The Diaries of Sofia Tolstoy

by Cathy Porter

  So instead of copying for him I had to lie down with a compress on my eye for a day and a half. Next day he rode over to Tula; it was 15 degrees below freezing, and I felt very anxious, but I had to lie there on my own in the great stone house with my eyes closed, pursued by gloomy thoughts about my children and my relationship with them and with Lev Nikolaevich.

  I got up several times to write, using only one eye, and managed despite this slowly to copy out the whole of Chapter 12 of On Art. I had dinner and supper with Dora and Lyova in their wing, which made me feel more cheerful.

  The next day Lev Nikolaevich and I went to Pirogovo to visit his brother, Sergei Nikolaevich. But the evening before our departure we had a dreadful row that made one of those cuts which always leave a deep scar and drive two people who love each other still further apart. What was it about? Impossible to say. Nothing at all really, yet the result was that I shuddered, as so often before, to realize what an icy heart he has, and how indifferent he is to me, the children and our life. When I asked him whether he would be coming to Moscow or not, he replied vaguely and evasively; when I said I wanted to be closer to him, to help him with his work, copy for him, cook him healthy vegetarian food and generally look after him, he peevishly told me he needed nothing and asked for nothing, that he enjoyed being alone and didn’t need any copying done—he wanted, in other words, to deprive me in every possible way of the pleasure of thinking I could be of any use, let alone pleasure, to him.

  I cried, then became hysterical, overwhelmed with a despair so extreme that I wanted only to die.

  And the worst thing is that his iciness makes me yearn to attach myself to someone else, someone to fill the void in my heart left by this man, my lawful husband, who has spurned and rejected my love. This is a great tragedy that men will neither acknowledge nor understand.

  After I had almost gone mad with tears and grief, we managed somehow to patch it up, and by the time we got to Pirogovo the next day I was already copying for him again. Then he needed his warm cap which I had thought to bring for him, as well as fruit, dates, my body, my labours and all the copying he wanted me to do for him. It was all suddenly indispensable to him! Help me, Lord, to do my duty to my husband to the end of his life, in other words to serve him patiently and humbly. But I cannot stifle my need for the sort of quiet, friendly, considerate relations that should exist between two people who are close to each other.

  And despite the pain he caused me, I still went through agony when he rode the 20 miles to Pirogovo on horseback, and worried he would get tired and cold! He stayed on in Pirogovo with his brother, while I left for Moscow yesterday and went to a delightful symphony concert: Tchaikovsky’s C Major String Serenade and the Schumann Piano Concerto. I met a number of people, but not Sergei Ivanovich, who still has a bad leg.

  Sasha is doing well, although she doesn’t get on with Mlle Aubert. Misha told me he got nothing but twos for his unseen translations, and I lost my temper with him.

  Tanya has a cough and is leaving for Cannes.

  7th November. I returned to Pirogovo on Monday morning to stay with Lev Nikolaevich’s brother, and we didn’t leave until yesterday, Thursday. Staying with Sergei Nikolaevich was a great strain. He is 71 years old, mentally alert, but the most dreadful despot with his family and a terrible misanthropist; he is well read and takes an interest in everything, but he curses the whole world—apart from the gentry. He never stops railing against professors (“sons of b—s”, “scoundrels”) and merchants (“thieves and swindlers”)—and as for the common people, they come in for every foul word he can think of. The musical world too is nothing but fools and villains…It was dreadfully difficult with him. They live like paupers and the food is terrible; his poor daughters never say a word in front of their despotic father, but they long in that backwood of theirs for some human contact with living souls. So Vera organizes magic-lantern shows for the village children and gives a peasant boy English lessons, and they talk about philosophy and religion with the peasants, the saddlers and the carpenters. This enrages their father, and Masha their mother (the gypsy) gets very upset about it. Besides this the three girls have a horse and two cows that they feed and milk themselves, and they drink the milk too, since they are vegetarians.

  Lev Nikolaevich continued with his writing there, and I copied for him all day. One evening I played their out-of-tune piano and everyone was in ecstasies; it’s so long since they’ve heard any music.

  We intended to leave on Tuesday, but it rained and the roads were icy, so we stayed. Next day there was a frightful wind and I was afraid Lev Nikolaevich would catch cold, so we again decided to stay. By yesterday, however, my depression was so extreme that we decided to leave for Yasnaya. There was still a strong wind, but Lev Nikolaevich cheerfully rode home on horseback while I sat in the sleigh and worried about him—more than I have worried for a long time. How insignificant all my other interests, fantasies and friendships seem beside the fear that my husband might catch a cold and fall ill or die!

  The journey took three hours and we didn’t catch colds, thank God. Lyova and Dora were waiting for us and warmly welcomed us, and Yasnaya seemed heaven after Pirogovo! We had dinner with them, and that evening we lit the stove in our part of the house. Lyovochka made more corrections to Chapters 12 and 13 and told me to enter these into the other copy.

  We sat cheerfully together and drank tea. This morning soft feathery flakes of snow were falling; there was no wind, just a light frost in the clear air. We drank coffee together, tidied our rooms, received letters from almost all the children, which delighted us, and looked through the newspapers. Then I was driven in the sleigh to Yasenki station and left for Moscow. Lyovochka and I parted on friendly terms, and he even thanked me for my help.

  A lot to do in Moscow with publishers and banks—all very tedious. Sasha and Misha were delighted to see me, but they’re not doing very well; they do no work and Sasha is persistently rude to her governesses.

  This evening I managed again to play a little…

  10th November. I returned today from Tver, where Andryusha is stationed with his regiment. He met me at the gates of the barracks and said he had been waiting for me all morning, and fondly told me over and over again how pleased he was to see me. He had burnt himself with carbolic acid and was in bed for three weeks, but the burns are all healed now. We spent a very pleasant day together; he sat with me while I worked, then we had a talk about intimate matters and his personal life. He has matured a lot—life seems to be having a sobering effect on him. He is alert, doesn’t drink or lead a disorderly life, and is very good company and full of energy. I am going to apply, at his insistence, for him to be transferred to Moscow to the Sumsky regiment.

  11th November. I visited the Lycée to discuss Misha, and was distressed by their complaints of his laziness and bad behaviour. What a misfortune it is that all my life I have had to listen, blushing with shame, to all these directors and schoolteachers criticizing and belittling my boys.

  Yet there are some fortunate mothers who hear very different things about their sons! At home I had yet another painful discussion with Misha and decided to do all I could to get him taken in as a boarder. He doesn’t like the idea, but I shall stand my ground.

  I went out to do some errands; it was sleeting and windy. This evening I sight-read some Beethoven sonatas—without much success but with great interest.

  12th November. I went to a musical evening at the Conservatoire with Sasha. It was delightful. There are some excellent women pianists studying there.

  13th November. Went shopping for Dora and wrote her a letter, then had a music lesson with Miss Welsh. I feel depressed today, and long for the friendly company of someone I love.

  Misha has gone to the theatre and Sasha is doing her lessons. I am going upstairs to play the piano; maybe that will lift my dismal spirits.

  I played the piano all evening, without much success. What endless pleasure there is in the music of Beethoven.


  14th November. Spent the whole day from morning to night doing dull accounts with the accountant. Maklakov came this evening and we did some duets, but he’s quite hopeless. We attempted a Mendelssohn symphony, some Schubert (his lovely Tragic Symphony) and some Mendelssohn overtures, but we made a terrible job of it. I could have wept—I’m incapable of playing anything properly.

  Andryusha has come for a couple of days. He was so bored and lonely in Tver after I left that he applied to his squadron commander for leave. An affectionate letter from Lev Nikolaevich.

  16th November. Music again all day. I was busy all morning with accounts, then played the piano for about two and a half hours, and still didn’t master that 8th Invention by Bach. After dinner I sight-read a Schubert symphony and played a Beethoven sonata. Then Goldenweiser, Dunaev and Varya Nagornova came. Goldenweiser played a Beethoven sonata (the ‘Appassionata’) and some Chopin Preludes and Nocturnes, and played beautifully; although when I remember Taneev’s interpretation of that sonata, the difference between them is as between earth and heaven. I have a desperate, helpless desire to hear that man play again—will it never again be granted me?

  19th November. I had another music lesson with Miss Welsh, and afterwards I couldn’t tear myself from the piano and played for another 4 hours. I had a great urge to play Schubert’s last unfinished symphony as a duet, but there was no one to play with. I had a letter from Lev Nikolaevich; he says that although he is missing me he needs to be alone to write now that he is getting old and hasn’t much longer to work. These arguments may ring true for humanity at large, but it would take a lot to persuade me personally that writing articles is more important than my life, my love and my desire to live with my husband and find happiness with him, rather than seek it elsewhere.

  I was telling my fortune with the cards, and twice I drew “death”, and suddenly I felt terrified of dying. Yet only recently I was longing for it! It is all in God’s hands! It hardly matters whether it comes sooner or later.

  23rd November (Moscow, Khamovniki Street). I am starting a new notebook on a terrible day. It is certainly true that there is a great deal more grief than joy in this world. Yesterday evening Andryusha and Misha invited a large crowd of boys here, and they all set off together to Khilkova’s house on the Arbat to lie in wait for a ghost. That, at any rate, was the reason they gave for disappearing all night and not returning until 9 in the morning. I waited up for them until 8 a.m., choking with exasperation. I wept, raged and prayed…When they finally woke up (at one o’clock), I went in and gave them a severe talking-to, then burst into tears, which brought on an asthma attack and palpitations in my heart and throat, which meant I had to take to my bed all day, and I now feel destroyed.

  The boys were very subdued, especially Misha, whose conscience is younger and purer.

  Frost and snow. I am reading part 3 of the Beethoven biography and am delighted by it. I had another music lesson, then practised from 11 to 1.

  24th November. This morning I went to the Lycée to talk to the director about Misha. He again urged that he attend as a boarder; more attempts to persuade Misha, his objections—I feel defeated.

  I posted off his application to the Duma to volunteer in the army.* Then I took Lyova’s article—a translation from the Swedish—to the Russian Gazette.

  I got home and changed, then went off to a name-day party for Dunaev, Davydov and Ermolov. I love worldly brilliance, lovely clothes, masses of flowers, refined company, cultured conversation and good manners. As always, as at every age in my life, there was general astonishment at my unusually youthful appearance. Istomin was particularly agreeable.

  Sergei Ivanovich hasn’t once come to see me. He must have heard reports of L.N.’s jealousy, and his cordiality towards me has changed to coldness. How sad, and how sorry I am! There is no other possible explanation for his aloofness—why else would he not come to visit? Could L.N. have written to him?

  25th November. Tanya has returned from Yalta in a much better state, emotionally and physically. Ilyusha came—wanting money as usual.

  Tanya tells me L.N. has described life in Moscow as “suicide”. So if he comes to Moscow for my sake, I shall be killing him. But that’s frightful! I wrote to tell him so and begged him not to come.* I want to live with him because I love him, but according to him I am “killing” him. I have to live here, for the children’s education, yet he reproaches me for it! I am so tired of life!

  26th November. I spent all day in theatres. This morning I took Sasha, Vera Kuzminskaya and my niece Zhenya to the Korsh Theatre to see Griboedov’s Woe from Wit. It was a poor production and I was terribly bored. Then this evening Tanya persuaded me to accompany her to see the Italian actress Tina di Lorenzo. She is a beautiful woman, with an Italian temperament, but since I didn’t know the language or the play (Adrienne Lecouvreur), I didn’t find it very interesting. I was exhausted today and hardly played at all; all I want now is to sit at home.

  29th November. I received a long, kind, reasonable letter from my husband yesterday. I tried very hard to absorb what he was saying, but there was such an old man’s coldness about it that it made me wretched. I often forget he will soon be 70—I forget this discrepancy in our ages and the degree of tranquillity we have attained; and this fault of mine isn’t mitigated by my youthful appearance and emotions. Tranquillity is more important than anything to L.N. now; but I still want him to long impetuously to see me, and to live with me again. I have been pining for him these past two days—but I have got over it: something in my heart has snapped shut…

  I am rereading Seneca, and continuing with the Beethoven biography. It’s so long, and there’s so little time.

  30th November. S.I. came for lunch and was his usual delightful self, calm, gay and kind. I was observing him with Tanya, but detected nothing.

  Safonova* also came with her two little girls to visit Sasha, and Sonya Kolokoltseva came too, and all the girls cheerfully went skating in the garden. Then Makovitsky* arrived from Yasnaya and told me in his broken Russian that L.N. was well and working hard.

  10th December. I haven’t written my diary for ten days. What has happened? It is hard to assemble all the events on paper, especially since it has all been so painful—and now yet more painful facts have come to light. But I shall try to recall everything.

  On 2nd December, I went to a Beethoven evening. Auer and d’Albert played four of his violin sonatas. It was an utter joy, and balm to my soul. But the following day I saw in the papers an advertisement for L.N.’s essay in the Northern Herald. Then on top of this Tanya picked an argument with me, reproaching me for my supposed relations with S.I.—when I haven’t seen him for a whole month. I feel dreadfully hurt; my family is always so quick to accuse me of crimes I haven’t committed the moment I stop serving them like a slave and submitting to their demands.

  I was waiting eagerly for L.N. to come. I longed to write to him, to help him in every way, to love him, not to cause him any more unhappiness and to see no more of S.I. if it was really so painful for him, and the news that he wasn’t coming to see me after our month’s separation—and that he was publishing his article in the N.H.—reduced me to the depths of despair. I packed my things and decided to go off somewhere. I got into a cab, with no idea where I was going. First of all I went to the Petersburg station, intending to go to St Petersburg and take the essay from Gurevich, then I thought better of it and set off for the Troitsa monastery. That evening, alone in a dirty hotel room lit by one candle, I sat alone as if turned to stone, overwhelmed by feelings of grief for and resentment of my husband, and his utter indifference to me and my love for him. I tried to console myself with the thought that one’s feelings are less passionate when one is almost 70—but why the deception, why all these secret negotiations behind my back with the N.H. over his essay? I thought I would go mad.

  I went to bed and had just fallen asleep when I was woken by Nurse and Tanya knocking on the door. Somehow Tanya had guessed that I
had gone to Troitsa, and had grown worried and decided to come and fetch me. I was very touched, but it did nothing to dispel my despair. Tanya told me that L.N. was coming the next day. But the news left me completely unmoved. I had waited for him too eagerly and for too long, and now something inside me had snapped, and I felt morbidly indifferent to everything.

  Tanya left and I went to church. I spent the whole day there—nine hours—and I prayed fervently to be delivered from the sin of killing myself or avenging myself for the pain my husband had caused me; I prayed for a reconciliation, for a miracle to unite us in love, trust and friendship; I prayed for my sick soul to be healed.

  My confession was before God, since Father Fyodor, the Church elder, was so decrepit he couldn’t hear a word I was saying, and just let out a short sob of nervous exhaustion. There was something mysterious and poetic about this monastic existence: the stone corridors and cells, the monks wandering about, the simple folk—prayers, long services and complete solitude amidst a crowd of supplicants who didn’t know me. I went back and spent the evening poring over the precepts and prayers in a book I found at the hotel. The next morning I received the Eucharist at the Trapeznaya Church. It was a royal day (6th December), and a magnificent dinner was being prepared for the monastery—four fish dishes, honey and beer. The tables were covered in tablecloths, the plates, dishes and mugs were all of pewter, and the meal was served by novices dressed in white aprons.

  Having stood through the service, I went off to wander around the monastery buildings. A gypsy woman pursued me as I was walking across the square: “A fair-haired man is in love with you, but dares not tell you. You are a noble, distinguished lady, refined and educated, and he is not of your class…Give me 1 ruble and 6 10-kopeck pieces and I’ll give you a charm! Come to my house and I’ll give you a charm to make him fall in love with you like your husband…”