by Cathy Porter
Our little granddaughter Tanechka met us touchingly at Kochety. What a sweet, adorable, loving child! How affectionately she kissed and caressed me—at least someone was pleased to see me! That sacred innocence is always so moving in a child. So unlike us adults! When I went to say goodnight to my husband this evening, he was asking Sasha (in my presence) for his notebook. She mumbled something, and I realized there was yet another plot afoot. “What are you asking for?” I said. Lev Nik. realized I had guessed something and told me the truth, thank God, otherwise I would have been terribly upset. “I am asking Sasha for my diary,” he said. “I give it to her to hide, and she copies my thoughts out of it.”*
They are hiding it from me, of course, copying out his thoughts for Chertkov.
Dear Tanya unselfishly gave me her room, which makes me feel guilty; I shall worry all night.
16th August. How can there be any joy or happiness in life when Lev Nik. and Sasha, at his wishes, are taking enormous pains to hide his diaries from me. I didn’t sleep all night, my heart was pounding, and I kept devising new ways of reading what L.N. is so frantic to hide from me. If there is nothing there, wouldn’t it be simpler to say: “There, take them, read them and calm down.” But he would die rather than do that, because that is his nature.
He complained of feeling drowsy and weak today, lay in his room, then went for a walk. I saw him for a moment though, and handed him a scrap of paper on which I had written that I considered it quite fair and reasonable to hide the diaries from everyone, and not let anyone read them. But to give them to Sasha to read and copy for Chertkov, and then furtively hide them in cupboards and desks from me, his wife, was hurtful and insulting. “Let God be your judge,” I ended my note, and I shall say no more about it.*
There are crowds of people here; it is all rather tiring, but a relief not to have any responsibilities for the housework. It is hard work for poor Tanya though, and I feel badly that the four of us have come when she already has her own large family to look after. This evening we all played vint, and I was grateful to spend an evening with my husband. He is a keen player and is always scolding me for playing so badly and tries to exclude me from the game. But yesterday I beat them all.
17th August. I spent the day hard at work correcting the proofs of Childhood. It’s astonishing to see exactly the same traits of character in his youth as in his old age—his worship of beauty (Seryozha Ivin), the way he suffers such agony from his ugliness and longs to be beautiful in exchange for being a good, clever boy. The chapter ‘Grisha’ has an extraordinary passage in the manuscript version, omitted from the book: that sensual scene in the storeroom with Katenka directly after they witness Grisha the holy fool alone in his room in a state of tender, exalted religious ecstasy.
Beauty, sensuality, sudden changes of emotion, the eternal search for religion and truth—that is my husband through and through. He tells me his growing indifference to me is due to my “lack of understanding”. But I know that what he actually dislikes is that I understand him all too well, and see all too clearly things I hadn’t seen before.
He took a walk round the park, and was visited by a skopets,* with whom he talked for more than two hours. I don’t generally like sectarians, especially the skoptsy, but this one seemed intelligent enough, even though he boasted disagreeably of his time in exile.
Lev Nikolaevich seemed sad and distant again today. I expect he is pining for his idol. I should remind him of the wise words: “Thou shalt not make graven images.” But there’s nothing you can do with a person’s heart if they love someone intensely.
18th August. I read some terrible news in the papers today: the government has given Chertkov permission to stay in Telyatinki!* Lev Nikolaevich instantly cheered up; he looks years younger and his gait is brisk and sprightly. But I am aching with unbearable anguish, my heartbeat is 140 a minute, and my head and chest are aching.
This cross I have to bear is God’s will; it was sent to me by His hand, and he has chosen Chertkov and Lev Nikolaevich to be the instruments of my death. Maybe the sight of me lying dead will open L.N.’s eyes to my enemy and murderer, and he will grow to hate him and repent of his sinful infatuation with the man.
Tanechka’s nurse has been a marvellous comfort to me. “Pray to your guardian angel to soothe and calm your heart,” she said firmly, “and everything will turn out for the best. You must take care of yourself,” she added.
We went to the village school, where the peasant children were performing The Screw by Chekhov, adapted from a short story of his. It was stuffy and tedious.
19th August. I awoke early, and at the thought of Chertkov living so close to Yasnaya all the old suffering started up again. But then my husband managed to console me. He came into my room before I got up and asked how I had slept and how my health was, and he didn’t ask in his usual cold manner, but with genuine concern. Then he repeated his promise:
1) Never to see Chertkov again,
2) To give his diaries to no one,
3) To let neither Chertkov nor Tapsel take his photograph. This was at my request. I found it most distasteful that his idol should photograph him in forests and gulleys like some old coquette, despotically dragging the old man here, there and everywhere so he could build up a collection of photographs to add to his archive.
“But I shall remain in correspondence with Chertkov,” he added, “it’s essential for my work.”
I went with Tanya to pick mushrooms, of which there were masses, then played with the children and cut out paper dolls for them. I cannot work, my heart is physically aching, and the blood keeps rushing to my head. L.N. and Chertkov between them have half-killed me already—another two or three heart spasms like the one yesterday will finish me off. Or I shall have a nervous attack. That would be good! They will certainly torment me to death at this rate—I don’t want to kill myself and yield Lev Nik. to Chertkov.
20th August. Two bulky parcels were posted this afternoon addressed to Bulgakov—i.e. for Mr Chertkov.* Having given up all meetings with him for my sake, Lev Nikol. is now consoling his idol with all sorts of papers for his collection, and sending these to him via Bulgakov. Lev Nik. took a long ride through the forest to Lomtsy today; this evening he played vint but was very sleepy.
21st August. Childhood is now ready for the printers. I reread the chapter ‘The Ivins’ and was struck by the words: “Seryozha made a great impression on me the moment I saw him. His unusual beauty astonished and captivated me. I felt irresistibly attracted to him…” And further on: “Just the sight of him was enough to make me happy, and at one time the whole strength of my soul was focused on that desire. If by chance I didn’t see that lovely little face for three or four days I would fret and become sad and cry. All my dreams were of him…” And so on.
Night…I cannot sleep. I prayed and wept for a long time, and realized that what I am going through must be the means by which I appeal to God and repent of my sins—maybe too it spells the return of happiness and inner peace…
22nd August. My 66th birthday. I still have all my old energy and passion, the same acute sensitivity and, I am told, the same youthful appearance. But these past two months have aged me considerably and, God willing, have brought me closer to my end. I got up exhausted after a sleepless night and went for a walk round the park. It was delightful: the old avenues of various trees, the wild flowers, the saffron milk caps and the silence, the solitude. Alone with God, I walked and prayed. I prayed for reconciliation, prayed that I might with God’s help stop suffering, and that He might return my husband’s love to me before we died.
Lev Nik. rode a long way off to see the eunuch who was here previously and had earlier visited Chertkov while Lev Nikolaevich was there. He played vint again this evening. I played at the other table with Tanya’s stepdaughter Lyolya, who had asked me to teach her the game.
25th August. This morning I had the unexpected joy of seeing Lev Nikolaevich at my door. I couldn’t go to him at once, as I was w
ashing, but I hastily flung a dressing gown over my wet shoulders and ran up to him. “What is it, Lyovochka dear?” I asked. “Nothing, I just came to ask how you slept and how you were feeling,” he said. A few moments later he was back again. “I wanted to tell you that at midnight last night I kept thinking about you and wanted to come in and see you,” he said. “I thought you might be lonely on your own, and wondered what you were doing—I felt so sorry for you…” At this the tears came into his eyes and he began to weep. I was overcome with joy, and this sustained me through the day, even though my imminent departure for Yasnaya and Moscow fills me with alarm.
I spent the day working on Resurrection for the new edition. Some uncensored passages have to be deleted, some omitted passages have to be inserted—all important and responsible work.
I enjoy myself with Tanyushka, take walks and grieve for my daughters’ unjust attitude to me and the way they favour Chertkov.
26th August. I haven’t read any of L.N.’s letters to Chertkov, or from Chertkov to him, but can deduce everything in them from the way he refers to me: “S.A. (Sofia Andreevna) is very pathetic, I try to stand my ground and remember the role I have been called on to fulfil…More than ever I realize how spiritually close to you I am…I think of you constantly, I should like to see you…but this is not necessary if we know that our souls are in communion and we both serve the Father…I pray to God for patience, I kiss you…” and other tender words of this pharisaical nature, in which, with the genius of a writer, he laments the suffering he has to endure from his wicked wife. And this correspondence between him and Chertkov, based entirely on that theme, will be preserved for future generations to read…
They all treat me as though I were abnormal, hysterical, even mad, and everything I do is attributed to my morbid condition. But other people, and the Lord above, will judge for themselves.
27th August, morning. My jealousy for Chertkov is a living wound! Why did it please God to open my eyes to these things?
I woke sobbing this morning from an agonizing dream. I dreamt Lev Nik. was sitting there wearing a new fur jacket with a hood at the back, and a tall sheepskin hat, and an unpleasant, hostile look on his face. “Where are you going?” I asked him. “To see Chertkov and Goldenweiser,” he said in an offhand manner. “I have to look through an article with them and clear up a few things.”
I was in despair that he had broken his promise, and I burst into agonizing sobs that woke me up. And now my heart and hands are trembling and I can hardly write.
Evening. I took a walk on my own in a state of great agitation, praying and weeping. I am terrified of the future. Lev Nik. has promised never to see Chertkov, to have his photograph taken at his bidding or give him his diaries. But he now has a new excuse that he uses whenever it suits him. He just says “I forgot”, or “I never said that”, or “I take back my promise”. So that one is afraid to believe a word he says.
I have done a lot of work on the proofs, correcting On Art, ‘On the Census’ and Resurrection. Mine is a hard task! I have a terrible headache—and oh, the depression, the depression!
When I said goodnight to Lev Nik. I told him everything on my mind: I told him I knew he was writing letters to Chertkov addressed to Bulgakov, Goldenweiser and the other spies, and said I hoped he wouldn’t go back on his promises behind my back, and asked him whether he wrote to Chertkov every day. He told me he had written to him twice, once in a note he had added to a letter of Sasha’s, and once on his own. That is still two letters since 14th August.
28th August. Lev Nikolaevich’s 82nd birthday. A marvellous, bright summer day. I got up feeling very anxious after another sleepless night, and felt even more so after going in to greet him. I wished him a long life, without secrets, tricks or plots—and said I hoped he would soon be completely at peace with himself, now that he is reaching the end of his life.
At this he pulled an angry face. The poor man is possessed—he considers that he and Chertkov have already reached the pinnacle of spiritual perfection. Poor, blind, proud man! How much more spiritually exalted he was a few years ago! How sincerely he aspired to live simply, to sacrifice all luxuries and to be good, honest, open and spiritually pure! Now he enjoys himself quite openly, loves good food, a good horse, cards, music, chess, cheerful company and having hundreds of photographs taken of himself.
He is kind to people only if they flatter him, look after him and indulge his weaknesses. All his old responsiveness is gone. Is it merely his age?
Evening. When he was out walking today, L.N. gave apples to all the village children, and this evening he spent two hours playing chess, and another two hours playing vint. He soon grows bored without these entertainments, and all this talk of living in a hut is merely an excuse to rage at me, so that with his writer’s skill he can describe his disagreements with his wife in such a way as to present himself in the role of a martyr and saint.
29th August. Lev N.’s anger yesterday affected me so badly I didn’t sleep a wink; I prayed and cried all night, and first thing this morning I went out to wander about the park and the wood. Then I called on a dear young nurse called Anna Ivanovna, and she and her sweet, sympathetic mother comforted me.
I received a telegram from Lyova saying his trial had been fixed for September the 3rd, and that he was leaving on 31st August. I was glad of the excuse to leave, and I badly wanted to see my son, say goodbye to him and give him some encouragement. So Sasha and I travelled to Oryol on the Blagodatnaya line, and from there we went on to Yasnaya. L.N. and I bade each other a tender, loving farewell, and we both cried and asked each other’s forgiveness.
I was sleepy and exhausted on the train—I felt shattered. It was terribly cold, only 2 degrees, and Sasha and I were shivering and yawning all the way. We arrived home at five in the morning.
1st September. Bulgakov and Maria Schmidt were here for lunch, as well as Liza Rizkina (née Zinger) with her two boys. She is well educated and no fool, but I find her erudition and materialism rather alien. I didn’t take a walk today; I didn’t want to wash my favourite haunts at Yasnaya with my tears. For most of my life I have darted about with a light step and a light heart, conscious of nothing but the beauties of nature and my own joy! And now too it’s all extraordinarily beautiful, and the days are clear and brilliant, but my soul is sad, so sad!
I did a lot of work on the proofs and various other things connected with the new edition, and gave orders around the estate. But nothing is going well. I was intending to go to Moscow, but I have no energy and haven’t prepared anything, and it all seems futile and unimportant.
2nd September. Today I sent for the priest, who performed a service with holy water.* The prayers were lovely, apart from the last one: “Victory to the Lord our emperor”, and so on. After all those prayers about the softening of hearts and the deliverance from griefs and troubles, it seemed utterly inappropriate to pray for victory, i.e. the murder of people.
In Lev Nik.’s room I found Chertkov’s letter to the Tsar begging to be allowed to return to Telyatinki. It’s a truly pharasaical letter, but what struck me most was his desire to be close to Lev Nikolaevich. What has happened though is that the Tsar allowed him to return, and now Tolstoy’s wife has driven him away. He must be furious with me! And I am delighted!
Still the same enchanting weather—bright days, cool nights and a dazzling variety of greens on the bushes and trees. The potatoes are being dug now, the painters are finishing work on the roofs and outhouses, the earth is being removed from the hothouses, and here and there in the woods there are still a few mushrooms.
4th September. I am becoming increasingly impatient to see my husband, and shall go to Kochety tomorrow without fail. Today I went for a walk on my own, feeling sad at heart; I received a sweet letter from Lyova saying his trial would now be on the 13th. I worked on Resurrection with Sasha’s companion Varvara Mikhailovna, and took a stroll round the estate. It’s warm, with a light breeze and little clouds in the sky, with wild f
lowers everywhere and the most marvellous garden flowers and bright coloured leaves—how good it is! But how sad to be alone! I like people and movement and life…That is why it’s better at the Sukhotins’, where there are a lot of people and life is simpler. Lev Nik. is more cheerful there too; he plays chess for a couple of hours after dinner with Sukhotin or the local doctor, then takes a walk, reads letters, goes into the dining room, asks where everyone is and for the table to be laid as soon as possible. Then he plays a game of vint, and that goes on in the most lively fashion for about three hours, until 11.30 p.m. He doesn’t have to strike attitudes, since none are expected of him; there are no petitioners, no beggars, no responsibilities—he just lives, writes, plays, talks, sleeps, eats and drinks…
I am very afraid he will miss all this in Yasnaya Polyana. I shall try to make sure there are more people here. But we have managed to drive everyone away from our house, and now I have driven away Chertkov and co.
5th September (Kochety). I left for Kochety early on the morning of the 5th, travelling via Mtsensk. Deep in my heart I hoped Lev Nik. would return to Yasnaya with me, as I am tied to this essential work on the new edition and must stay close to Moscow, where I have all the books and materials to hand.
I travelled the 20 miles from Mtsensk in a strong wind and driving rain, and the muddy road and the ferry crossing and the agitation left me exhausted.
I had a cold reception in Kochety from my husband and my daughter. Lev Nik. had just ridden over to visit the eunuch, 16 miles there and back, and in this appalling weather!
But how warmly I was met by the two little five-year-olds, my granddaughter Tanechka and her little cousin Mikushka Sukhotin!
