by Cathy Porter
I remember how I used to wait for my pages of War and Peace to copy after Lev Nikolaevich had finished his day’s work. I used to write on and on in a state of feverish excitement, discovering new beauty as I went along. But now I am bored. I must work on something of my own, or my soul will wither.
18th August. Masha is much better. Maria Schmidt visited. There was a shower. We went swimming. The nurse arrived in the evening yesterday to take Masha’s pulse and keep an eye on her, and Doctor Rudnyov came. I saw to various tedious domestic matters—mattresses, lamps, jam-making—and put the house in order. I then did some copying for Lev Nikolaevich and managed to do a great deal. My lower tooth is loose, which has put me in a bad mood. Oh, how I dread growing old. I must get used to the idea.
21st August. I have been terrified for Masha these past three days. First she had a temperature of over 40°, then this morning it suddenly dropped to 35.6°. We made her take some wine and champagne, but today she couldn’t drink a thing, and everything made her vomit. She started shivering and we sent for the doctor, then her temperature shot up to 40° again. It’s frightful! Poor thing, I feel so sorry for her, she’s worn out.
Sasha is embroidering a table napkin, which she is giving me for my birthday tomorrow. 22nd August. I shall be 53.
23rd August. Masha is better and everyone is more cheerful. But I have another weight on my heart: Sukhotin is coming tomorrow and Tanya is very excited. Tomorrow I am going to Moscow, where I have a mass of things to attend to and must stay with Misha for his exams. I have no desire to go, it’s a great nuisance, but I feel I must.
26th August. This is my second day in Moscow. I went to the banks yesterday, withdrew the interest and paid in 1,300 rubles for the mortgage on Ilya’s property. I shall soon have to pay the same again, and then he had the fire and lost a further 2 thousand rubles on the deposit on an estate he and Seryozha rashly decided to buy in the province of Volhynia. How depressing and annoying it all is. Ilya is incapable of doing anything—studying, managing his affairs or conducting any sort of business.
Seryozha’s wife Manya gave birth to a son on the 23rd. Poor Seryozha and that poor little boy with a mother like her!
Moscow is quiet and dull with everyone away. Sergei Ivanovich isn’t in Moscow yet, and I am very sad that I won’t be seeing him.
It rained, and now it’s cold and overcast. Tomorrow Misha will sit his exams; I have an appointment with the board of censors, then with the accountant at home.
28th August. Today is Lev Nikolaevich’s 69th birthday. It must be the first time in the whole of my marriage that I haven’t spent it with him. How sad. I wonder what sort of state he is in today?
Misha took his last exam today, and I am anxiously waiting for him to return. Will he go up to the 7th form?
For the whole of the past two days I have been busy with the accounts, adding up endless rows of figures with the accountant.
I am living a calm, healthy life on my own, and shall return here on 10th September. It has become cold—or rather cool—and cloudy. I went to the bathhouse today.
31st August (Yasnaya Polyana). It’s all so sad, everything has gone wrong. Misha failed, and will now have to stay down in the 6th form. Andryusha made another painful scene in Moscow, and the poor boy went off in tears with Misha to visit the Gruzinskys. I thought he might have been slightly drunk, for he was veering most oddly between extremes of violence and tenderness. Misha’s attitude to his failure also saddened me: he was completely unperturbed, and went straight out to the garden with Andryusha, Mitya Dyakov and Boris Nagornov, where they started yelling folk songs in coarse, tuneless voices. My children haven’t turned out at all as we would have liked: I hoped that they would be cultured with refined aesthetic tastes and a sense of duty. Lev Nikolaevich wanted them to lead simple lives of hard work. And we both wanted them to have high moral standards. But alas this hasn’t happened! I set off for Yasnaya Polyana the day before yesterday feeling worn out and depressed. Lev Nikolaevich met me not far from the house, got into the carriage beside me and didn’t ask once about the children. How painful that always is! The house was packed with guests: Dunaev, Dubensky and his wife, Rostovtsov and the writer Sergeenko. The rooms were full of bustle and chatter, and it was all extremely tiresome. These gentlemen come here expecting to get something out of Lev Nikolaevich, and now he has decided to write an open letter to be published abroad.* It seems a Swedish kerosene merchant named Nobel has left a will bequeathing all his millions to the person who made the greatest contribution to peace (la paix), and against war. They held a meeting in Sweden to discuss it, and said the prize should go to Lev Nikolaevich. He would never accept the money of course, but he did write them a letter, saying it was the Dukhobors who had done most for the cause of peace by refusing military service and suffering cruelly for it.
Now I would have had nothing against that, but in this letter Lev Nikolaevich went on to abuse the Russian government in the most crude and provocative terms—quite inappropriately too, merely for the love of being outrageous. I was terribly distressed by the letter, my nerves were overwrought, and I became quite desperate, sobbing and blaming him for risking his life by needlessly provoking the government. I actually wanted to leave; I cannot live this nerve-racking life any longer, under the constant threat that he will write something truly desperate and evil against the government and get us all deported.
He was touched by my despair and promised not to send the letter. Today, however, he decided he would, although a modified version of it. But all of a sudden I no longer cared—simply from a sense of self-preservation. One cannot endure endless sleepless nights such as I endured yesterday, one cannot endlessly weep and torture oneself.
1st September. All our guests have left and we are on our own again, I’m glad to say. I had a short but unpleasant conversation with Lev Nikolaevich yesterday evening. I had been feeling unwell, he kept finding fault with me, and we brought up the subject of our diaries. But we are friends again today. I copied out two chapters for him, tidied his room and put a lovely bunch of flowers there, and went swimming with Sasha. The water is 11°, the nights are cold and bright, with little clouds passing across the moon. The days are beautiful, dry and sunny. Tanya went to Tula to visit an exhibition. Masha is better. Sasha is upset about the disappearance of her pet hare from the barn. Lev Nikolaevich went for a ride and received a visit from a Catholic canon who has come here to make a study of Russian monasteries.
I have been yearning for music all day—I dream of it. I shall soon be going to Moscow, where I shall hire a piano and play, and I hope Sergei Ivanovich will come and play to me. How good that will be, the very thought of it revives my spirits.
2nd September. I sorted and arranged the books in the library, had a swim—the water was 11°—went for a walk, took a photograph of the apple trees covered in apples, and copied out a rewritten and modified version of Lev Nikolaevich’s letter in which he says the Nobel Prize should go to the Dukhobors. I haven’t finished it yet, but the first part is quite moderate.
There was a shower but it’s not cold yet.
4th September. I try and try, but I cannot stretch life far enough. Every member of our family feels isolated, however friendly we may appear to be. Even Lev Nikolaevich complains of loneliness and of feeling “abandoned”. Tanya is in love with Sukhotin, Masha has got married, and I haven’t felt close to any of them for a long time. And we’re all tired of devoting our whole lives to the service of Lev Nikolaevich. He considered himself fortunate to have enslaved the lives of three women, his two daughters and me. We wrote for him, looked after him, diligently supervised his elaborate vegetarian diet (which can be extremely inconvenient when he is ill), and never left his side. And now we have all suddenly announced that we have a right to some life of our own, his friends have been deported* and there are no new followers—and he is wretched.
I strain every last drop of my energy to help him and I copy out his article; yesterday I copi
ed his 15-page letter calling for the Nobel Prize to be awarded to the Dukhobors. But at times I find it intolerable to have no work, no friends or interests of my own, no free time, no music, and I lose hope and lapse into depression.
Lev Nikolaevich is forever writing and preaching about universal love and serving God and the people, but it puzzles me to hear him say these things. He lives his entire life, from morning to night, without any sort of contact with others. He gets up in the morning, drinks coffee, goes for a walk or a swim without seeing anyone, then sits down to write; later he goes for a bicycle ride or another swim, eats dinner, plays a game of lawn tennis, goes downstairs to read, and spends the whole of the afternoon sitting in his study. It’s only after supper that he comes and sits with us for a while, reading newspapers or looking through the illustrated magazines. And so this ordered selfish life goes on, day after day, without love, without any interest in his family or the joys and griefs of those closest to him. His coldness is a torture to me, and I have started to seek other things to fill my inner life, and have learnt to love music, to read into it and discern the complicated human emotions contained in it. But not only is music disapproved of in this house, I am bitterly criticized for it, so once again I feel that my life has no purpose, and bowing my back I copy out his dull essay on art for the tenth time, trying to find some consolation in doing my duty. But my lively nature resents it and I long for a life of my own, and when there’s an icy wind blowing I rush out of the house, run through the forest to the Voronka and throw myself into the freezing water, and there’s some pleasure in the physical sensation.
And the sweetest dream of all is of the heavenly kingdom awaiting us after we die, the dream of being united with God and reunited with our loved ones.
Ah, Vanechka! Today I came across a scrap of cloth from his blue sailor jacket, and I wept bitterly. Why did he leave me alone on earth without love? I cannot live without him—I often feel as though he took my soul with him, and my sinful body is merely dragging out its life here on earth.
8th September. A lot of commotion and a new crowd of guests: Dunaev, Boulanger and an Englishman named St John, evidently sent here by Chertkov.* Boulanger is being deported, charged with dangerous activities—propagating Lev Nikolaevich’s ideas and writing and publishing a letter in the Stock Exchange Gazette about the wretched condition of the Dukhobors.* He was summoned to St Petersburg to the 3rd Department (in other words the police), which is responsible for administrative order (in other words administrative tyranny), and they reprimanded him.
Now Boulanger is a very clever man, lively and full of energy, and they were quite daunted by him. But Heavens, what a despotic government we have! It’s as though we had no Tsar at all, just a lot of ignorant blackguards like Pobedonostsev and Goremykin (Minister of Home Affairs), who behave in such a way as to bring down people’s wrath on the head of the young Tsar, which is a great pity. Lev Nikolaevich is plagued by a pimple on his cheek and keeps talking about death. I feel quite alarmed, he has a terror of dying. He is coming to the end of his essay On Art, and we have a young lady staying here who is copying it out on the Remington; they want to send an English translation to Chertkov in England so he can publish it there.
12th September. I’ve been in Moscow for 2 days, alone with Nurse, and am thoroughly enjoying myself. Misha goes to the Lycée and comes home only for dinner, Tanya is staying with the Wulfs and I see hardly anything of her. I spend the mornings at the dentist, who measures my mouth and tortures me with hot red mastic and various other nasty things. The painful moment has come when I need false teeth—another one in the front has fallen out now and the ugliness and inconvenience are unbearable. I am going to find my false teeth a real trial, I can see that. The main reason I like it here is that there are none of those tiresome guests and strangers who are constantly coming to visit Lev Nikolaevich in Yasnaya, none of those complicated family and conjugal relations, no conversations about the Dukhobors and the government, about sending articles and letters abroad to expose the activities of the government, no reproaches and criticism…How tired I am of it all and how badly I need a rest! I played the piano this afternoon, and scribbled down some notes for a story I want to write. I’ve had no news from home yet. I still haven’t seen anyone here, but I very much want to see Sergei Ivanovich and hear him play. I hope he’ll come on my name day and play for me.
14th September. I went to the dentist again yesterday, and spent the rest of the day reading and sewing at home. I played the piano this afternoon; I am learning two pieces, a Bach two-part invention and a Beethoven sonata. I play badly and must practise a lot. We spent the evening talking and dancing with the children and young folk. I danced a waltz with my brother Sasha, and was foolishly delighted when they told me how gracefully I moved.
Today was a very busy day. I hurried out first thing with my basket and took a tram to the Smolensk market to buy mushrooms. There was an enormous quantity of them. I bought some to give Tanya to take back to Yasnaya Polyana, where these white mushrooms are not to be found. I also bought some grapes. I took everything round to the Wulfs’, where Tanya has been staying, then summoned a cab and went with Nurse to visit the graves of Vanechka and Alyosha. Their little graves always fill me with sweet, tormenting memories and a grief that will never heal.
I longed to die, to be borne off into the unknown where my little boys had gone. Nurse sobbed while I recited the Lord’s Prayer, striving to unite my soul with my infants and asking them to pray for us wretched sinners, then I fled from my grief.
Wanting to please Nurse, I took her and the village girls to look for mushrooms in the woods, but we didn’t find any. I arrived home for dinner to find a crowd of boys who had come to see Misha: Mitya Dyakov and the Danilevskys. After dinner Nurse and I made jam and pickled mushrooms. We finished late, and I spent the rest of the evening playing the piano; I sight-read some songs by Taneev, Pomerantsev and Goldenweiser. Taneev called here today, but I was out. I was so excited when I heard he had called; I long to see him, but I don’t see how it’s to be done. God will help me; maybe I won’t see him—whatever is best.
I have heard nothing from home. Lev Nikolaevich hasn’t written and Lyova doesn’t mention him in his letter, just asks me to do some errands for him.
15th September. I got up late and scurried round the house all day. The double windows had to be put in, the floors and doors washed, the mattresses and upholstery beaten, the mushrooms and grapes pickled, etc., etc. At about 8 in the evening Sergei Ivanovich arrived, and the two of us spent the evening alone together. It is very sad that Lev Nikolaevich should persecute me for knowing him, for we have such a good, calm, profound friendship. We talked all evening about art, music, Lev Nikolaevich’s writing—Taneev is so fond of him—of how we would spend the summer, and the boundless hopes of youth. He played me his beautiful symphony, which affected me deeply. It’s a marvellous work, lofty, noble music.
17th September. My name day, I’ve been foolishly busy all day. I rearranged the furniture, bought some inexpensive flowers, and tidied and decorated the house like a child getting ready for a holiday. I remember how my darling Vanechka loved to “celebrate”, as he used to say. I received a letter from Sasha, which delighted me. Lyovochka still hasn’t written, as if he was deliberately ignoring me, and it hurts me. Today the house is in a real “name-day mood” I cooked a meal for the servants too, which they appreciated, with pie, goose, tea and biscuits. Uncle Kostya, Alexei Maklakov, S.I. Taneev, Pomerantsev and Kursinsky came this evening, followed by various friends of Misha’s—Golitsyn, Butyonev, Dyakov, the Danilevskys, Lopukhin—who all sang, jumped around, fought, ate and drank. Uncle Kostya begged Sergei Ivanovich to play, and he played his symphony again. Sergei Ivanovich’s music has a quality one finds in certain people: the better you know it the more you love it. I have listened to this work three times now, and discover new beauty in it every time.
18th September. I got up late, sat down to play the piano and d
iligently practised the Bach two-part invention. When the rain stopped I left the house to visit the dentist and the Gubner factory for some fustian. And totally unexpectedly I met Sergei Ivanovich in the street! I didn’t recognize him at first, and was amazed. Fate is always playing these tricks on me! He was on his way to the Monastery of the Virgin. We got into conversation and I accompanied him to the tram stop. I didn’t get to the factory, but arrived in good time at the dentist’s, who seems to have done a splendid job on my teeth. I shouldn’t have told Sergei Ivanovich about the time I tried to kill myself by freezing to death on the Sparrow Hills. (I spared him the causes and details of course.) It’s just that these agonizing memories make me need to talk about them.
I got home, had dinner with Misha, then practised the piano for four hours, by which time I was exhausted.
19th September. A talented man puts all his understanding, all the sensitivity of his soul, into his work, while his attitude to real life is obtuse and indifferent. I immersed myself yesterday in Sergei Ivanovich’s songs, trying to understand them more deeply. (I now have so many of them.) The music corresponds not only to the mood of the poem but to almost every word too (so powerful in places), yet in real life he is so calm and reserved, never expressing his feelings, seldom speaking his thoughts, appearing indifferent to everyone and everything. And as for my incomparably more gifted husband! What extraordinary understanding of people’s psychology in his writings, and what incomprehension and indifference to the lives of those closest to him! Me, the children, the servants, his friends—he doesn’t know or understand them.