The Diaries of Sofia Tolstoy

by Cathy Porter

  22nd September. I am back at Yasnaya Polyana, and have left Misha in Moscow with Nurse and Ivan the drunkard. I am sorry to have ended my solitary life where I could play the piano, and to have returned to the hectic existence Lev Nikolaevich has organized for me here. We had a visit from some Molokans* whose children were taken away from them because of their sectarian beliefs. Lev Nikolaevich wrote to the young Tsar about it, but has had no response. He has written again, but fortunately the Tsar is abroad and the letter will probably not reach him. I would do anything in the world to console the mothers and their children, but what is the point of risking one’s life when it’s impossible to do anything. He is always seeking noise, publicity, risk. I simply don’t believe in his goodness and love of humanity, for I know what is at the bottom of it all—fame, the insatiable, frantic desire for yet more fame. How can one believe in his love, when he doesn’t love his own children, his grandchildren, his family, but has suddenly developed this great love for the Molokans’ children? He has a boil on his cheek and his face is tied up in a handkerchief. He looks wretched, and is terribly worried about it.

  He paid two visits to the doctor while I was away, and the third time he asked him to call. He kept insisting he had cancer and would soon die, and was very depressed and couldn’t sleep. He is better now. Poor man, how he hates suffering, and how hard it will be for him to leave this life. God help him!

  26th September. The days rush past. The 23rd was our wedding anniversary, and we spent it very pleasantly, although we didn’t arrange any special celebration. We have been married 35 years, and however hard my life has been at times, I thank God that we have remained faithful to each other and now live peacefully, even affectionately, together. My two eldest sons came, and all the family were together except Misha, who has now arrived, I am pleased to say. Our guests included Sergeenko and Boulanger with his 9-year-old son. Boulanger is leaving for England on the 28th; he is being deported for spreading the ideas of Tolstoy.

  Lev Nikolaevich has already written the conclusion to his essay on art and has made yet more changes to it, so I shall copy it again, and I have just finished copying his letter to the Russian Gazette. Various papers have published articles saying it is unthinkable that the Molokans’ children should be taken from them. But since this has in fact happened, and the parents have been visiting Lev Nikolaevich to ask him to take up their cause, he has decided to publicize the whole story in the Russian Gazette. Whether they publish it or not is another matter.

  My niece Liza Obolenskaya arrived last night and today we went for a walk with her. How beautiful it was! We walked through the fir plantation to the river, came out at the bathing hut, and walked through the great fir trees, returning home along the forest path. The bright-yellow tints, shading into green, red, dark brown and all the colours of the autumn foliage, were extraordinarily lovely. A few young birch trees have grown up here and there among the tall firs, and their brilliant leaves are etched against the black background like lace.

  On the way home I told Liza about my friendship with Sergei Ivanovich and Lev Nikolaevich’s jealousy of my feelings for him. It upset me to talk about it, and there were yet more trying discussions at home with Masha about her future, and the fact that they are planning to live with Kolya’s mother in Pokrovskoe. I told her I didn’t approve, and said he should go out and earn his own living or enter government service, rather than living first off her mother, then his.

  29th September. Masha and Kolya left for the Crimea yesterday. I wasn’t sorry to see them go, although I am fonder of them now than when they were first married. My fears for Masha’s life when she was so ill have brought me closer to her. And Kolya is a good kind boy, just terribly lazy and phlegmatic. He cannot and will not work, and that isn’t a pleasant sight.

  More Molokans came. They have been in St Petersburg, where they took Lev Nikolaevich’s letters to Koni, the Public Procurator, as well as to various other people who were out of town.* The case of the children is to be taken up in the Senate, and Koni is hopeful that it will be decided to return them to their parents. But their case may be passed on to the State Council, which means it might drag on for years. The Molokans were telling us that one little girl of two was being cared for by a nun who loved her very much and was incensed she had been taken away, and was looking after her very well. The boys have been sent to a monastery but are being badly cared for; their clothes are filthy and they’re covered in lice. They asked the monks to let them go outside the gates to watch for their parents’ horses, but the monks told the Molokans they would only be allowed to see their children in church. But when they got to the church their children weren’t there, just some more Molokans who were being converted to Orthodoxy as an example to them. The Father Superior embraced and kissed them when they came in, and said: “Just as you grieve for your children, so Mother Church grieves for you who have left her.” But the Molokans stood their ground.

  My sister Tanya, Liza Obolenskaya, Vera and I sat up late sewing, telling each other’s fortunes with cards and chatting about intimate matters. Women can be open with one another about everything—one can only be relaxed and unguarded with people one has loved since childhood, when one knows every detail of their character, every event of their life. I am closer to Tanya than to anyone else.

  30th September. My daughter Tanya has left for the Crimea, and has taken Ilya’s son Andryusha with her. The house feels empty with only Sasha here, and Lyova and Dora in their wing. I feel sorry for poor Lev Nikolaevich. For years he spent the quiet months of autumn with his daughters: they served him, wrote for him, became vegetarians for him and sat through the long, dull autumn evenings with him. I always used to spend the autumn in Moscow to be with my sons while they were at school, and I missed my husband and daughters terribly and was with them in spirit, since Lyovochka and my daughter Tanya were always my favourites. But now all that has changed: Masha has married and poor Tanya has fallen in love, and this disastrous love for a man who is unworthy of her has exhausted both her and us. She is going to the Crimea to think things over. God help her! And in 6 days I am leaving for Moscow with Sasha. I have put it off as long as possible, but it’s high time she went to school; she is 14 now, and is doing next to no work. I am concerned about Misha too; I fear he is being morally corrupted, and feel that family life is the best thing for the boy. Lev Nikolaevich will be staying here with Lyova, but it is plain that neither of them is overjoyed at the prospect. I shall take Sasha to Moscow, settle her in there, then come straight back to be with Lev Nikolaevich. Oh how trying and complicated it all is!

  2nd October. The peace of autumn, with the yellow leaves turning to gold in the sunlight. I had a good day today. This morning I read Seneca’s Consolation à Marcia and Consolation à Helvini, then I tidied the books in the library. After dinner we walked to Kozlovka and back; the road looked so sad and deserted—what memories that road evokes! Oh, I don’t need memories, or regrets!…Why does every experience leave such a deep impression on my heart? When I got home I heard that Lyova had gone off to Krapivna leaving Dora on her own, so I ran in to keep her company. Then Lyovochka gave me Chapter 10 of his essay on art, and using that as a model I was able to revise the other chapters. It’s hard work, laborious, exacting and mechanical, and I was at it for three hours. I am glad he has attacked the decadents and exposed their tricks. He cites some utterly meaningless poems by Mallarmé, Griffin, Verhaeren and Moréas among others by way of example. Lyovochka invited me out for a game of shuttlecock this evening for some exercise, but I asked him to play a duet with me instead. We played a Beethoven septet quite nicely, and I was in such high spirits afterwards! We went to bed late and I read Menshikov’s article ‘On Sexual Love’ in the Week. This matter will never be settled, however much people talk about it.

  The best, the most painful and the most powerful thing in the world is love, and love alone; it guides and determines everything. Love gives life to the artist, the scientist, the philosoph
er, the woman, the child; love lifts up the soul, gives us strength and the energy for work, inspiration and joy. And I don’t mean just sexual love, but any kind of love. In my case the best, most powerful, most unselfish love of my whole life was for my little Vanechka. With my husband, however much he repelled me with his slovenly habits and his immoderate physical inclinations, it was his rich inner existence that made me love him all my life. My attachment to Sergei Ivanovich too was based not on his physical appearance but on his extraordinary musical talent; the nobility, purity and seriousness of his music flows from his soul.

  It was for this reason that of all of my children I loved Vanechka the best: he was all soul, such a tiny, disembodied child, so sensitive, tender and loving—he was made of the very finest spiritual material, and wasn’t made for this world.

  May God help me to leave behind this physical life and to cleanse my soul, and with a purified heart to pass over into that world where my Vanechka is now.

  6th October (Moscow). I have come to Moscow with Sasha and Mlle Aubert. I left Lyovochka yesterday with a heavy heart; I have rarely felt so sorry for him as I did then. He is so old, lonely and bent. (He stoops more and more these days, probably because of the sedentary life he leads, writing hunched over his desk sometimes for days on end.)

  I tidied his study, sorted his things and his linen and made sure he had all his small household needs: porridge oats, coffee, saucepans and dishes, honey, apples, grapes, Albert rusks, all the things he likes. He said goodbye to me affectionately, almost shyly, and didn’t want me to go; so I shall be back in 6 days, and we shall both go over to Pirogovo to visit his brother Sergei Nikolaevich. I am relying on young Lyova and Dora to look after him. His boil is better, but now his nose is hurting and he is terribly anxious. I hope it’s nothing serious.

  10th October. I haven’t written for four days, days filled with hectic activity and a mass of things to attend to. No music, no reading, no happiness, nothing. I started looking for suitable Russian governesses for Sasha; today I decided to hire Sofia Kashkina, the daughter of Seryozha’s former music teacher, Nikolai Kashkin. Misha has fallen and hurt his leg; he has been off school for three days and is lying in bed doing nothing. The drunken footmen are insufferable. First one drinks himself into a stupor and has to leave, then another is blind drunk for three days on end. I’ve never known anything like it, it’s infuriating and tedious.

  Sergei Ivanovich spent this evening with me, and there was something unsatisfactory about our relations, even a certain coldness. I didn’t feel happy with him, in fact I felt awkward and even uncomfortable at times. Perhaps it’s because of the kind letter I received from Lev Nikolaevich today, which transported my soul back to him in Yasnaya, or perhaps it torments me that Sergei Ivanovich’s intrusion into my life has brought Lev Nikolaevich so much grief—and may be distressing him even now. Whatever the reason, something has changed in my feelings for him, even though I always defied Lev Nikolaevich’s displeasure and refused to give up my freedom to feel and behave as I liked, seeing there was never anything wrong in it.

  Tomorrow is the Czech concert. They’re playing quartets by Beethoven, Haydn and Taneev. That will be nice!

  11th October. I received letters from Lev Nikolaevich, Lyova and Dora, all saying that Lev Nikolaevich wasn’t well, so I made up my mind to leave for Yasnaya Polyana this evening. The concert was marvellous, and Taneev’s quartet was a musical triumph. What a delightful piece! It’s absolutely the last word in modern music, but so profound and so intricate too, with such unexpected harmonic shifts and such a wealth of ideas and skill. A truly sublime musical experience.

  20th October. I stayed with Lev Nikolaevich at Yasnaya from the 12th to the 18th, during which time his health improved greatly. By the 17th he was riding over to Yasenki and had stopped drinking Ems water. I copied On Art all day without drawing breath, and there were moments when I felt like laughing, screaming or crying from exhaustion. First I transferred the corrections from the ten revised chapters to the fair copy. Then I did an unbelievable amount of fresh copying. Then Lev Nikolaevich scribbled yet more corrections on my copy, so I had to make all these changes in the fair copy. He has such tiny, untidy, illegible handwriting, he never completes his sentences or puts in any punctuation…What a strain it is trying to decipher this muddle and make sense of all his footnotes, signs and numbers!

  My husband was so kind to me; he sweetly put compresses on my aching arm and shoulder, thanked me for copying his article, and when I was leaving he kissed my hand, something he hasn’t done for a long time.

  I returned to Moscow on the 18th and rushed around all morning attending to my affairs, and was fitted for my new dress. That evening I went to a symphony concert. It was an all-Mendelssohn programme: his 4th Symphony, A Midsummer Night’s Dream with a choir, and his Violin Concerto. I thought Safonov conducted very poorly.

  Sergei Ivanovich has fallen and hurt his leg, and will be in bed for several days. I couldn’t resist paying him a visit, as I felt concerned about him. I don’t know if he was pleased to see me, it may have been the reverse. Professor Maklakov was there and they were playing chess together. Sergei Ivanovich was looking pale and wretched, like a punished child, complaining that lack of exercise and fresh air made it impossible for him to work.

  I had letters from Tanya and Masha. Still the same sorry news from my daughters, Masha with that lazy foolish boy-husband of hers, Tanya with her morbid infatuation for Sukhotin. I feel I have lost both daughters at once.

  Sasha is working hard and doing very well with her new teacher.

  21st October. I called on Sergei Ivanovich. He has to stay in bed and I couldn’t but go and see him. We talked together in our usual serious, simple, quiet fashion. He told me about a sect called the Self-Burners, and I told him about the decadent poems from which I was copying out quotations for Lev Nikolaevich. Then we talked about music and Beethoven, and he told me various things about his life and gave me a two-volume biography to read. As always I left him with a feeling of peace and contentment. He begged me to call again, but I don’t know whether I can bring myself to. I went on to visit Natasha Dehn but didn’t find her in, although I did see the wretched hole she lives in. These daughters of ours go off and lead impoverished lives with the men they love, yet they are used to grand houses, servants and good food…Well, there’s obviously nothing more precious than love.

  I received a cold and haughty letter from Lev Nikolaevich. I expect he is angry with me for living here in Moscow rather than with him in Yasnaya, where I would be copying for him from morning to night. But I cannot do it any more, I simply cannot! I am tired and old, my spirit is crushed, and maybe I’m spoilt. I remember that week I spent there: the filthy yard, the two filthy rooms where I lived with Lev Nikolaevich, the four mousetraps that never stopped snapping, and mice, mice, endless mice…The cold bleak house, the grey sky, the drizzle, the darkness; traipsing through the mud with a lantern, writing, writing, morning, noon and night; smoking samovars, no servants, deathly silence…What a depressing, difficult week it was. I prefer it here; I must live a fuller, more useful life.

  25th October. I long to see Lev Nikolaevich, I missed him all day and played the piano for four hours to distract myself. I spent a long time being tortured by the dentist, but my false teeth still hurt. So here I am, reduced to the misery of false teeth—I have always dreaded this…

  Pomerantsev and Igumnov came this evening, and Igumnov played for us—his own overture, some Scriabin pieces, a Bach fugue (for the organ) and something by Pabst. He also played us some songs by Sergei Ivanovich and his pupil Yusha Pomerantsev. But I am deaf to music today and half asleep. On Monday I want to go back to Lev Nikolaevich and visit Pirogovo with him.

  26th October. I took Sasha and her friend Sonya Kolokoltseva to a public concert held in memory of Tchaikovsky, and from there to an exhibition of Russian paintings at the Historical Museum. There was nothing outstanding. I was struck by the enormous number of
autumn landscapes. Autumn was indeed very lovely this year; the leaves were on the trees for a long time, the days were long and sunny—a truly golden autumn. Seryozha came to visit. My love and tenderness for him is always checked by a certain embarrassment. I long to kiss him, tell him how much I love him and how I suffer for him. This evening Goldenweiser came, with Natasha Dehn and her husband. Goldenweiser played marvellously—a Chopin Nocturne and several other things. He has such taste, such a lovely delicate touch. It was a truly great pleasure—I have had a lot of art today, and am happy.

  27th October. It has snowed and the garden is dazzling white in the sunshine. But I no longer feel that leap of energy, that simple uncomplicated joy I used to experience at the sight of the “first snow”.

  Went to town on business; played the piano a little. Leaving now for Yasnaya Polyana.

  2nd November. I was in Yasnaya Polyana with Lev Nikolaevich for five days. As I rode there from Kozlovka by sleigh on the morning of the 28th, I was so full of energy and love, so looking forward to working and helping him. It was a bright sunny day, the snow was dazzling, a huge moon was setting and a brilliant sun was rising—a beautiful, magical morning!

  But the moment I arrived at Yasnaya everything went wrong. Lev Nikolaevich was surly and hostile to me. Then while I was cleaning out my room I reset one of the innumerable mousetraps, which snapped shut and struck me in the eye, and I fell to the ground and thought I had been blinded.