by Cathy Porter
20th January. Yesterday morning Sasha was collecting money for the young son of our footman Ivan, who has just left. This little boy, Lyonya, was badly burnt by some scalding water from the samovar, and is now in hospital.
An extraordinary thing happened the day before yesterday. My sons had gone to the theatre—Seryozha to see Sadko at the Solodovnikov—and I had a sudden overwhelming fear that the theatre would burn down. I told Lev Nikolaevich of my premonition, and sure enough, that night after the audience had left, it burnt down and the roof collapsed.
Today I took Sasha to buy her some shoes and a corset. Then I swept the snow off the skating rink in the garden; Lev Nikolaevich joined me and we both swept together, then he took a turn on his skates while I went indoors and practised the piano for an hour and a half.
22nd January. I played the piano all morning. I feel intensely anxious. Biryukov is leaving Bauska for England.* Wiener, Prince Khilkov’s former mistress, also left for England yesterday and he too has been deported.
26th January. I have been ill these past few days. It started as neuralgia on the right side of my head, and was followed by a high fever and a sore throat. Young Doctor Usov came; he feared at first that it might be diphtheria, but when he examined me it proved not to be. These young doctors are quite extraordinary. Malyutin refused to take any money for treating Sasha, and now Usov too refuses to be paid. I have sent him a signed copy of L.N.’s works instead. As Tanya is still in St Petersburg, L.N. sweetly offered to paint my throat, which he did very cautiously and clumsily. My illness has frightened him, and he has suddenly started to look older and sadder. How strangely we love each other! He is happy when I sit quietly at home, bored and inert, copying or reading. The moment I become more lively, tackle something new or make new friends, he becomes anxious, then angry, and starts treating me harshly. Yet it is sometimes very hard for me to stifle my natural spontaneity!
I was lying in bed yesterday when three more Molokans from Samara came to see L.N. again, begging for letters of introduction to take to St Petersburg.* They are going there to plead once more for their children who were taken away from them by the government and sent to monasteries. Those poor children, and their poor mothers! What a barbaric way to convert people to Orthodoxy! It won’t convert them at all, quite the opposite.
Yesterday and today I was lying in bed reading the proofs of Childhood, which always touches me deeply. My back aches, I feel weak and am afflicted by a constant gnawing depression.
L.N. just came in and said: “I’ve come to keep you company for a bit.” Then he showed me the two seven-pound weights he bought today for his gymnastics exercises. He is very lethargic at present and keeps saying: “I feel as though I were 70.” But in 6 months, that is in August, he will be 70. He went skating today and swept the snow. But he cannot do any mental work, and that mortifies him beyond words.
28th January. I got up with great difficulty, still feeling very unwell. My body aches, I feel sick and have a headache. But I managed to do a lot of work on the proofs and on the children’s affairs; yesterday and today I have been copying accounts from the general housekeeping book into three separate ledgers—for Andryusha, Misha and Lyova. Dear M.E. Leontyeva came to see me and we had a frank and intimate discussion about the serious matters of life.
Sergei Ivanovich sent his dear old nurse, Pelageya Vasilevna, to ask after my health.
Lev Nikolaevich had a visit from a lady named Kogan, and they discussed lofty matters concerning human purpose and happiness and the paths to its attainment.
29th January. Tanya has returned from St Petersburg. She went to get her paintings published and had a very pleasant time there. She visited Pobedonostsev, Chief Procurator of the Synod, to discuss the case of the Samara Molokans who were robbed of their children. He told her the local bishop had exceeded his authority, adding that he would write to the governor of Samara about it and “hoped the matter would soon be settled”. What cunning! He pretended not to know that Tanya was Lev Nikolaevich’s daughter, and when she was on her way downstairs he asked her, “Are you the daughter of Lev Nikolaevich?” When she said “Yes”, he said: “Ah, so you are the renowned Tatyana Lvovna!” To which Tanya replied: “Well, I certainly didn’t know I was renowned!”
My brother Styopa has come again with his sick, deaf, sad wife. He and Seryozha have concluded their negotiations over the property they are buying in the Minsk province. The question is, is it worth it? Our friend Misha Stakhovich had dinner with us. Lev Nikolaevich corrected the proofs of What Is Art? all day. It is now evening; he has taken the poodle for a walk and is eating porridge and drinking tea.
A blizzard all day. Between three and five degrees of frost.
30th January. Today Sergei Ivanovich came to see me—he has an undoubted power and influence over me, I must confess. We were alone together for only a short while as my brother Styopa and my son Seryozha came in, but when he left my nerves felt soothed, and I felt a calm joy I haven’t experienced for a long time. Was this wrong of me? We talked only of music, of his compositions and of the musical range of the alto, soprano and tenor voices. Then we spoke of the way one assuages one’s conscience by dealing severely with one’s own actions; and how hard it is when someone close to us dies to accept the wrongs we did them. He enquired with such sympathy and affection about my recent illness, my children, and what I had been doing recently—and there was so much simple, calm kindness in it that it made me extraordinarily happy. What a pity it is that Lev Nikolaevich is too jealous to tolerate our friendship, or allow himself and our family to be friends with this marvellous, idealistic man.
31st January. I have been out for the first time since my illness. I paid 1,000 rubles into Ilyusha’s account at the Bank of the Nobility, withdrew the interest and made various other payments. Business—all very dull but necessary. Andryusha came, more discussions about money and why he perpetually needs so much of it. Will the happy moment ever come when I am free of these financial ordeals with my children? I thought I would be spared all this when the property was divided up, but in fact this division has been the ruin of my children.
2nd February. We went to bed late yesterday, and I hardly slept at all. It’s a long time since I’ve been in such an exalted, religious mood. All those feelings I experienced after Vanechka’s death reawakened in me and swept through my soul. It was as though I had raised a curtain and looked at the light—at that pure, disembodied, spiritual state besides which all earthly concerns are as nothing. And this mood inspired me to pray, and prayer brought consolation.
3rd February. Today is Nurse’s name day. She and I have been avoiding each other all day for fear of both bursting into tears, as we did last year and the year before, remembering Vanechka, who was always so eager to “celebrate” her name day. He would always ask me to buy a cup, some handkerchiefs or some sweets for her. All day I restrained my grief and spoke to no one of it, although it was choking me, and it was only in the evening that I sat down to pour out my feelings into those pieces of music which soothed my grief before, when that man made himself so dear to me by playing them for me.
5th February. I went to a concert given by the Conservatoire students. I arrived late unfortunately, as I hadn’t realized it was meant to start at 8. I sat beside Sergei Ivanovich throughout—I love his explanations and interpretations of the music. I gave him a lift, and he was naively delighted by the horse’s brisk trotting.
When I got home I suddenly felt afraid, as though I were concealing some shameful secret. But I felt so sorry for Sergei Ivanovich wearing his thin coat in the wind and cold, and it seemed only natural to give him a lift. Besides, he still has a bad leg and is hobbling with a stick.
Tomorrow he and Goldenweiser are coming to play us his symphony and the Oresteia overture, arranged for four hands.
6th February. A tense, difficult evening. Sergei Ivanovich and Goldenweiser played Taneev’s symphonic overture as a duet, and the whole family listened with patronizi
ng indifference and no one praised it. It was terribly awkward. Thankfully Lev Nikolaevich, with his customary good breeding, went up to them afterwards to tell them how much he had liked the theme. The only ones who liked it and were excited by it were Taneev’s friend Anna Ivanovna Maslova and myself. We had heard the Oresteia before and heard the overture performed by an orchestra, so for us the piano version was only an echo of the original.
8th February. L.N. again complains of feeling ill. His back aches from the neck down and he felt sick all day. It must be his diet. Today he ate pickled mushrooms, marinated mushrooms and stewed dried fruit—all of which produces fermentation in the stomach, and there’s no nourishment in it so he loses weight. This evening he asked for a mint infusion and drank a little. He is in low spirits. Today he was saying his life was coming to an end, the machine had broken down, it was all over. But I can also see he has a very hostile attitude to death. Today he reminded me a little of his aunt Pelageya, who died in our house. She also dreaded death, and was violently angry when she realized it had come. L.N. hasn’t actually said as much, but surely his depression and indifference to everything and everyone mean the thought of death is terrible to him.
When I looked in on him this evening there were some strangers sitting there—a factory worker, some peasants and another “dark one”. This is the wall that has stood between me and my husband over recent years. I overheard their conversation: the factory worker was naively asking, “And what are your views, L.N., on the second coming of our Lord Jesus Christ?”
My Misha has vanished for the whole day. I am very displeased about these disappearances from the house, but an eighteen-year-old boy finds it dull to be with factory workers and old men, and misses the company of young people. Fat, sulky Sasha is too young for him and doesn’t interest him as a companion. What a difference between her and our sensitive, clever little Tanya at her age!
12th February. I walked to Kuznetsky Most yesterday, and returned to find L.N. skating in the garden. I quickly put my skates on and joined him. But after Patriarch Ponds I found our garden cramped and dreary. L.N. skates confidently and well; he has been much healthier and happier these past three days.
I was on my way to a concert yesterday when I suddenly had a vivid picture of the peasant poverty which will follow the bad harvest that is on everyone’s lips at present. I saw it as clearly as if it were before my eyes—children begging for food when there is no food, mothers suffering as their children starve, when they themselves are starving—and I was consumed with horror and the most helpless despair…Nothing grieves me more than the thought of starving children. When I was breastfeeding my own children my heart would bleed for any child who was hungry, and ever since then I have felt sorry not only for my own children but for all children on earth.
This morning there was an unpleasant scene with Misha. He had stayed out all night, I scolded him, he answered back, and I lost my temper and he went off whistling. I then burst into tears, completely beside myself, and said: “Your mother cries and you whistle, have you no heart?” He was ashamed then and apologized. To soothe my nerves and my heart I went to the piano and played Beethoven’s ‘Pathétique’ Sonata. I played for an hour and a half and practised another sonata. Then L.N. came in and I started telling him about Misha, but he wasn’t interested as he had come to give me some work—copying more corrections from one copy of What Is Art? to another.
I felt outraged when I read his condemnation of Beethoven. Not long ago I read Beethoven’s biography and learnt to love and appreciate this genius more than ever. But my love is always quick to arouse his loathing, even for the dead. I remember when I read Seneca and was so enchanted by him, and he told me Seneca was a pompous Roman fool with a fondness for fine phrases. One must conceal one’s feelings.
I had an affectionate letter from Andryusha. I wrote to Masha yesterday. It’s her 27th birthday today. And to think she’s my fifth! I never feel old—I am still young in every respect: my eagerness for work, my impressionability, my capacity for love and grief, my passion for music, my delight in skating and parties. My step is light, my body is fit—only my face has aged…
13th February. I worked on proofs all evening, transferring corrections and translations from one copy of What Is Art? to another. Yesterday I agreed that L.N. should let Gurevich publish his preface to Seryozha’s translation of Carpenter’s article on the meaning of science. I have done so because I want to publish his views on science after What Is Art? in Volume 15, as this will continue the sense of the article perfectly.* L.N. was delighted with my suggestion.
He wrote a great many letters this evening. Today and yesterday he had nothing but dry blinis and soda water for dinner. Poor man! His principles won’t allow him to eat butter or caviar. This restraint of his is very fine, but it’s much worse if the temptation is there.
14th February. Hectic preparations for Shrovetide. I went to buy some things for this evening, then went skating with Tanya, Sasha, Lyova and Dora, who stood and watched as she is pregnant. We had a family dinner and everyone was in a good mood, which was pleasant. L.N. is still working on the proofs of What Is Art? This evening he visited an old merchant of seventy-two, a follower of his, who has cancer of the liver. He complained to L.N. how bored he was living with his family, and told him his wife and son both prayed to the “boards” (i.e. the icons).
A large crowd of boys and children came round this evening. At first they were rather listless, then they played games and charades, sang together and did gymnastic tricks, while some of the boys sat down to a hand of vint.
The evening ended with Goldenweiser playing a Nocturne and a Scherzo by Chopin, followed by a Liszt Étude.
15th February. Heavy snow all day, overcast; the house is silent. Andryusha was telling me the most frightful tales of debauchery and fallen women; how sad that such things should interest him. L.N. again sat at his proofs. Tanya is sad, Sasha is unwell. I sat here all day immersed in household business and ordered seeds, which always demands a lot of thought. I didn’t go out. I wanted to play the piano but kept being interrupted.
16th February. It is Monday in the first week of Lent. I love this time; I love the quiet orderly atmosphere and the religious calm. I used to love it because spring was near—but I have lost that feeling now. What is spring to me! It doesn’t add anything to my happiness, it lessens it with its compelling pressure to search for a happiness that doesn’t exist and never will.
I spent the morning altering Sasha’s dress, then played the piano for two and a half hours. I called on Sofia Filosofova before dinner, and we chatted about our children and grandchildren, our trials and tribulations, and various family matters. When I left her I longed for some fresh air, exercise, solitude and freedom, so I set off for a walk. I was late for dinner. When I got back the others were all sitting round the table and scolded me good-naturedly while I ate my Lenten soup. I shall fast all through Lent, God willing.
17th February. This morning I again managed to play the piano for over two hours. Afterwards I bought a saddle to give Lyova tomorrow for his name day, and for Lev Nikolaevich I shall buy some honey, dates, special prunes, pears and pickled mushrooms. He loves to keep a supply of these things on his window sill so he can eat fruit or dates with bread when he is hungry. He wrote a lot today. I don’t know what, he won’t say. Then he went skating with Lyova. We had a cheerful dinner together. Dunaev sat here this evening while I did my embroidery—I can’t bear to do nothing, no matter who our guests are. And I have certainly had a lot of them foisted on me today. There was a certain Aristov who arrived to see L.N. But Lev Nikolaevich had disappeared off to the bathhouse with Sergeenko and didn’t return for two hours, so I had to listen to this Mr Aristov’s endless tales about irrigation, fish-breeding and his family affairs, and advise him as to whether or not he should let his twenty-two-year-old daughter marry a rich old man of fifty. What a strange question to ask a woman he has never met before!
18th Februar
y. It is Lyova’s and Lev Nikolaevich’s name day, although L.N. never recognizes special days, especially name days. I gave Lyova a very fine English saddle from Zimmerman’s, and spent the day working; I altered and mended Lev Nikolaevich’s grey flannel shirt, then sewed a band of embroidery on some white linen—my old, beautiful, stupid work. It’s best to have some sewing to do when all these guests are here, otherwise it can be very dreary.
We had a family dinner, with Uncle Kostya Islavin and Lev Nikolaevich’s nieces Liza Obolenskaya and Varya Nagornova. A lot of the children were here too—Seryozha, Tanya, Lyova, Dora, Misha and Sasha. I love celebrating these family occasions.
We drank their health in Don champagne. But there was a certain emptiness about the day.
I was astonished by what L.N. said yesterday evening about the woman question. He announced, as usual, that he was against women’s emancipation and so-called “equal rights”, and went on to say that no matter what work a woman did—teaching, medicine, art—she had only one real purpose in life, and that was sexual love. So that whatever she might strive to achieve, all her strivings would merely crumble to ashes.
