The Diaries of Sofia Tolstoy

by Cathy Porter

  31st January. Lev Nikolaevich, much to my disapproval, continues to ask rich merchants for money for the Dukhobors.

  1st February. Dunaev, Almazov and the student Strumensky came this evening and there were discussions again: about disarmament and whether the Tsar was sincere in his talk of peace, about Marxism, about music. I wasn’t bored, for they talked very interestingly and without acrimony.

  3rd February. I was pacing about aimlessly, with an anxious heart, then at dinner, what joy, a letter from Seryozha in Canada. There was an outbreak of smallpox on the boat, and Seryozha and the Dukhobors were put down on a small island and quarantined for nineteen days. About himself he writes almost nothing, but is evidently exhausted by his role as interpreter, and worn out by seasickness, anxiety and so on.

  There was a special symphony concert this evening in honour of Paderewski, the famous and utterly loathsome pianist. Sergei Ivanovich was there.

  4th February. A hectic day. I went this evening to a concert. I met Sergei Ivanovich as we were taking off our coats, and we had a most unpleasant exchange: he said he had walked there yesterday and had driven back with M.N. Muromtseva, telling me all this with a foolish laugh. I was seething with rage—what business was it of mine?

  When I got home I found Lev Nikolaevich standing at the long table in the drawing room which had been laid for tea, and around it was a group of Molokans who had arrived from Samara. Dunaev, Annenkova, Gorbunov, Nakashidze and some peasant or other were all there drinking tea, Lev Nikolaevich was explaining something about St John’s Gospel to them, and I overheard a discussion about religion going on.

  I don’t understand religious discussions: they destroy my own lofty relations with God, which cannot be put into words. There is no precise definition of eternity, infinity and the afterlife—there are no words for these things, just as there are no words to express my attitude and feelings about the abstract, indefinable, infinite deity and my eternal life in God. But I have no objection to the Church, with its ceremonies and icons; I have lived among these things since I was a child, when my soul was first drawn to God. I love attending mass and fasting, and I love the little icon of the Iversk Mother of God hanging over my bed, with which Aunt Tatyana blessed Lev Nikolaevich when he went to war.

  The Molokans are staying the night here, unfortunately.

  5th February. Paid calls this morning. An interesting conversation with Maslov and Scriabin about music. Terrible depression all day: I can’t bear to think I have brought about a break with Sergei Ivanovich. I didn’t sleep all night.

  7th–27th February. I haven’t written my diary for twenty days. On the morning of Sunday 7th I received a telegram from my niece Vera Kuzminskaya in Kiev: “Pneumonia. Maman very ill.” I left for Kiev on Monday morning* and found my sister Tanya with pneumonia of both lungs; she was very weak, her face was inflamed and she was in great pain, but she was delighted to see me. I shall not describe her illness here, or the effect my presence had on her, the terror I felt at the prospect of losing my best friend and the sudden insight I had into the question “what is death?” One’s feelings can only be truly described directly, and this I have done in my letters.

  I returned to Moscow on the 19th, visiting Yasnaya Polyana on the way to see Lyova’s little nest which I love so much, with Dora and Levushka. In Moscow I found everyone well. But no sooner had I arrived than Lev Nikolaevich reduced me to tears by saying: “Well, I’m glad you’re back, now I can go off to the Olsufievs’.” I was worn out by the journey from Kiev, and it was more than I could endure. “But I was looking forward to living quietly with you again!” I sobbed. He was alarmed by my tears, and said of course he was pleased to see me too and wouldn’t leave for a while. I am painfully sorry for my daughter Tanya. She has to syringe out her nose through the hole left by the teeth she had taken out, and it has broken her spirits. She still pines terribly for Sukhotin, and cannot forget him. Her life is poisoned by misfortunes. An interesting letter from Seryozha about his life in quarantine with the Dukhobors. They haven’t been cleared yet to enter Canada.

  10th March. Lev Nikolaevich goes to the Myasnitskaya art school every day to visit Trubetskoy in his studio, who is doing two sculptures of him simultaneously, one a small statuette and the other of him sitting astride an unfamiliar horse.* It is very tiring for him and I am amazed he agreed to pose. He works away every morning on Resurrection, and is well and cheerful. He still stubbornly and silently eats his breakfast on his own, at two in the afternoon, and dines, also on his own, at about 6.30, sometimes as late as 7. We never see him; the cook just has to seize the opportunity to give “the Count” his food, and the servants never get any peace or free time.

  Today three young ladies came wanting to help the starving peasants in the Samara region. My sympathies are with the starving Russians and the wretched Kazan Tartars, who are dying of scurvy and swollen with hunger; they need help far more urgently than the Dukhobors, whose hard lives have been of their own making.

  11th March–21st June. I fainted at a symphony concert on 11th March and was confined to my bed until 8th April. I was very weak for a long time afterwards. I haven’t really been well since my return from Kiev. On 27th February I collapsed with influenza, forced myself to get up, then took to my bed again.

  21st June. I haven’t written my diary for almost three months, and have been more dead than alive, sick in mind and body. The doctors talked about a “weakening of the heart”, and at times my pulse rate was just 48; I was fading away, and was filled with a quiet joy at this gradual departure from life. I had a lot of love and sympathy from my family, friends and acquaintances during my illness. But I didn’t die; God ordained that I should live. For what?…We shall see.

  Can I remember anything of significance in these three months? Not really. Seryozha has returned safely from Canada, which is a relief. Then there were three magnificent concerts by the Berlin Philharmonic, conducted by Nikish, which were a great pleasure.

  On 14th May Lev Nikolaevich went off to the country, travelling with Tanya first to Pirogovo, then on the 19th to Yasnaya. Sasha and I left for Yasnaya on the 18th. On 20th May poor Tanya left with Marusya for Vienna. Hajek operated on her; she suffered greatly, and I suffered doubly for her.

  On 30th May Lyova, Dora and Levushka left for Sweden. We are in Yasnaya with Andryusha, and his wife Olga, Sasha, Miss Welsh, Nikolai Gué (who copies Resurrection for Lev Nikolaevich), Misha and his teacher, and a young student called Arkhangelsky.

  Sergei Ivanovich and Lavrovskaya visited us on the way from Moscow. He played my favourite Beethoven sonata in D Major, the Chopin Nocturne with six sharps—he picked out all my favourite pieces—and something else; next day he played his new quartet and interpreted it so interestingly for my son Seryozha. It was an absolute joy.

  Then on 14th June Lev Nikolaevich fell ill with a stomach ache and was in great pain, and he still hasn’t recovered.

  A cold, rainy summer.

  Lev Nikolaevich leads a monotonous life at present, working every morning on Resurrection, correcting now the proofs, now his manuscript. He is drinking Ems and is thin and quiet and has aged much this year.

  Relations between us are good—peaceful and considerate, without reproaches or fault-finding. If only it could always be like this! Although I am occasionally saddened by a certain coldness and indifference on his part.

  I had a depressing experience yesterday: he gave some self-educated peasant a number of books to bind, and in one of these he had accidentally left a letter, which I saw. Something was written in L.N.’s hand on a blue envelope, which was sealed. I was horrified when I saw what it said: he wrote on the envelope that he had decided to take his life as he could see I didn’t love him and loved another, and he couldn’t endure it…I wanted to open the letter and read it, but he snatched it out of my hands and tore it into pieces.

  It transpired he had been so jealous of my relationship with T—that he wanted to kill himself. Poor darling! As if I
could ever love anyone as I love him! But how I have suffered from this mad jealousy of his throughout my life! And how much I have had to give up because of it—friendships with good people, travelling, improving myself and generally everything interesting, valuable and important.

  I fainted again the day before yesterday. I welcome death and am ready for it—I don’t feel this to be the end. For me it’s the replacement of one moment of eternity (our earthly life) by another; and this other is interesting, as my friend said to me.

  My soul is torn and tormented. I have accumulated so much depression and remorse, such powerful longings for love and a different life, that I don’t think I can bear the strain much longer.

  “Grant me the spirit of wisdom, humility, patience and love.”

  Very hot. I swam today for the first time.

  26th June. Yet another warning. Yesterday I choked several times, and that evening I had such a bad asthma attack it almost killed me. I had a terrifying, uncontrollably violent burst of hiccups and yawning—I was suffocating, gasping for air, couldn’t breathe. Then it passed. There were plenty of reasons for it: Lev Nikolaevich’s suicide letter, and Misha’s flood of reproaches two evenings ago that no one understood or sympathized with him.

  I have exercised all my maternal devotion, all my energy and skill, and I have achieved nothing. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to—I have evidently been unable to do so.

  I haven’t been able to educate my children (having married as a young girl and spent 18 years shut up in the country), and this torments me.

  While I was playing the Beethoven Variations yesterday, I remembered Andryusha saying half-jokingly the other day: “Do give me a music lesson, Maman, then you can slap me again…” It made me unbearably sad to remember this. If I had children now I would be far too tender-hearted to lift a finger to them, but when I was young I had goals to achieve, the children were stubborn and lazy, it was hard to teach them, I wanted them to know everything and more, I had such a lot to do, such a lot of time was wasted and I would get upset and lose my temper and slap them—lightly of course, for a mother would never hurt her children badly. Yet they still remember it, and I longed to say: “Forgive me, children, I’m so sorry I hit your soft little heads. I wouldn’t do it now—but it’s too late!”

  Lev Nikolaevich is stuck at the Senate trial in his Resurrection. He badly needs to ask someone about sessions of the Senate, and jokingly says to us: “Quick, find me a senator!” He might as well not exist: he lives completely alone, immersed in his work. He walks alone, sits alone, emerges halfway through dinner or supper merely to eat, then disappears again. His mind is obviously working all the time and it exhausts him—he is working too hard and I have advised him to take a break. He swam yesterday for the first time.

  4th October. Tanya’s birthday. She went yesterday to Moscow where Sukhotin is staying, and now feels she must decide once and for all whether to marry him or not. My poor Tanya! 35 years old, brilliant, clever, talented, happy and loved by all—and she hasn’t found happiness. She is miserable—thin, pale, nervous. Her treatment in Vienna did no good at all in my view. She still has to keep rinsing out her nose through the cavity in her mouth and forehead, and her general health is wretched.

  11th October. Yet more busy monotonous days have passed at Yasnaya. We had a letter from Tanya, saying she is calm and happy in the knowledge that she is in good hands. That means she has decided to marry Sukhotin.

  Two days ago Lev Nikolaevich went for a walk in the afternoon without telling me where he was going. I thought he had gone for a ride—when he had just had such a bad cough and cold. Then a storm blew up. It rained and snowed, roofs and trees were smashed, the window frames rattled, it grew dark—there was no moon—and still he didn’t appear. I went out to the porch and stood on the terrace, waiting for him with a spasm in my throat and a sinking heart, as I used to when I was young and he went out hunting and I would wait hour after hour in an agony of suspense. Eventually he returned, tired and sweating after his long walk. It had been hard going through the mud, and he was worn out but in good spirits. I burst into tears, reproaching him for not looking after himself and not telling me he was going out and where he was going. And to all my passionate and loving words his ironic reply was: “So what if I went out? I’m not a little boy, I don’t have to tell you.”

  31st December. The last day of a sad year! What will the new one bring?

  On 14th November our Tanya married to Mikhail Sukhotin. We should have expected this. One had the feeling she had simply come to the end of her unmarried life.

  For her parents this marriage was a tragic blow, such as we hadn’t experienced since Vanechka’s death. Lev Nikolaevich lost all his outward calm. When Tanya, tormented and grieving, went upstairs in her simple little grey dress and hat to say goodbye to him before leaving for the church, he sobbed as though he was losing the most precious thing in his life.

  Neither of us went to the church, but we couldn’t be together either. After seeing Tanya off I went into her empty room and sobbed.

  There were almost no guests, just our children, minus Lyova and Misha, and his children, and one or two others.

  As they were unable to get a sleeping compartment on the train, Tanya and Sukhotin couldn’t leave for the continent that day and she spent another night in her parents’ house, while Sukhotin went off to stay with his sister.

  The following day we saw them off for Vienna, which they have now left for Rome. Is she happy, I wonder? I cannot tell from her letters, which are very long, but more descriptive than personal.

  Lev Nikolaevich grieved and wept terribly for Tanya, and on 21st November he fell ill with bad stomach and liver pains; his pulse was very weak for two days, and his temperature was 35.5. We gave him stimulants: wine, Hoffman drops, caffeine—which we sprinkled into his coffee without telling him. He was treated by dear kind Doctor Usov, who had treated me last spring. I won’t describe how we looked after him, and the emotional and physical effort it cost me. Spoilt by the flattery and admiration of the whole world, he accepts my backbreaking labours for him as his due…But it’s not fame we women want in our husbands, it’s love and affection.

  Almost six weeks have passed now, and he is better, but not fully recovered yet. He still has weak intestines, a sick liver and bad catarrh of the stomach.

  We gave him Ems water, Ceria powder, sparkling Botkin powder, caffeine and wine. Then some Kissingen Rakóczí. Oh, yes, and I forgot—for the first three days he drank Karlsbad water, and once, with great difficulty (after I had wept and pleaded with him), we got him to drink some bitter Franz-Josef water.

  Throughout his illness I found distraction in painting. I had never painted in watercolours before or had any lessons, but at my son Ilya’s request I copied Sverchkov’s two paintings of horses—young Kholstomer, and Kholstomer as an old horse. They came out so well that everyone praised them excessively and I was delighted.

  I suffered a great deal emotionally. For the first time in my life I realized I might lose my husband and be left alone in the world, and that was an agonizing realization. If I thought about it too much I might fall ill myself.

  Masha and Kolya are staying, as well as Andryusha and Olga, who is five months pregnant and has just lost her father.

  And here too there is nothing but suffering. Andryusha is so rough, despotic and critical with dear, clever, compliant Olga. I can’t bear to see her suffer; I am forever scolding and shouting at him, but he is more like a madman than a normal person at present, for he has a bad liver. The poor girl will have to suffer a lot more from that wretched inherited complaint. Lev Nikolaevich also suffered a lot from his liver, and I suffered too because of it.

  I live from day to day, without any goal or serious purpose in life, and I find this exhausting. I am writing a novel,* which interests me. If I cannot please those around me I try not to poison their lives, and to bring peace and love to my family and friends.

  My eyes ache,
I am losing my sight. But in this, as in everything else: “Thy Will Be Done!” The end of 1899.

  1900

  Discussions within the government about Tolstoy’s excommunication. Sofia becomes trustee at a Moscow orphanage.

  5th November (Moscow). I haven’t written my diary for almost a year. The hardest thing has been my failing sight. There is a broken vein in my left eye and, according to the eye specialist, an almost microscopic internal haemorrhage. I now have a permanent black circle in front of my left eye, a rheumatic pain and blurred sight. This happened on 27th May, so all reading, writing, working and any sort of strain was forbidden. A difficult six months of inactivity and ineffective treatment, with no swimming, no light and no intellectual life at all.

  I have hardly played the piano, but have done a lot of exhausting work on the estate. I planted a number of trees, including some apple trees, and painfully observed our endless struggle with the peasants: their thieving and debauchery and the injustice of our rich lives, making them work for us in the rain, cold and mud, and not only adults but children too, for 15, sometimes 10 kopecks a day.

  On 20th October I left with Sasha for Moscow in high spirits, looking forward to enjoying myself, meeting people, and the pleasure of seeing my beloved friends. But now I have lost heart again.

  Lev Nikolaevich left Yasnaya Polyana to see his daughter Tanya in Kochety on 18th October, and returned to Moscow on 3rd November—ill, of course. The roads were icy after a month of rain and mud, and it would have been an impossibly bumpy journey. So he set out for the station on foot, but didn’t know the way, and for four hours he wandered along, lost and covered in sweat, eventually getting a ride in a jolting cart which took him to the station. Now there are yet more stomach aches, massages and the rest of it.