by Cathy Porter
29th December. The Tartars had a festival today. They were seeing a Mullah off to Mecca for three months and had prepared a dinner for him, and the streets of Koreiz and Gaspra were crowded with cheerful people of all nationalities in their best clothes. The Turks danced in a circle, looking very picturesque. I tried to take a photograph of them, but they were moving too fast and it came out badly. Lev Nikolaevich walked off on his own to Ai-Todor. He was gentle and kind today, and we are getting on well together—what a joy!
30th December. A very mixed lot of people came to see Lev Nikolaevich—three revolutionary workers filled with hatred for the rich and dissatisfaction with the present social arrangements, then six sectarians who have lapsed from the Church, three of whom are true Christians, in that they lead a moral life and love their neighbour. The other three were originally Molokans and are still sympathetic to their beliefs.
There was also an old man, better off and more intelligent than the rest, who apparently wants to go to the Caucasus and found a monastery by the sea based on new principles. He wants all the brothers to be highly educated, so that this monastery could be a sort of centre of learning and civilization. The monks would work the land and support themselves through their own labour. A difficult venture, but a worthy one.
This evening we went to the public library, where a dance had been organized. The music was provided by three travelling Czech musicians and a young man with a big harmonium, and chambermaids, and craftsmen’s wives and daughters all danced waltzes, polkas and pas de quatre with men from various social classes. Two Tartars did some Tartar dances, two Georgians did a lezginka with a dagger, and a lot of people—including Volkov the zemstvo doctor, a highly capable and energetic man—danced the trepak, squatting and leaping Russian-style. We all went to watch, even Lev Nikolaevich.
31st December. The last day of a difficult year! Will the new one be better?
Lev Nikolaevich walked over to see M. Gorky and returned with Goldenweiser, who is staying with us.
I have copied out the first chapter of ‘On Religion’, and so far I don’t like it. I don’t at all like the way he compares people’s faith in religion to an outworn appendix.
I went with Sasha to Koreiz to buy wine, oranges and refreshments for the servants’ New Year party. We are having a party too, although I don’t much like these semi-celebrations. People just sit around and eat, then at midnight something is suddenly supposed to happen.
1902
April—a young student shoots dead Minister of Interior. July—a worker shoots governor of Kharkov. Waves of peasant riots in the countryside; some ninety estates plundered, with the help of Socialist Revolutionary “expropriators”.
June—Tolstoys leave the Crimea. Tolstoy works on two plays, The Light Shines Even in Darkness and The Living Corpse, a few short stories, an essay on Shakespeare and a popular anthology, Thoughts of the Wise Men for Every Day. Sofia works on the eleventh edition of his Complete Works.
1st January. We had a quiet family New Year party yesterday. (Lev Nikolaevich had to go to bed early, as he felt ill after his bath.) Klassen came this morning with some lovely violets.
I am copying Lev Nikolaevich’s article ‘On Religion’ a little at a time, but it lacks something—it needs more passion, more conviction.
I took a walk to the Yusupovs’ Park and the coast, with Olga and Tanya. It was a warm, summery day, and by the sea we met Gorky and his wife. Then Altschuler called. Our servants all came in dressed as mummers and stamped and danced about; it was terribly tedious—I am much too old for that sort of thing.
I wrote five letters, finished knitting a scarf and gave presents to Ilya Vasilevich and the cook. I received charming letters from my daughters-in-law Sonya and Lina, and felt so pleased that at least two of my children, Ilya and Misha, are happily married. What will this new infant Vanechka Tolstoy be like?
4th January. For the past three nights I have been sleeping on the leather sofa in the drawing room, or rather not sleeping but listening out all night for Lev Nikolaevich next door. His heart has been very irregular. Yesterday and today he came down to dinner, but grew dreadfully weak afterwards, and today we summoned Tikhonov, the Grand Duke’s doctor, from Dülber. He warned of dire consequences if Lev Nikolaevich continued to lead this reckless life, overtiring himself and overeating.
Seven inches of snow fell in the night, and it is still on the ground. Yesterday there was a north wind and 3 degrees of frost; today it is half a degree above freezing, with no wind. I knew this weather would have a bad effect on him. It always does.
I am looking after him on my own, but his obstinacy, his tyrannical behaviour and his complete ignorance of hygiene and medical matters makes it terribly hard, even unbearable at times. For instance, the doctors order him to eat caviar, fish and bouillon, but he refuses because he is a vegetarian—it will be the ruin of him.
I have been reading an extraordinary little book, a translation of Giuseppe Mazzini’s On Human Duty.*
5th January. Palpitations, difficulty in breathing, insomnia, general misery. Several times during the night I got up and went to him. He drank some milk with a spoonful of cognac, took some strophanthus, which he asked for himself, and managed towards morning to get a little sleep. Doctor Tikhonov called yesterday evening, and again today, and said there was an infiltration of the liver, a weakness of the heart and a disorder of the intestines. These complaints appeared long ago, but are now following their course in a more pronounced and malignant fashion, and manifest their ominous symptoms yet more frequently and painfully.
L.N. is very dejected, and keeps us all at a distance, calling us only if he needs something. He sits in a chair, reads or goes to bed. He slept very little again today.
There is snow on the ground and the temperature is at freezing point. A terrible wind has been howling all day. The whole place is cheerless and desolate. I have put all thoughts of Moscow out of my mind for now—although it’s essential that I go!
I sit at home all day sewing and ruining my eyes; I am sunk in torpor, as I used to be in my youth at Yasnaya Polyana. But then I had children!…
8th January. Doctor Altschuler and Doctor Tikhonov came yesterday and prescribed a twice-weekly dose of extract of buckthorn, in tablet form, and five drops of strophanthus three times a day for six days. But he refuses to take anything. I am tired of this forty-year struggle, I am tired of having to employ tricks and stratagems to make him take this or that medicine and help him get better. I no longer have the strength to struggle. There are times when I long to get away from everyone and withdraw into myself, if only briefly.
All this morning I was copying out his ‘On Religion’. This is more of a socialist work than a religious one.
I told him this yesterday. A religious work should be poetic and exalted, I said; his ‘On Religion’ was very logical but didn’t capture the imagination or elevate the soul. He replied that it needed only to be logical, a lot of poetry and lofty obscurity would only confuse the issue.
I was thinking about my trip to Moscow again.
10th January. The atmosphere here is so gloomy at times. I am sitting alone after dinner sewing in the dark drawing room. Lev Nikolaevich is next door in his room. Tanya is tapping away on the Remington on the other side, Seryozha is silently reading the newspapers in the dining room, and Olga is upstairs with Sonyusha. There is silence in the house, broken at times by terrible gusts of wind, which howls and groans and stalks the rooms, filling them with cold.
He is so weak at present, he often calls me simply to cover him with a rug or adjust his blanket. I have to make sure he doesn’t overeat, that people don’t make a noise when he is trying to sleep and that there are no draughts. I have just put a compress on his stomach. He drinks Ems water twice a day.
11th January. I went to Yalta with Tanya to do some business and shopping, and brought her a hat for her name day. Masha was looking very thin and wretched.
Poor Olga’s baby has stopped m
oving inside her in her sixth month. I feel so sorry for her. I brought Sasha home. Yesterday she rode her horse over to Gurzuf, and today she attended a rehearsal of It’s Not All Cream for the Cat, in which she plays Fiona. I have now finished copying ‘On Religion’, which I began to like better towards the end. I like what he writes about the freedom of a man’s soul illuminated by religious feeling.
12th January. The whole day was absorbed by worries. First I played with my granddaughter, then comforted poor Olga who was weeping for her baby; then I washed and mended Seryozha’s cap; then I gave Sasha some advice about her theatrical costume; then the doctor came to see Olga; then this evening I prepared an enema for Lev Nikolaevich; then I put a compress on his stomach and brought him some wine, and he drank some coffee that had been heated up for him.
Tanya’s name day. She has arrived from Yalta and is in a melancholy mood. Andryusha too is sad and quiet: his marriage is in difficulties and I feel very sorry for him. Seryozha has just left for Yalta, intending to celebrate the first day of the Moscow University year. He has spent the last few days playing the piano on his own in the side wing. I have been deprived of even that pleasure now! I cannot leave the house, I cannot leave Lev Nikolaevich or Olga with anyone. My old age is turning into a sad time. Yet that storm of desires and aspirations for a more spiritual, more significant life has not been extinguished in my soul.
14th January. How time flies…There is no winter here and no certainty. There is nothing to rejoice about either. Lev Nikolaevich’s health isn’t improving. This great man has a dreadfully obstinate nature. He refuses the diet of fish and chicken that has been recommended, and insists on eating carrots and red cabbage as he did today, then suffering for it.
I sat by his room until half-past three in the morning yesterday, waiting for Andryusha and Seryozha to return from an evening of cards. He slept well. At the moment I am copying out his letter to the Tsar.
16th January. A terrible night. L.N.’s temperature went up to 38. I spent the night in the drawing room next to his bedroom and had no sleep at all. Yesterday and today we rubbed him with iodine and applied a compress. He had five grains of quinine at 2 in the afternoon, and has been taking 5 drops of strophanthus twice a day. Despite all this he got up, did some writing and played vint with Klassen, Kolya Obolensky and his sons.
17th January. The same medicine, the same pain in his side, although he is a little more cheerful. Chekhov called,* and Altschuler. The weather is warm and fine. Tanya has left to see her husband in the country. I have just copied out L.N.’s letter to the Tsar—an angry insulting letter, abusing everything on earth and giving him the most absurd advice on how to run the country. I do hope Grand Duke Mikhailovich understands it is the product of a sick liver and stomach and doesn’t give it to the Tsar; if he does, it will infuriate him and he may take action against us.
18th January. I put my husband to bed every evening like a child. I bind his stomach with a compress of spirit and camphor mixed with water, I put out a glass of milk, a clock and a little bell, I undress him and tuck him up; then I sit next door in the drawing room reading the newspapers until he goes to sleep. I have summoned up all my patience and am doing my utmost to help him endure his illness.
20th January. I went to see Sasha in the role of Fiona the old housekeeper in It’s Not All Cream for the Cat, which is being performed in the local library. It was Sasha’s first acting attempt, and she wasn’t at all bad. The cast was a strange mixture of people—a doctor’s wife, a blacksmith, a nurse, a stonemason and a countess. This is all good.
Lev Nikolaevich is better, his stomach isn’t hurting and his temperature was 36.9 this evening, as it was yesterday. He took some strophanthus, but refused to take quinine. We didn’t apply a compress today.
There has been a thick fall of wet snow.
23rd January. Doctor Bertenson (a distinguished physician-in-ordinary) arrived from St Petersburg yesterday evening. Today clever Doctor Shchurovsky came from Moscow, and the two of them had a serious consultation with Altschuler. I shall note down their recommendations for Lev Nikolaevich:
Regime:
1. Avoid all exertion, physical and emotional.
2. Not to go for long walks. Horse-riding and climbing strictly forbidden.
3. To rest for 1 to 1½ hours every day, taking his clothes off and going to bed.
4. To have three meals a day and eat no peas, lentils or red cabbage. To drink no less than four glasses of coffee with milk every day (¼ coffee to ¾ milk). If milk is drunk on its own, it must be taken with salt (¼ teaspoonful per glass).
Wine may sometimes be replaced by porter (no more than two Madeira glassfuls per day).
5. To take a bath every two weeks. The water to be 28 degrees and the soap (half a pound) to be dissolved into it. To sit in the bath for five minutes and sponge himself with clean water of the same temperature.
In the interval between baths to rub the body with a solution of soap spirit and eau de Cologne.
Treatment:
1. A twice-weekly enema made from 1 pound of oil slightly warmed, to be administered at night.
For the other days, 1–5 pills to be taken at night. If the pills prove ineffective, to administer a water enema in the morning.
2. Glass of Karlsbad Mühlbrun, slightly warmed, to be drunk three times a day for one month.
3. Three camomile capsules a day for three days; repeat after two days, and so on.
4. Should heart medication (strophanthus) be required, this must be administered by a doctor.
5. In the eventuality of a bad nervous illness, capsules (+ Coff) should be taken for the pain.
If the doctor considers it necessary to give quinine under the prescribed regime, this must not be obstructed.
Lev Nikolaevich’s diet must consist of: four glasses of milk and coffee a day.
Gruels: buckwheat porridge, rice, oats, semolina with milk.
Eggs: fried, whisked raw, in aspic, scrambled with asparagus.
Vegetables: carrots, turnips, celery, Brussels sprouts, baked potatoes, potato purée, pickled cabbage chopped fine (?), lettuce scalded in hot water.
Fruits: sieved baked apples, stewed fruit, raw apples chopped small; all oranges to be sucked.
All sorts of jellies and creams are good; meringues.
Written later, on the evening of the 23rd. Lev Nikolaevich had a terrifying attack of angina and his temperature went up to 39°.
24th January. The doctor listened to his heart this evening and diagnosed pleurisy in the left lung. Shchurovsky has returned and is treating him.
25th January. They have decided it is pneumonia of the left lung, which subsequently spread to the right one too. His heart has been bad all this time.
26th January. I don’t know why I am writing—this is a conversation with my soul. My Lyovochka is dying…And I know now that my life cannot go on without him. I have lived with him for forty years. For others he is a celebrity, for me he is my whole existence. We have become part of each other’s lives, and my God what a lot of guilt and remorse has accumulated over the years…But it is all over now, we won’t get it back. Help me, Lord. I have given him so much love and tenderness, yet my many weaknesses have grieved him! Forgive me Lord! I ask for neither strength from God nor consolation, I ask for faith and religion, God’s spiritual support, which has recently helped my precious husband to live.
27th January. I would like to record everything concerning my dear Lyovochka, but I cannot; I am suffocated by tears and crushed by the weight of my grief…Yesterday Shchurovsky suggested Lyovochka inhale some oxygen, and he said: “Wait a bit, first it’s camphor, then it’s oxygen, next it’ll be the coffin and the grave.”
Today I went up to him, kissed his forehead and asked him: “Is it hard for you?” And he said: “No, I feel calm.” Masha asked him: “Is it horrible, Papa?” And he replied: “Physically, yes, but emotionally I feel happy, so very happy.” This morning I was sitting beside him and he was g
roaning in his sleep, when he called out suddenly in a loud voice: “Sonya!” I jumped up and bent over him and he looked at me and said: “I dreamt you were in bed somewhere…” Then the dear man asked me whether I had slept and eaten…This is the first time anyone has asked about me! Oh Lord, help me not to expect anything from people, and to be grateful for everything that I may receive from them.
His pleurisy is pursuing its terrifying course, his heart is growing weaker, his pulse is quick, his breathing is short…He groans day and night. These groans carve deep scars into my heart—I shall hear them for the rest of my life. He often talks at length about what has been preoccupying him lately: his letter to the Tsar and other letters he has written.
I once heard him say: “I was wrong,” then “I didn’t understand.”
He is generous and affectionate with everyone around him, and is evidently well pleased with the treatment he is receiving. “That’s wonderful,” he keeps saying.
No, I cannot write, he is groaning downstairs. He has had several injections of camphor and morphine.
He once said in his delirium: “Sevastopol is burning.” And then he called out to me again: “Sonya what are you doing? Are you writing?”
Several times he asked: “When is Tanya coming?” and “What time is it?” He asked what the date was, and whether it was the 27th.
28th January. Tanya, the Sukhotins and Ilya have come, bringing a lot of noise and worries about food and accommodation. How frightful it all is: the painful struggle of a great soul in its passage to eternity and oneness with God, whom he has served—and all these earthly cares in the house.