by Cathy Porter
It was pure joy when he arrived. He had been gloomy, anxious and unable to work ever since we parted. Yet before this he had been cheerful and full of energy, happily writing his play The Corpse* and working hard.
When I met him at the station he gazed at me and said, “How lovely you are! I’d forgotten you were so pretty!”
All yesterday and today he was putting his books and papers in order. Then his friends came—Gorbunov, Nakashidze, Boulanger, Dunaev and the rest of them. They are thinking of starting a journal with contributions from talentless scribblers like Chertkov and Biryukov, and they want Lev Nikolaevich to give his spiritual support to the scheme.*
I went to see Misha at his new property, and felt very sorry for him—he is so childish and shy, and has made such a clumsy start in life. I spent the summer with Tanya and the autumn with Andryusha. They’re all starting new lives. Today I took Sasha and Misha Sukhotin to a rehearsal of Koreshchenko’s The Ice House.* V.I. Maslova was there, as well as the Maklakovs, Sergei Ivanovich and various other friends. Things have changed somewhat with Sergei Ivanovich. We seldom meet, but when we do it’s as if we never parted.
My heart has been heavy all autumn—no snow, no sun, no joy, as though I was asleep. Shall I wake up to new joys, or to death, or will some great grief arouse my joyless soul? We shall see…
This evening I prepared an enema for Lev Nikolaevich with castor oil and egg yolk, while he lectured the obsequiously attentive Goldenweiser about the European governments, which he said were becoming increasingly shameless and provocative.
6th November. I got up early and visited the Krutitsky barracks on behalf of a woman who had begged me with tears in her eyes to intercede for her son, a soldier named Kamolov, who wanted to stay in Moscow. I arrived at the courtyard of a huge building, milling with young recruits, their wives and mothers, a huge crowd of people. I asked a soldier where the military commander was. “There he is!” the soldier said and pointed. And sure enough, two men were approaching. If I’d come two minutes later I couldn’t have done anything, but now I was able to plead my case, which was heard very courteously, then I went on to demand the royalties due to the author of The Fruits of Enlightenment. This money has always gone either to the starving or to peasant victims of fires. It is now going to the latter. I received 1,040 rubles, covering several years.
I arrived home exhausted and sat down to check the accounts on the book sales. When I went out into the dining room I found Lev Nikolaevich’s copier Alexander Petrovich standing by the door drunk and cursing. I quietly urged him to go to bed, but he cursed even louder, so I had to restrain him even more energetically. What an emotional ordeal this is for me! Ever since I was a child I have had a horror of drunk people, and to this day the sight of them makes me want to cry. Lev Nikolaevich tolerates them quite easily, and when he was young I remember him laughing at old Voeikov the landlord monk when he had too much to drink, making him jump around, talk nonsense and do all sorts of tricks to amuse him.
12th November. This morning I visited the orphanage where I am a patron, and took a good look at these children picked off the streets and from the drinking houses, children carelessly born to fallen girls or drunken women, children who are congenital idiots, born with fits and defects, hysterical children, abnormal children…And it occurred to me that this work I’m doing isn’t really such a splendid thing after all. Is it necessary to save lives that offer no hope for the future? And according to the rules of the home, we only have to keep them till they are twelve.
Seryozha has come, and sits absorbed in chess problems for days on end. Most odd! This evening I went to the Maly Theatre with Sasha to see The Fruits of Enlightenment. I don’t like comedies, I can never laugh—it’s my great failing. We returned to find guests there.
The day before yesterday, Sergei Ivanovich came and played his symphony, arranged as a duet, with Goldenweiser.
Lev Nikolaevich told me today that when he left Tanya’s house in Kochety the roads were so bad he had decided to walk to the station, but he didn’t know the way and got lost. He saw some peasants and asked them to walk with him, but they were afraid of wolves and didn’t want to, although one finally agreed to walk him to the main road, where Sukhotin and the Sverbeevs overtook him on their way to the station. By then he had been wandering around for four hours, and by the time he got back to Moscow he was ill and exhausted.
Then on the way he pinched his finger in the train, and the nail came off, so he has been going to the clinic ever since he got back to have it dressed, and has been unable to write for three weeks.
13th November. Tanya came with her husband and visited Doctor Snegiryov, who diagnosed a completely normal pregnancy. Lev Nikolaevich was so overjoyed to see her he could hardly believe his eyes, and kept repeating: “She’s back, she’s back!”
Lev Nikolaevich, Misha and Seryozha went to the bathhouse this afternoon and later we all sat with Tanya; she has become a stranger to us now and is totally absorbed in material worries about the Sukhotin family. As she herself was saying only today, “I’ve become a perfect Martha.”
My soul is weary and my body aches with neuralgia. It’s a hard life; the inner fire that should warm my life devours it instead, for one has to smother it as soon as it bursts through.
15th November. I am ill, with a cold, nausea and headache, and have stayed at home for three days. Today I played the piano for about three hours—Mendelssohn’s studies, Auf Flügeln des Gesanges and a Beethoven sonata. We had guests all day. Much too much commotion for my poor head; worries about food, a lot of talk.
I see almost nothing of Tanya, who is completely absorbed in her husband. Lev Nikolaevich feels slightly unwell; he has a bad stomach and has had no dinner. Both he and I are in low spirits. It makes him angry and anxious whenever I see Sergei Ivanovich, but I miss him and his music—I don’t want to hurt Lev Nikolaevich, but I can’t help missing him dreadfully. It’s all very sad.
20th November. Our guests yesterday were a man from the island of Java who spoke French, and another from the Cape of Good Hope who spoke English. The first talked interestingly about Java, and told us that in the capital there were electric trams, an opera house and higher educational institutions, while in the provinces there were cannibals and heathens. This Malayan had read all of Lev Nikolaevich’s philosophical works and had come here especially to talk to him.*
The house is full: my daughter-in-law Sonya has come with her sons Andryusha and Misha, Tanya is here with her husband and stepson, and Tanya’s artist friend, Yulia Igumnova. Seryozha and Misha are here too. Yesterday there were two romances: Misha and Lina Glebova, who spent the day in our house for the first time yesterday, such a sweet, serious girl; and Sasha, who has fallen in love with Yusha Naryshkin. Who knows what that will lead to?
I love it when there is a lot of passion and excitement around me, but I can no longer join in as I used to. My own intense, impetuous life and my relations with my family and with outsiders have burnt out my heart and it is exhausted.
22nd November. I printed photographs, tried on dresses and called on Sergei Ivanovich to examine his gymnastic equipment, and he played me two choral works he has just completed. As usual I didn’t understand them straight away; one was set to words by Tyutchev, the other to the words of Khomyakov’s ‘The Stars’.*
As usual, his “intérieure” made a very good impression. His student Zhilyaev was sitting there busily immersed in some musical proofs, his old Nurse was asleep in her semi-darkened room, and Sergei Ivanovich came out to greet me, calm, serious and affectionate. We had a quiet talk together, and he took an affectionate, unaffected interest in everything.
Sonya came back late and I stayed up chatting with her, Tanya and Yulia Igumnova, and we all went to bed at around two in the morning.
23rd November. Tanya and her husband returned to their house in the country today, intending to return to Moscow for the birth. We won’t be seeing her again until the end of January. Seryo
zha and Misha are leaving too, and Sonya will leave tomorrow with the grandchildren. But I don’t care about any of them, I’m not particularly keen to see anyone—there’s just a nagging sense of something irretrievably lost, a helpless sense of the emptiness and pointlessness of existence, the absence of a close friend, the absence of love and concern.
I struggle to elicit from my husband what he lives for. He never tells me what he is writing or thinking, and takes less and less interest in my life.
24th November. Visits to various Ekaterinas on their name day. Ekat. Davydova is ill, Ekat. Yunge is in tears because her son has been taken into the army for three years, Ekat. Dunaeva is in deep mourning for her beloved brother-in-law. More cheerful at Ekat. Ermolova’s, with a lot of flowers, fine gowns and social brilliance. The dear Sverbeevs and their friends were good-natured but dull.
This evening I visited sick Marusya, and Lev Nikolaevich went to a musical evening at the lunatic asylum.* I often feel sorry for him: he seems to want music and entertainment, but his principles and his peasant shirt prevent him from going to concerts, or the theatre or anywhere else.
27th November. Ill again. Stayed in bed all of the 25th and yesterday until three in the afternoon, and could barely get up. No thoughts, no desires, depression…This evening Prince Shirinsky-Shikhmatov, Dunaev, Sneserev, secretary of the New Times, and someone else. We talked about Eskimo dogs, and the fire at Muir and Merrilees—so dull!
Today I am a little better. I spent the day going over bills with the accountant, checked the book sales, got receipts for everything. He tried to cheat me out of 1,000 rubles, but I spotted it in time.
I was lying in bed this morning listening to the wind howling, and all at once a cock crowed, and I had a sudden vivid memory of Easter Sunday at Yasnaya Polyana; I looked out of the window and saw a red cockerel on a heap of straw crowing. I opened the ventilation window and heard the distant church bells ringing and remembered how in the old days no one in our home cursed the Church, no one condemned the Orthodox faith as Lev Nikolaevich did yesterday with Shirinsky-Shikhmatov. The Church is the idea that preserves the Deity and unites all who believe in God. The Church has created its fathers and its worshippers, those who fast and appeal to God with purified souls and prayers such as: “Our Father, Lord of Life, grant me not the spirit of idleness, sorrow, self-love and empty talk. Grant me instead the spirit of wisdom, humility, patience and love…”
30th November. This morning I went to buy shoes and jerseys for my grandchildren, wool for blankets, dresses for Dora and Varenka, and plates and dishes in the sale. For two days I have been cutting out underwear and making a layette for Tanya’s baby. But I don’t enjoy it, I hate it, I’m tired of working.
The secretary of the orphanage visited: things aren’t going well there. Some little boys were brought in yesterday and turned away because they were too young.
3rd December. I have been busy with the orphanage, without success. I went there today, and for the first time since I was made a patron I felt sorry for these children. I want to organize a concert to raise money for them, but it will be hard, I’m too late, and it’s such an unusual scheme.
Misha was here, and has gone elk-hunting with Ilya.
4th December. Lev Nikolaevich said today he was much better and felt motivated to work again. He joked that he had been drained of all his talent by Puzin, and that Puzin would now be the wiser for it. This Puzin, a nobleman and horse-dealer, is a young ignoramus who lives with the Sukhotins. Lev Nikolaevich stayed in his room and slept in his bed when he visited them, and afterwards said he must have been invaded by Puzin’s soul, for he couldn’t work and had grown as stupid as Puzin. But today this has passed. Lev Nikolaevich has resumed his old life now that I am looking after him, and is physically and mentally fit again.
I went to greet the Varvaras on their name day. I spent a long time at the Maslovs; all very good-natured, friendly, simple and interesting, with refreshments, chocolate and a lot of guests. Sergei Ivanovich came and livened things up.
I am preoccupied with the concert for the orphans’ home.
5th and 6th December. Lev Nikolaevich is writing a letter to the Tsar appealing to him to allow the Dukhobors’ wives, who emigrated to Canada with the others, to be reunited in Yakutsk with their husbands.
I returned some essential calls, then sent invitations to a meeting at my orphanage and asked members to pay their dues.
7th December. Lev Nikolaevich and I were invited to the Glebovs’ for a concert of 23 balalaikas conducted by Andreev. The orchestra also includes zhaleiki,* psalteries and bagpipes.
It was splendid, especially the Russian folk songs; then a waltz, and Schumann’s ‘Warum?’ This was played for Lev Nikolaevich’s benefit, as he had expressed a desire to hear it. The dear Trubetskoy children were there. V.I. Maslova, Dunaev and Usov came this evening.
There was a slight unpleasantness with Lev Nikolaevich. We had planned to spend the holidays with Ilyusha near Moscow, but Lev Nikolaevich now says he wants to go to Pirogovo to see his brother. Ilya’s estate is so close to Moscow, I could have looked after him there. But Pirogovo is such a godforsaken hole and Sergei Nikolaevich, that proud and despotic man, is very ill. Lev Nikolaevich is sorry for him and will suffer to see him; then there’s the exhausting journey and the bad food, and he’ll be living away from me so I won’t be able to look after him. I felt very hurt and told him: he would ruin the holiday for me if he went. I couldn’t and wouldn’t go to Pirogovo, which I hate, I wanted to visit Ilya, Andryusha and Lyova and see my grandchildren.
He kept a cold and stubborn silence throughout—a murderous new habit of his. I was sobbing all night until 4 in the morning, trying not to wake him.
8th December. I went to town to do some errands for my children, and to the bathhouse. The driver turned the horse too abruptly on the Kuznetsky Most and tipped over the sledge, tumbling off the coach box and throwing me onto the ground. It was a very busy street, with trams jingling and carriages dashing past, and a large crowd gathered around me. I hurt my elbow, leg and back, but it doesn’t seem too serious. Lev Nikolaevich was very upset though, which pleased me. I sewed a kidskin finger-guard for his sore finger and carried it upstairs to give him; he took it and drew me towards him, kissing me and smiling. How seldom he shows me affection these days! But thanks for this kindness, anyway.
This evening’s guests were Gagarina, Gayarinova, Martynov, Gorbunov and a peasant writer called Semyonov. Lev Nikolaevich started a discussion about children. He says women and children are egotists, and it is only men who are capable of self-sacrifice. We said only women were capable of self-sacrifice, and there was a nasty argument.
10th December. A meeting at the orphanage. Very flattering for me, because the other members told me I was the life and soul of their society, it was a joy to work with me, and I inspired them with my passionate devotion to our cause.
But what made me happiest was that when they showed the children to Tsvetkova, the wife of our benefactor, the little ones all jumped into my arms and hugged me and kissed me. That means the children like me, and that’s the most precious thing for me.
This evening I went to a concert to hear the interlude to Taneev’s Oresteia, a marvellous work, but badly performed by Litvinov’s orchestra. Then Sobinov sang a song which his pupil Yusha Pomerantsev had dedicated to me.
Throughout the concert I was making enquiries about the meeting hall, finding out when it was free, how much it cost and so on. I was in a businesslike frame of mind. I went home with Sergei Ivanovich, again quite by chance—we happened to meet on the stairs. I begged him to play at my concert, but he refused, logical, self-centred and perfectly correct, as usual. “I am composing at present and cannot play,” he said. “In order to play for just a quarter of an hour I would have to waste two months practising.” He is quite right of course, but I am sorry no one will agree to play or sing.
Good-natured Ilya arrived today with his endless jokes, and Mis
ha has brought his gramophone, which amused everyone with its horribly tinny sounds. Seryozha has come too; he played a piece by Grieg beautifully.
17th December. I returned yesterday evening from Yasnaya, worn out mentally and physically. When I got there I found my little grandson Levushka in a fever, and Dora anxious and also ill. Lyova left for St Petersburg to buy a house while I was there, and it was pitiful to see the worried mother with her baby, crying and groaning day and night.
I spent two days paying out money for some casual labour we had had done, entering it all in the book and checking the accounts. Then I walked around the estate. It’s a never-ending struggle with the peasants; all this thieving is justified from the poor peasants’ point of view, but so unpleasant. It’s particularly painful that the Grumond peasants have chopped down the birch trees on the bank of the pond where we used to have picnics, drink tea and fish. I wanted to pardon the peasant who pulled up some apple trees at the threshing barn, as he had asked permission to do so, but the case had already been referred to the village policeman while I was away.
I spent four days with Dora and helped her with the children, and drove to Ovsyannikovo to see Maria Schmidt. It was a frosty evening, with a beautiful sunset, hoar frost, the sharp outline of the half-moon, boundless expanses of snow, and everything silent, stern and cold. She seemed weighed down by her earthly life after her illness. Tolstoy’s follower, young Abrikosov, is also there, living an ascetic life. I cannot think what reason he had to settle there in an alien village, with no purpose in life and no work, simply making some sort of chest for a local peasant for money, when his father owns a sweet factory and a wealthy estate in the Crimea and lives in luxury.