The Diaries of Sofia Tolstoy

by Cathy Porter

  Today he is like another person, and when I said this to him he smiled and agreed. I am happy to be here, but not all my family are in good spirits, and I fear that my energy alone isn’t enough to compensate for the generally sour mood. I went to “the other house” to see Lyova and Dora and my adorable six-month-old grandson Levushka. I took a walk round the garden in a prayerful mood, filled with all my old sentimental feelings about Yasnaya and memories of my youth and recent past.

  25th December, Christmas (Yasnaya Polyana). Everyone has been in a holiday mood: we made presents and unpacked all the good things we had brought from Moscow. The moment I enjoyed best was my walk through the woods. It was especially lovely in the young fir plantation—three degrees of frost, silence and brief moments when the sun peered out after disappearing all autumn. Everything was covered with fresh pure snow that had fallen during the night. The young green fir saplings were lightly covered in snow, and across the horizon stretched the broad black band of the old Zaseka forest, frozen for the winter, and everything was quiet, still and severe. Nature and art are the best things in life. How well Sergei Ivanovich understands this. With one’s family and in the company of others there is so much unnecessary aggravation, so much pain and spite…

  We had a nice cheerful family dinner. M.A. Schmidt came. At five o’ clock Dora and Lyova entertained us around the Christmas tree with tea and refreshments. Poor Dora was so tired, but she loved the whole thing—she is only nineteen, virtually a little girl still, and she needs this holiday. My grandson Levushka was startled and amazed. A splendid, adorable baby.

  By eight o’clock everyone was in low spirits again, for L.N. had a temperature of 38°.

  26th December. L.N. was feverish all night. He was shrieking, groaning and tossing, and I didn’t get a wink of sleep. It would be hard to find a more impatient, selfish invalid, he is so stubborn. He wouldn’t take his rhubarb yesterday, but took it at 11 today. This means he cannot take his quinine for the fever now on a full stomach, but must wait another twenty-four hours—all because of his stubbornness and his unwillingness to listen to me and take his laxative at the proper time. Oh, how bored and weary I am of putting all my energy into persuading, convincing and getting angry with him, with the sole purpose of saving and helping a cross, grumbling, stubborn man for whom I have sacrificed my entire life and killed every personal desire, even the simple need for peace, leisure, reading and music—not to mention that I have never travelled anywhere, neither abroad nor within Russia.

  Some Tula working man came here with an extraordinary picture by a peasant icon-painter. It is a pencil drawing, an arshin and a half* wide. Lev Nikolaevich is sitting in the middle, to his left is a school and some children, beyond them is an angel, above them is Christ in the clouds with the angels, then further off are various wise men—Socrates, Confucius, Buddha and so on. On the right is a church with a gallows and some hanged men in front of it. In the foreground are bishops, priests and gentlemen-in-waiting, and beyond them in the background are soldiers on foot and horseback. Then there are various national types reading books, and in the foreground for some reason a Turk in a turban reading a huge book. L.N. is not strictly true to life but his general appearance is. He is sitting cross-legged.

  Appalling stories about the Yasnaya peasants. One brother has stolen from another, a widow has killed her illegitimate child, a father pushed his little son through a narrow crack into a storeroom and told him to steal things and hand them out to him, the windows of the library have been smashed and some children have made off with our books. It is sad and infuriating. Oh, the power of darkness!

  I am reading a wonderful book about Buddhism entitled The Soul of a People.* What beautiful truths there are in Buddhism. It is as though one knew them already, but to see them written down and the laconic way they are expressed is a delight to the soul.

  27th December. Tanya, Sasha, Sonya Kolokoltseva and I left at five for Grinevka to visit Ilya. Misha was there looking thin, restless and confused. It’s nice and friendly with Sonya and Ilya. The children were all asleep apart from Annochka.

  28th December. This morning we all decorated the Christmas tree and gave one another presents. My three grandchildren are such healthy, fair-haired youngsters, they’re a joy.

  We went for a long walk. The fresh snow that had fallen in the night on the boundless fields gleamed in the bright sun, and it was silent, pure and beautiful. I walked a long way on my own, thinking of the people I love. My soul too is pure, peaceful and happy.

  This evening there were guests, a magnificent Christmas tree (I had brought everything from Moscow), neighbours, servants and peasants, singing, dancing and mummers, with a rough-and-ready performance of Tsar Maximilian and his Unruly Son Adolf. Sasha and Annochka dressed up and danced round in masks. Sasha is so fat and clumsy, she’s a sorry sight. I like the way at Ilya’s they keep open house for everyone to come and enjoy themselves. They had laid in quantities of food so the guests could eat and drink all day long, and had covered the floor of the office with straw and fur jackets so they could lie down and sleep. It was all very hospitable, friendly and chaotic, and they live in grand style, but I couldn’t live like that.

  29th December. A heavenly day; the trees and fields were all covered in thick hoar frost, everything was white, and sky and earth were fused into one vast kingdom of whiteness. I took a long walk on my own, and the children went tobogganing on the hill. The only genuine, serious interest in Ilya’s life is horses and dogs, and that is very sad. We left at six o’clock, taking my granddaughter Annochka with us. It was a fearsome journey from Yasenki to Yasnaya. I wasn’t used to this country road in winter; we got lost on the way from Grinevka to the station, and ended up at the house again. All is well at Yasnaya. L.N. is healthy and passionate.

  31st December. The last day of the year. What will the New Year bring! Masha collapsed this morning. We are waiting in anguish for her either to miscarry or deliver a dead baby. It is now gone nine p.m.; the midwife is here and we are waiting for Doctor Rudnyov. The house is silent, and everyone is in a state of agonizing suspense.

  At five minutes to midnight Masha was delivered of a stillborn four-month son.

  The whole family calmly gathered to welcome in the new year. Goodbye old year, which brought me so much grief—although a few joys too. And thanks to those that caused them.

  1899

  February—University of St Petersburg convulsed by student riots and demonstrations, which spread to Latvia and Poland. All universities in Russia closed. Students expelled and drafted into army.

  8th January—Andrei Tolstoy marries Olga Dieterichs (the sister of Chertkov’s wife). 13th March—first part of Resurrection published in the journal The Cornfield, and the money sent to the Dukhobors. 14th November—Tanya Tolstaya marries Mikhail Sukhotin. End of the year—Tolstoy finishes Resurrection.

  1st January. A disappointing start to the new year. We got up late, and I drove Sasha, Sonya Kolokoltseva and my grandchildren Misha and Annochka to the woods in the big sledge, with my camera. It was lovely in the woods, and the children were such fun. We laughed and took photographs; the shaft of the sledge broke, but strong Sasha repaired it. We got back for dinner. This afternoon I had tea with Dora and Lyova and lit the candles on the Christmas tree again. Back in our house the children and both sets of servants dressed up and danced, first to dance tunes on the piano, then to two concertinas. I went to sit with Masha, developed photographs and made a peasant shirt for Lev Nikolaevich.

  Masha is recovering, thank God. Lev Nikolaevich’s work is going badly. He always ascribes every emotional state—his own, mine and everyone else’s—to physical causes.

  4th January. More guests this evening—the three Cherkasskys, the two Volkhonskys and the Boldyryovs. Mary is utterly delightful. Accordions, dancing, some unsuccessful choral singing…Dreadful! The appalling Princess Cherkasskaya is an ageing sinner who doesn’t want to grow old. She and I woke Masha, who then had a hyster
ical attack. It was extremely regrettable, and it was partly my fault for making so much noise with that old harridan.

  Lev Nikolaevich has again been in a good mood for work.

  8th January. I spent the morning in Tula alone in my room in the Petersburg Hotel. It was so cheerless, and I felt depressed and upset about Andryusha’s wedding.* I read a French pamphlet about Auguste Comte, which was sent to Lev Nikolaevich and written as a letter to Émile Zola. It preached peace, brotherhood and sociology.

  Then my sons arrived—poor thin Lyova, plump jolly Ilya, anxious Andryusha and wild Misha, incoherent, noisy and selfish, who hadn’t received his uniform and was searching for a tailcoat to wear.

  Ilya and I blessed Andryusha there in the hotel room. He seemed to be in a dream, deeply affected, yet bewildered as to why he was getting married or what would happen. I still can’t make Olga out. A wedding is always a frightening, mysterious occasion. I kept wanting to cry.

  We dined at the Kuhns’, got a little drunk, then took them to the station. Lev Nikolaevich rode there wearing his fur jacket. The public surrounded us: Tolstoy and a wedding; they were all fascinated. He has grown to love his fame. He loved the sight of those people at the station, I could see he did.

  12th January (Moscow). Tanya’s name day. A lot of tedious guests arrived at midday with a great deal of chocolate and chatter and an endless number of boys—schoolfriends of Misha’s, etc. I feel even worse. I was expecting Sergei Ivanovich all day, but he didn’t come. I am told he is at Tchaikovsky’s estate in Klin, working on a production of his ballet The Sleeping Beauty with the composer’s brother. This afternoon Masha Kolokoltseva, Liza Obolenskaya and the pianist Igumnov came, just back from Tiflis. He played us the Chopin Tarantella and Nocturne, Rubinstein’s ‘Ballade’, the andante from a Schubert sonata and something by Mendelssohn—but I wouldn’t have recognized his playing, it was so lifeless. Either that or I was ill and I couldn’t listen properly.

  I have seen almost nothing of Lev Nikolaevich all day. He wrote a lot of letters and was busy with his own writing. He still complains of a stomach ache and I gave him another massage.

  13th January. Misha arrived; he was telling me that a crowd of drunken students, magistrates, old men and all sorts of other people had gathered yesterday at the Hermitage and Yar’s nightclub to celebrate St Tatyana’s Day (the university holiday), and 200 people had danced the trepak together. They ought to be ashamed of themselves! I spent half the day in bed.

  14th January. We had a splendid evening: Lev Nikolaevich read us two Chekhov stories, ‘Darling’ and one whose name I have forgotten, about a suicide, more of a sketch really.

  16th January. A telegram from Sulerzhitsky saying he has arrived safely in Canada with the Dukhobors, and they like the country and have been well received there. Our Seryozha ought to be there in six days’ time. I am waiting impatiently for his telegram, I think constantly about him and tell his fortune.

  I went with Modest Tchaikovsky to a rehearsal of Tchaikovsky’s ballet The Sleeping Beauty. Lovely music, but I am too old for ballet now, and I soon grew bored and left.

  17th January. Lev Nikolaevich had a visit from Myasoedov and the inspector of the Butyrki prison fortress, who gave him a lot of technical information about prison affairs, the prisoners’ lives and so on for Resurrection.*

  20th January. I didn’t sleep all night. We had some good news this morning—a telegram from Seryozha in Canada saying he has arrived safely with the Dukhobors. Three died on board, a baby was born and there was an outbreak of smallpox, which means they are all in quarantine.

  Lev Nikolaevich has been entertaining some dark ones—Nikiforov, Kuteleva, a midwife who did famine relief work, a certain Zonov, Ushakov…

  22nd January. I paid seven calls today, and this evening endless guests arrived. I am exhausted. I called on Sergei Ivanovich to thank him for giving us such pleasure yesterday and to enquire about his fingers, which he hurt when he was playing for us yesterday.

  The Annenkovs, taciturn Rostovtsov, dear Davydov, pathetic Boratynskaya, Sukhotin the student and Butyonev père. My temple aches insufferably, which makes me depressed and listless, and my soul is melancholy.

  A friendly letter from Andryusha, to which Olga added a few lines. At the moment they are quite happy. Who knows what the future holds!

  I have no contact with Lev Nikolaevich all day. He writes all morning, then takes a walk. This afternoon he went off to see Misha at the Lycée, then this great wall of guests separates us, which is very depressing. Misha is bored, he cannot sleep at the Lycée and I fear he won’t last long there.

  23rd January. I spent a quiet day on my own, and found time for everything—I read a little of The Greek Conception of Death and Immortality, did some work, played the piano for about four hours, sat with Lev Nikolaevich, did a little copying from the revised proofs for him. Not a soul here all evening—heavenly! Tanya took Sasha to a dance and Misha went too—Misha Mamonov that is, such a nice intelligent boy. I love children, I never really grew up myself and joined the adults, and children are so grateful, so forgiving, they observe God’s world with such eager, inquisitive eyes.

  24th January. 10 degrees of frost, fine. This morning I paid some unsuccessful calls, and this evening a crowd of guests came—the Naryshkins, Princess Golitsyna, Count Sollogub, Stakhovich, Olsufiev, Ermolova, the boys and so on—30 people in all. I was in bed with neuralgia when Tanya got me up and called me to them. Lev Nikolaevich was there throughout, reading Chekhov’s ‘Darling’ to the ladies and chatting animatedly to everyone. Then Goldenweiser played a Mozart sonata and some things by Chopin. We went to bed late, then Misha called me out to tell me he didn’t know how much longer he could go on living at school. I’m sure he’ll leave.

  25th January. I stayed in all day, but couldn’t do a thing because of all the visitors. The Olsufiev brothers came, read Resurrection and drank tea. Then Stakhovich came to dinner. He seems rather gloomy. Tanya went to see Chekhov’s The Seagull with Trepova.

  Wind, frost, fires on the street. Sitting at the dinner table today I scolded myself for being unable to be happy. There was a heated discussion. Lev Nikolaevich said it was important to have principles and to strive for spiritual perfection, but that one’s actions might nevertheless be inadequate, the result of human passions. I said if despite all these principles it was still possible to sin and succumb morally, then what could I stake my faith on in future? It was better to have no principles at all, I said, just an inner sense that would lead one to the right path. Lev Nikolaevich said the desire for spiritual perfection automatically led one to the right path. And I said that while a man was perfecting himself he could sin twenty times or more. No, I said, better to know what is right and what is wrong and not sin, rather than expect some sort of perfection.

  It is almost two a.m. Lev Nikolaevich has just sent for Maklakov for some reason, and has ordered some food to be heated up for him. What a lot of trouble he makes for others without realizing it.

  26th January. I was copying the revised proofs of Resurrection and was repelled by the desire to shock when he describes the Orthodox service. For instance: “The priest extended to the people the gilt image of the cross on which Jesus Christ was executed—instead of the gallows.” The sacrament he calls “kvas soup in a cup”. It’s scurrilous and cynical, a crude insult to those who believe in it, and I hate it. I read a little today, and copied out a little of his diaries. There were no guests—what a blessing!

  29th January. I don’t remember the past two days: I paid visits with Tanya, played a little, pined and fretted for my absent children. I cut out and sewed today and am very tired. I thought about my son Seryozha and remembered him composing and playing for me his song that begins: “We met once again after a long parting…” and ends: “…we pressed each other’s cold hands and wept…”* I know he was expressing his own fears, his emotional state at the time. He is awkward but so profound in his feelings, and in all his other faculties t
oo. He just hasn’t been able to make the best of his good qualities. We women—and especially his wife—love to act like characters out of a novel, even at times with our husbands; we love sentimental strolls, we love to be emotionally cherished. But one doesn’t expect this from the Tolstoys. So often one feels an outburst of tenderness for one’s husband—but if, God forbid, it is expressed, he recoils with such disgust one feels mortified and ashamed of one’s feelings. He only cherishes me when his passions are aroused—which alas is not the same!

  30th January. I sewed all morning, first a sash for the coachman, then a silk skirt for myself on the machine. Lev Nikolaevich had a visit from old Soldatenkov, the publisher, who brought him 5,000 silver rubles for the Dukhobors. I greatly dislike this business of asking rich people for money—considering that L.N. wrote an article denouncing the evils of money and refusing to have anything to do with it. It doesn’t bother him that while he now curses music, just to be contrary, Modest Tchaikovsky told me that he once wrote a letter to Pyotr Ilich Tchaikovsky saying he considered music the supreme art, and gave it first place in the world of art.

  I often think: Lev Nikolaevich should be ashamed of living a life of such contradictions. Everything with him is ideological, everything is for a purpose—the main purpose being to describe everything, as he did in that wonderful article of his about the famine last summer. Maybe he’s right: to each his own path and his own cause.

  I visited the Lycée the other day and talked with the director. This splendid man, Georgievsky, treats Misha better than his own father does. Misha is in good spirits; he has left the boarding house again to be a day boy, but has started to work.