by Cathy Porter
26th June. Lev Nikolaevich, my husband, has given all his diaries since the year 1900 to Chertkov, and has started writing a new diary at Chertkov’s house, where he has been staying since 12th June. In this diary, which he started at Chertkov’s and gave me to read, he says amongst other things: “I must try to fight Sonya with love and kindness.” Fight?! What is there to fight, when I love him so passionately, when my one concern is that he should be happy? But to Chertkov, and to future generations who will read his diaries, he must present himself as unhappy and magnanimous, “fighting” some imaginary evil.
My life with Lev Nik. becomes more intolerable each day because of his heartlessness and cruelty to me. And it is Chertkov who has brought all this about, gradually and consistently. He has done everything in his power to take control of this unfortunate old man, he has separated us, he has killed the creative spark in L.N. and has kindled all the protest, castigation and hatred that one sees in these recent articles, which his stupid evil genius has reduced him to writing.
Yes, if one believes in the Devil, he has been embodied in Chertkov, and he has destroyed our life.
I have been ill these past few days. I am tired and depressed by life, and exhausted by my endless tasks; I live alone, without help, without love, and I pray for death—it is probably not too far off now. Lev Nikol. is an intelligent man, he knows the best way to get rid of me, and with the help of Chertkov he has been killing me gradually; soon it will be all over for me.
I fell ill all of a sudden. I was lying here on my own, as Lev Nikol., Sasha and the whole retinue—his doctor, secretary and servant—had left for Meshcherskoe to see the Chertkovs. For the sake of Sasha’s health (she has been ill), I was obliged to paint the house and repair the floors. I hired some workmen, and with the help of good Varvara Mikhailovna I moved out all the furniture, pictures and so on. There were also a lot of proofs to read, and things to attend to on the estate. All this exhausted me, and by that evening I was feeling very bad indeed. The spasms in my heart, my aching head and unbearable feelings of despair were making me shudder all over; my teeth were chattering, I was choking and sobbing, I thought I was dying. I was terrified, and in a desperate attempt to save myself I naturally threw myself on the mercy of the man I love, and sent him a telegram: “Implore you to come tomorrow, 23rd.” But on the morning of the 23rd, instead of taking the 11 a.m. train and coming to my help, he sent a telegram saying: “More convenient return morning 24th. If necessary will take night train.”
I detected the cold style of the hard-hearted despot Chertkov in that “more convenient”. My despair, my nervous anguish and the pains in my head and heart reached the limits of endurance.
The violinist Erdenko and his wife had come to visit the Chertkovs that day, and Chertkov had urged Lev Nikol. that it would be tactless to leave. And L.N. was only too happy to spend one more day with his beloved idol.
On the evening of the 23rd he returned, with his hangers-on, in a disgruntled, unfriendly mood. For while I regard Chertkov as having come between us, both Lev Nik. and Chertkov regard me as having come between them.
We had a painful talk, and I said everything on my mind. Lev Nik. sat on a stool looking hunched and wretched, and said almost nothing. Then a wild beast suddenly leapt out of him, his eyes blazed with rage, and he said something so cutting that at that moment I hated him and said: “Ah, so that is what you are really like!” He grew quiet immediately.
The next morning my undying love for him got the better of me, and when he came into the room I threw myself into his arms asking him to forgive me and take pity on me; he embraced me and wept, and we both decided that henceforth everything would be different, and we would love and cherish each other. I wonder how long this will last.
Today I read Lev Nik.’s diary that he gave me, and was again chilled and shocked to learn that he had given Chertkov all his diaries since 1900 so that he could copy out extracts from them for his future advantage. Lev Nik. has always deliberately represented me in his diaries—as he does now—as his tormentor, someone he has to fight and not succumb to, while himself he presents as a great and magnanimous man, religious and loving…
I must try to reach a higher spiritual plane, and see how petty are Chertkov’s intrigues and L.N.’s attempts to destroy me, in the face of death and eternity…
Evening. Yet another conversation, yet more anguish and heartache. No, it’s impossible, I must kill myself. When I asked Lev Nik. why he wanted to fight me, he replied: “Because you and I are in constant disagreement, about the land question, the religious questions, everything.” “But the land isn’t mine,” I say. “I consider it belongs to all of us, to the family.” “Well, you could give away your land,” he says. “But why aren’t you bothered by Chertkov’s million rubles and all his land?” I ask. “Oh, I’m not going to talk to you any more, leave me alone!…” First he shouted, then he withdrew into angry silence.
At first, when I asked him where his diaries since 1900 were, he mumbled something and admitted Chertkov had them. Then I asked him again: “So where are your diaries? Are they with Chertkov? What if his house is searched and they’re taken?” “He has taken all the necessary measures. They are in the bank,” he replied. “Which bank? Where?” “Why do you want to know?” “Because I am your wife, the person closest to you.” “Chertkov is the person closest to me, and I don’t know where my diaries are. Anyway, what does it matter?”
Everything is a plot against me, and it will end only with the death of this poor old man, who has been lead astray by the devil Chertkov.
Just before he left to visit Chertkov the other day, he was angrily criticizing the life we led, and when I asked: “But what is to be done?” he cried out indignantly: “Leave here, abandon everything, not live in Yasnaya Polyana, not see the beggars, the Circassian guard, the servants waiting at table, the petitioners, the visitors—it’s all loathsome to me!”
“Where can we old people go then?” I asked. “I’ll go with you wherever you want—Paris, Yalta, Odoev.”
I listened to his angry words, then took 30 rubles and went out, intending to go to Odoev and settle there.
It was terribly hot. I ran to the highway, gasping with agitation and exhaustion, and lay down in a ditch by the side of the road, beside a field of rye. Then I heard the coachman approach in the cabriolet, and I climbed in, defeated, and returned home. Lev Nikolaevich had been having palpitations while I was away. What was to be done? Where could we go? What should we decide?
So now I have returned home, back to the old life and its burdens. My husband keeps a sullen silence, and there are the proofs, the painters, the bailiff, the guests and the housekeeping…I am answerable to everyone, I have to satisfy everyone…
This evening, pacing the avenue in the park for the tenth time, I made up my mind: without any arguments or discussions I would abandon all my old responsibilities, my old life, and rent a small corner in someone’s hut and settle there, a poor old woman living in a hut with some children whom I would love. That is what I must try to do.
But when I told Lev Nikolaevich that not only was I ready to adopt a more simple life with him, I regarded this as a happy idyll, and asked him to tell me exactly where he wanted to go, he initially replied: “To the south, to the Crimea or the Caucasus,” then said: “All right, let’s go, but first…” And then he started telling me that the main thing was human goodness. Of course he won’t go anywhere as long as Chertkov is here.
Lev Nik. accused me today of disagreeing with him about everything. About what? I asked. The land question, the religious question, everything…But that is not true. It’s simply that I don’t understand Henry George’s ideas on the land question, and I consider it utterly unjust to give it away and deprive my children. It’s the same with the religious question. We both believe in God, in goodness, and in submitting to God’s will. We both hate war and capital punishment. We both love and live in the country. We both dislike luxury. The only thing I
don’t like is Chertkov, and I love Lev Nik. And he doesn’t love me, he loves his idol.
30th June. I was watching Lev Nik. play chess with Goldenweiser, when Bulgakov came in and said Chertkov’s exile was over and he was going to stay with his mother in Telyatinki.* I jumped up as if bitten, the blood rushed to my head and heart and I couldn’t sleep all night.
He spent almost the whole day in bed, where he received Sutkovoy, Goldenweiser and Chertkov. I overheard his conversation with Sutkovoy, to whom he said, among other things, “I made a great mistake in getting married…” A mistake?
He considers it a “mistake” because his married life interferes with his spiritual life.
Later that evening he got up, played chess with Goldenweiser and corrected proofs of The Power of Darkness. We had a peaceful evening—without Chertkov.
1st July, evening. I spent the day correcting proofs for the new edition of The Fruits of Enlightenment, and felt wretched. Lev Nikolaevich didn’t like my letter to Chertkov,* but what could I do? One should always write the truth, and never mind the consequences, and I sent the letter all the same. Then this evening Lev Nik., Sasha and Chertkov all retired behind closed doors for some secret conversation, of which I overheard very little, apart from frequent mention of my name. Sasha came outside to check whether I was listening, and when she saw me she ran back to tell the others that I had probably heard their conversation—or confabulation—from the balcony. And again my heart froze and I felt unbearably hurt and sad. I then went into the room where they were all sitting, faced Chertkov and said to him: “What, another plot against me?” At which they all looked embarrassed, and L.N. and Chertkov both started talking at once about the diaries, but in such an incoherent and unclear fashion I never found out what they had been discussing, and Sasha went straight out of the room.
I then had a painful conversation with Chertkov. (Lev Nikol. went out to greet Misha, who had just arrived.) I repeated what I had written in my letter and asked him to tell me how many of the diaries he had, where they were and when he had taken them. At this Chertkov flew into a rage and said that since Lev Nikol. had trusted him he didn’t have to answer to me or anyone else, and that Lev Nik. had given him the diaries so he could cross out any unpleasant intimate details.
He soon calmed down and suggested we should work together to love and care for Lev Nikolaevich, and that we should both devote ourselves to his life and work. As if this wasn’t what I had done for almost my entire life—for the past 48 years! But no one came between us then, we lived one life. Chertkov then announced that he was Lev Nikol.’s “spiritual confessor” (?), and that I should eventually have to reconcile myself to this.
During our conversation, the crudest words and thoughts kept breaking into Chertkov’s speech. For instance, at one point he shouted: “You’re afraid I’ll use the diaries to unmask you! If I wanted to I could drag you and your family through the mud!” (a fine expression for a supposedly decent man!) “I have enough connections, the only thing that has stopped me is my love for Lev Nikolaevich.” And to show just what was possible, he cited the example of Carlyle, who had a friend who “unmasked” his wife and showed her in the worst possible light.
What a vile way Chertkov’s mind works! What do I care if some stupid retired officer “unmasks” me after my death to various ill-intentioned gentlemen? My business in life and the state of my soul concern me and God alone. I have devoted my entire life on this earth to my passionate, self-sacrificing love for Lev Nikolaevich, and no mere Chertkov could possibly wipe out the past, the half-century of my life I have given to my husband.
Chertkov also shouted that if he had such a wife as me he would have shot himself or run off to America long ago. Then as he was coming down the stairs with my son Lyova, I heard him say angrily: “I can’t understand a woman who spends her entire life murdering her husband.”
Well, this murder is certainly a slow business, considering that my husband has already lived to be 82. But he has now put this idea into Lev Nik.’s head, which is why we are so unhappy in our old age…
What is to be done now? Alas, I shall have to dissimulate if Lev Nikolaevich is not to be taken away from me entirely. I must be sweet and kind to Chertkov and his family; knowing what he thinks of me and me of him, I shall find this intolerably difficult. I must visit him and do my utmost not to upset Lev Nikolaevich, seeing that he has been coerced, controlled and enslaved by Chertkov. I have lost his love for ever if the Lord doesn’t see my plight. And I feel so sorry for him! He is so unhappy under the tyrannical Chertkov’s yoke—and he was happy when he was with me.
After the business with the stolen diaries, I managed to get Chertkov to write a note undertaking to finish his work on them as soon as possible and to give them straight back to L.N.*
I find Sasha’s behaviour very painful.* My daughter has betrayed me. If someone urged her to draw her father away from me, telling her this was for the sake of his peace of mind, she would do so at once. Today she shocked me by holding a secret whispered conversation with her father and Chertkov, constantly looking over her shoulder and running out of the room to see whether I had heard what they were saying about me. They have surrounded me with an impenetrable wall. I sit and pine in my solitary confinement and take this as a punishment “for my sins”, the cross I must bear.
2nd July. I am incapable of doing anything, I have been too upset by my recent discussions with Sasha. What spite, what coldness, what injustice! We are growing ever more estranged. How sad it is! Wise, impartial old Maria Schmidt talked to me, which I found a great help. She urged me to rise above Chertkov’s criticisms and curses; she said when my daughters pestered me to go and live “elsewhere” with Lev Nikolaevich, since he finds it intolerable now in Yasnaya, they were talking rubbish, as his visitors and petitioners would find him wherever he went, and it would make matters no easier, and it would be folly to disrupt our life in our old age.
Lev Nikolaevich rode over to visit the Chertkovs, and was evidently exhausted by the heat.
A crowd of people arrived after dinner, and my son Lyova got home in time for dinner in a lively, happy mood. He is delighted to be back in Russia and to see Yasnaya Polyana and his family again.
Chertkov’s mother came. She is a good-looking woman, extremely aged, very agitated and not quite normal. She is a “Radstockist”,* a kind of sectarian, and believes in redemption; she believes that Christ dwells within her and that religion is a kind of inspiration.
Lev Nik. had a bath today; his stomach has been upset, but in general his health is not too bad, thank God!
3rd July. Before I was even dressed this morning I learnt that there had been a fire on Tanya’s estate at Ovsyannikovo.* The house where the Gorbunovs are living was burnt down, as was Maria Schmidt’s cottage. She had spent the night with us, and they had set fire to it while she was away. Everything was burnt, and what distressed her most was that her trunkful of manuscripts was destroyed. She had copied out everything Lev Nik. had ever written and stored it in a trunk, along with 30 letters to her from him.*
It breaks my heart when I remember her rushing up to me, throwing her arms round my neck and sobbing in despair. How could I comfort her? I could only sympathize with all my heart. All day I have been sadly recalling her last words to me: “Darling, we have such a heavenly life in Ovsyannikovo.” She called her cottage her “palace”, and she grieved too for her old three-legged mongrel dog who was burnt to death under the stove.
Tomorrow Sasha is going to Tula to buy things for her immediate needs. We shall replace her clothes and furniture as best we can, but as to where she will live I have no idea. She doesn’t want to live with us, for she is used to her independence, her cows and her dogs, her own kitchen garden and strawberry bed.
Goldenweiser and Chertkov came this evening, and Lev Nik. played chess with Goldenweiser, while Chertkov sat there looking haughty and unpleasant. Lyova is being sweet and sympathetic and gives me a lot of encouragement, yet
I still feel so sad!
I have corrected proofs and am now going to send them off.
5th July. This is no life. Lev Nikolaevich’s heart is as cold as ice, Chertkov has taken complete control of him. This morning he went over to see him, and this evening Chertkov came to see us. Lev Nik. was sitting on a low sofa and Chertkov was sitting very close to him, and I was beside myself with rage and jealousy.
They then embarked on a conversation about madness and suicide. I left the room three times, but wanted to stay and drink tea with the others. And as soon as I came back Lev Nikol., turning his back on me and facing his idol, again started talking about suicide and madness, cold-bloodedly discussing it from every angle,* accurately and calculatedly analysing the condition in terms of my present suffering. This evening he cynically told me he had forgotten everything, everything he had ever written. “And what about your old life?” I asked. “And your old relations with those close to you? I suppose now you live only for the present?” “Well yes, I do live only for the present now,” replied Lev Nik. This had a terrible effect on me! I truly believe that a heartbreaking physical death, with our former love intact to the end of our days, would be preferable to this misery.
Something is hanging over me in this house, some great weight is crushing and destroying me.
I was determined to be calm and to be on good terms with Chertkov, but it was no good; still the same icy relations with Lev Nikol., still the same adoration of that idiot.
I called on his mother today, to return her visit and see my grandchildren.* She is a harmless old woman; I was particularly struck by her large ears, and the quantities of food she ate in my presence—sour milk, berries, bread: she simply never stopped.
I sewed some shirts for Maria Schmidt, made her a skirt on the machine and cut out some handkerchiefs. I had a headache.
