went off to Nikolaev station as he wanted to catch Sulerzhitsky and the Englishman St John to give them some money for the Dukhobors, whom they were going to visit. But he didn’t find them in. He walked home, chilled and exhausted, and went straight to bed, and when I got back he was already quite ill, with a temperature of 38.5. The doctor prescribed Ems water as usual, and said he should have a warm massage and keep his stomach warm. I did all I could, and yesterday he was a little better and his temperature was down to 38.6. Today it is 37.5. He is still very weak but no longer ill, and today he had something to eat. At 3.30 I brought him some puréed oatmeal soup. “How clever of you to think of bringing me soup,” he said. “I was beginning to feel a little weak.” Then he ate dinner with the rest of us.

  We received an anonymous letter:

  Dear Count Lev Nikolaevich,

  There can be no doubt that your sect is growing and putting down deep roots. However misbegotten it may be, you have nevertheless succeeded, with the aid of the Devil and the stupidity of the
people, in insulting our Lord Jesus Christ, whom we must now avenge. In order to do underground battle with your underground sect, therefore, we have formed a secret society, the Second Crusaders, whose aim is to kill you and all your disciples, the leaders of your sect. We fully recognize that this is not a Christian act—may the Lord forgive us and pass judgement on us in the next world! But once a hand is infected with gangrene it must be sacrificed, however much it grieves us. I grieve for you too, as a brother in Christ, but you must be annihilated if we are to weaken the forces of evil! It has fallen to me, unworthy as I am, to kill you! The day I have appointed for your death is 3rd April of the coming year, 1898. In doing this I am fulfilling my great and sacred mission, and enabling you to prepare for your journey to the other world.

  You may well ask me, quite logically, why we attack your sect alone. It is true that all sects are an “abomination before God”! But their instigators are numbskulls, and are no match, Count, for you. And secondly, you are the enemy of our Tsar and country!

  The Second Crusader Who Drew the First Lot, December 1897

  It was sealed in wax with the initials E.S., and a royal crown. The postmark was Pavlograd, 20th December.

  I am so worried about this letter I can think of nothing else. I thought of informing the governor of Ekaterinoslav province and the local police chief, so they could take appropriate measures against these dangerous people and order a police search if they wanted to. But Lev Nikolaevich is totally unperturbed, and says we mustn’t notify anyone and it is in God’s hands.*

  26th December. I saw Tanya and Sasha off to Grinevka and Nikolskoe this morning, and Seryozha left yesterday evening. We rushed about packing boxes: I filled one with Christmas presents for my grandchildren, one with gifts and fruit for Dora, and one with some silver and a fur coat for Masha. All these will travel with Tanya; I also packed a basket with food and fruit for them to eat on their journey. Lev Nikolaevich and I are all on our own now; there’s nothing to do, and it’s nice and quiet. He is much better; he had a temperature of 36.9 this morning, and this afternoon it went up to 37.5. This evening he asked for some soup and a baked apple, and was in much better spirits. I am haunted by the letter.

  I spent the whole day playing the piano. This wordless musical conversation with Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Rubinstein and so on gives me enormous pleasure, even though I play so poorly.

  1898

  1st—3rd March—founding of Marxist Social Democratic Labour Party.

  Tolstoy finishes What Is Art? The complete work appears, mutilated by the censor, in the fourteenth edition of his works and also in an Intermediary edition. Sofia writes a romantic short story, ‘Song Without Words’. Tolstoy works in the villages to alleviate the famine and appeals for funds. He helps the Dukhobors raise money to emigrate and supports the Molokans. December—Sergei Tolstoy accompanies a shipload of two thousand Dukhobors to Canada.

  1st January (Moscow). Lev Nikolaevich, Andryusha, Misha, Mitya Dyakov, the Danilevsky boys and I all saw in the New Year together. We drank Don champagne, and Lev Nikolaevich drank tea with almond milk.

  This morning I played the piano and kept an eye on Misha to make sure he studied. Then I went to visit my old aunt Vera Shidlovskaya and chatted with her and my cousins. Lev Nikolaevich and I had dinner on our own. He is not yet fully recovered, and ate just a bowl of mushroom soup with rice, some semolina with almond milk and coffee. He is lethargic and bored, for he is not used to being ill and debilitated. How hard it will be for him when he finally loses his strength and grows even weaker! He has such an appetite for life! Yet he’ll soon be 70—in August this year, i.e. in 6 months. He has been reading alone in his study upstairs and writing a few letters; today he walked over to visit Rusanov, who is ill—and simply worships him. Lying on the sofa in his study is Tanya’s black poodle, a gift from Countess Zubova. He took it out for a walk today.

  Our Masha is arriving tomorrow for a consultation with the doctor. Tanya and Sasha are still in the country; they’ll probably go to Yasnaya Polyana tomorrow to visit Lyova and Dora. I should like to go to Yasnaya too. How I love it, and what a lot of good experiences I have had there!

  3rd January. Stasov,* Ginzburg the sculptor, a young painter and Vereshchagin (a bad writer) were here yesterday morning. Stasov took advantage of his 74 years to fling his arms round me and kiss me, repeating “Oh, how pink and slender you are!” I was so embarrassed—I couldn’t get away from him. We then went upstairs to the drawing room and discussed Lev Nikolaevich’s article On Art. Stasov said he thought L.N. had got it all back to front. He didn’t have to tell me that—he certainly hit the nail on the head!

  L.N. and I had a nasty argument because I was complaining that the public should have to take out a two-year subscription to the Journal of Philosophy and Psychology to read his essay, which is in the November—December and February—March issues, when if I had brought it out in the Complete Collected Works, I would have sold it for 50 kopecks and everyone could have read it. L.N. then shouted in front of everyone: “I shan’t give it to you! I’m giving it to everyone! Everyone has criticized me ever since I started giving things away for nothing!”

  But he never gives me anything. He sent ‘Master and Man’ to the Northern Herald behind my back. He also returned the Preface on the sly, and has been at pains not to let me have his essay either. God be with him! He’s quite right, they’re his works, his inalienable property—but he oughtn’t to shout at me like that.

  Masha arrived yesterday with Kolya. She is completely taken up with her husband, we hardly exist as far as she’s concerned—and she means very little to us too. I was pleased to see her; I am sorry she is so thin, but I’m happy she is living for love, for that is a great joy! For a long time I too lived for this simple love, without judging or criticizing. I regret that I am now more experienced and have lost so many illusions. I would have preferred to remain blind and besotted to the end of my days. What I tried to accept as love from my husband was nothing but sensuality, now degenerating into sullen severity, now flaring up into jealousy, demands—and occasionally tenderness.

  6th January. I drove to Patriarch Ponds today and went skating for a long time with the Maklakovs and Natasha Kolokoltseva. Then it started to rain and thaw. Skating is such a bracing, healthy activity. This evening I did some reading, sat with Sasha, then listened to an unknown young man named Pol from Kiev, playing us some of his works on the piano—very well too. L.N. is gloomy because he is still unable to work. He went skating too—at some institution for young waifs and strays.

  He is reading all he can find about the Caucasus at present—Caucasian life, Caucasian scenery, everything.*

  8th January. The artist Repin dined with us yesterday and kept asking Lev Nikolaevich to suggest a theme for his next painting. He said he wanted to devote his last efforts in life to a good work of art, something really worth working on. Lev Nikolaevich hasn’t suggested anything to him yet but is thinking about it. He himself can do no work. The weather is frightful: there’s a terrible wind, and floods everywhere—even more than during a Moscow spring. It’s 3° and dark.

  13th January. Yesterday was Tanya’s name day, and we bustled around all morning organizing a party. First Tanya invited some guests, then I invited some. One has a duty to one’s society friends. I was sorting through some cardboard this morning, with my hair awry and my morning cap on, when Sergei Ivanovich and his pupil Yusha Pomerantsev suddenly came into the room. I hadn’t heard a thing, and was so agitated I blushed crimson and couldn’t say a word. I had given express orders that no one should be admitted, but for some reason they had been let in. They sat there for almost an hour, talking about Sadko and Rimsky-Korsakov among other things. When Sergei Ivanovich left I felt deeply depressed—to pacify L.N. I should hate this man, or at least treat him as a stranger. But that is impossible.

  16th January. Tanya is leaving for St Petersburg. I mentioned that I should like to attend some of Wagner’s operas there, but t
his provoked Lev Nikolaevich into such an angry flood of criticisms and biting references to my insane love of music, my stupidity, my ineptitude, etc., etc., that he has completely killed my desire to go.

  I spent the day checking the accounts with the accountant, and diligently set all my publishing, family and household affairs in order, and I am now exhausted and my head is aching. Late this evening Lev Nikolaevich and I walked Marusya Maklakova home, and Dunaev and my brother Styopa came.

  Seryozha and Ilyusha arrived. A painful discussion with Lev Nikolaevich this evening. He is becoming more and more suspicious, jealous and despotic. He resents every independent move I make, every innocent pleasure, every hour I spend at the piano.

  Marusya Maklakova and our Tanya were looking through photographs of various men today, discussing which of them they would marry. When they came to Lev Nikolaevich’s portrait they both cried, “No, no! Not for anything!” Yes, it is difficult to live under any sort of despotism, but jealous despotism is frightful!

  17th January. L.N. has been nagging me all day, begging to be “released” to go back to the country; he wasn’t necessary to me here, he said, life in Moscow was murder for him—on and on in the same vein. The word “released” is absolutely meaningless—as though I could “hold” him here! I wanted him to come to Moscow because it is quite natural for me to want to live with my husband, and it’s a pleasure too, for I am used to loving and caring for him. I have done all I could to spare him from his tormenting jealousy, but I still haven’t earned his trust. If he went to the country he would torment himself even more; if we all went, what would happen to Misha and Sasha? What about their studies? I have been racking my brains…Lev Nikolaevich’s apathy and indifference to his children’s education is always painful to me, and I blame him bitterly for it. How many fathers not only educate their own children, but also support them with their own labour, as my father did? But L.N. considers that even to live with his family would be murder.