by Cathy Porter
As I was leaving the room just now he said, “Goodbye, Sonya!” in a distinct and significant tone of voice. And I kissed his hand and said “Goodbye” to him too. He thinks I might be asleep when he dies…No, he doesn’t think anything of the sort, he understands everything, and it’s so hard for him…
13th December, evening. Lyovochka has come back to life again and is much better—his pulse, temperature and appetite have improved. Boulanger was reading Kropotkin’s Notes* to him.
Today the following announcement from Lev Nikolaevich appeared in the Russian Gazette:
We have received this letter from Count Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy:
Dear Sir, Most Honoured Editor,
Due to my extreme age and the various illnesses which have taken their toll, I am obviously not in particularly good health, and this deterioration in my condition will naturally continue. Detailed information about this deterioration may be of interest to some people—and in completely opposite senses too—but I find the publication of this information most unpleasant. I would therefore ask all newspaper editors not to print information about my illness.
Lev Tolstoy, 9th December, 1902
18th December. Lev Nikolaevich is still in bed. He sits up, reads and takes notes, but is very weak…
I have been reading Hauptmann’s The Weavers: all we rich people, landowners and manufacturers live such extraordinarily luxurious lives, I thought; I often don’t go to the village simply to avoid the awkwardness and shame I feel for my wealthy, privileged life and their poverty. Yet I am constantly astonished at how meek and gentle they are with us.
Then I read some of A. Khomyakov’s poems. There is so much genuine poetry and feeling in them. ‘To Children’ simply pours from his heart, honest and passionate. If one has never had children, one couldn’t possibly understand the feelings of a parent, especially a mother.
You go into the nursery at night and look at the three or four little cots with such a feeling of fullness, richness and pride…You bend over each one of them, look into those lovely innocent little faces which breathe such purity, holiness and hope. And you make the sign of the cross over them or bless them in your heart, then pray for them and leave the room, your soul filled with love and tenderness, and you ask nothing of God, for life is full.
And now they have all grown up and gone away…And it’s not the empty cots that fill one with sadness, it’s the disappointment in those beloved children’s characters and fates.
27th December. It’s again a long time since I have written. I spent three days in Moscow—the 19th, 20th and 21st. I got the accounts for the book sales from the accountant, did some shopping and got presents for the children, servants and so on, which they loved.
Lev Nikolaevich improved greatly while I was away, and got up, went into the next room and worked. Then on Christmas Day he suddenly grew worse. He ate nothing, was given strophanthus and caffeine, and the doctor was evidently nonplussed. Yesterday he was much better again.
When Lev Nikolaevich was so ill, he said half-joking to Masha, “The Angel of Death came for me, but God called him away to other work. Now he has finished he has come for me again.”
Every deterioration in Lev Nikolaevich’s condition causes me greater and greater suffering, and I am terrified of losing him. In Gaspra I didn’t feel nearly so much pain and tenderness for him as I feel now. What agony it is to see him suffering and sinking, weak and stricken in mind and body!
I take his head in my hands and kiss him with tender love and solicitude, and he looks at me blankly.
What is happening to him? What is he thinking?
29th December. First Lev Nikolaevich gets better, then worse. Today he said to me: “I am afraid I shall be exhausting you for a long time.”
We talked about the English. Two Englishmen from some spiritual society had walked to London dressed only in jackets and open shirts, and from there they travelled to Russia without so much as a kopeck, with the sole purpose of seeing Tolstoy and asking him to clear up their religious doubts. They stayed with Dunaev, and we sent a couple of L.N.’s fur coats and caps over to them so they wouldn’t freeze.
1903
Riots in the countryside continue. 6th April, Easter Day—massacre of Jews in Kishinev, Bessarabia. (Tolstoy writes to governor of Kishinev to protest.) May—a railway worker blows up governor of Ufa with high explosives. August—another great pogrom in Gomel.
Tolstoy visited by increasing numbers of radical students and revolutionaries. Eleventh edition of his Complete Works published.
1st January. A sad start to the new year. We had a letter from Tanya yesterday saying her baby has stopped moving again and she is in despair…L.N. read her letter first and when I went in to see him this morning he said to me, “It’s all over for Tanya now, you know.” His mouth trembled, he burst into sobs and his thin sick face was filled with grief.
I feel desperately sorry for Tanya, and it’s torture to see Lyovochka slipping away from life. These are the two people I love best in my family.
Then today a poor peasant woman called Domna came from the village to beg a bottle of milk to feed her twin baby daughters.
We saw in the New Year yesterday. My daughters-in-law Olga and Sonya are here with the children. Ilyusha and Andryusha arrived last night. There are a lot of people—nineteen in all, including the servants. Two more Englishmen have come, some sort of crazy spiritualists from the partly educated working class. They took L.N. by the arm and suggested praying for his recovery; they are quite convinced this will save him.*
His pulse was weak this morning and very irregular; he had a morphine injection and has been asleep all day.
At five this morning I went into my bedroom, raised the blind and opened the ventilation window. The white moonlight streamed over the countryside and poured over the linden avenues and into my room. Then the cocks started crowing in the village—such an eerie sound! Today I went for a long walk through the woods, along the path to the swimming pool and back. Silence, solitude, nature—wonderful! Goldenweiser played beautifully for us this evening.
2nd January. News from Tanya: she gave birth to dead twin boys yesterday! We are all feeling crushed, but at least the birth wasn’t too difficult, thank God. Heaven knows what will happen now.
19th January. I returned today from Moscow, where I placed a new order with another printer. There is not a single copy of the Complete Works for sale at the moment, and not one copy of War and Peace.
I heard a lot of music in Moscow. Arensky played his study with Ziloti, and conducted his musical poem to the words of ‘The Goblet’—it was delightful.
I had a most disturbing conversation yesterday with Sergei Ivanovich, which made me realize just why I had always loved and appreciated him so much. He is an extraordinarily good and noble man.
The weather is still and warm, 1 degree below freezing. The silence of nature is so good, for God is there. How I long to merge with nature and join Him. Instead of reading proofs I sit here and cry all day. Help me, Lord!
21st January. Seryozha was rude to me the other day because I spoke to Sasha while they were playing vint and interrupted their game. I burst into tears, went to my room and lay down on the bed. After a little while L.N. came in leaning on his stick, looking very weak and thin, and was so kind and understanding and told me he had reprimanded Seryozha.
I was very touched by this, and felt such tenderness and reverence for him that I started sobbing again, kissing his hands with that involuntary sense of guilt which has lately been leading me down some fateful path I know not where.
28th January. My inner torment reached a pitch of suffering and guilt and I longed to see and talk to the man I love. I was taken ill, and felt very bad; then I collapsed and couldn’t stand up all evening. They put ice on my head and I lay there all night, tense and overwrought; my body simply stopped living. But today, three days later, I am feeling much better, for the illness put a stop to all my anguish and emotional torment.
9th February. I went to Moscow again. There was a chamber music recital at which they played Taneev’s quartet (I saw him briefly), the Mozart clarinet quintet (delightful, it gave me enormous pleasure) and Tchaikovsky’s sextet Memories of Florence. I felt calm and happy afterwards. The old ladies, Uncle Kostya and Sergei Ivanovich all came to see me the following day and we read Lev Nikolaevich’s ‘Destruction and Reconstruction of Hell’, about the devils. This again had the most unpleasant effect on me, and the other listeners too. Sergei Ivanovich was in a lively mood and I found him quite charming. I went to the Hoffmann concert, at which he played the wonderful Chopin piano concerto. I also had a lot of work to do—finding a proofreader, publishing, binding and so on—and I left much of it unfinished. I also attended to Sasha’s financial affairs…It is emotionally exhausting, and such a waste!
20th February. Lev Nikolaevich has an old man sitting with him, a soldier from the days of Nicholas I, who fought in the Caucasus and is relating his memories. He went for a drive through the woods yesterday, and this morning he sat outside on the upper balcony. He is healthy and calm. I did a little work on his correspondence—mostly begging letters and notes asking for his autograph.
What has happened recently? 1) A son, Ilya, was born to Andryusha on the night of 3rd–4th February. I went to see him and congratulate Olga. 2) Masha and Kolya have gone abroad. The house seems empty without them, but I feel relieved—they were almost daily guests here.
We lead a secluded existence. Our landowning life is so unnatural—just a few individuals living here among the rural population, with absolutely no contact with the people. It would be quite unnatural anyway to make contact with a class that hasn’t been educated to our level.
I receive many letters concerning mine to the New Times. Many condemn Lev Nikolaevich as the creator of sordid literature, with his Resurrection, The Power of Darkness and The Kreutzer Sonata.
But this is a misunderstanding, mere foolishness. Many people are overjoyed, and thank me for my letter—mainly because I wrote it as a mother. The government has its defenders though, and all this makes me feel as if I had scattered Persian powder on bedbugs. I write one letter to the newspaper, and it provokes countless letters, articles, notices and caricatures.
Music is one consolation, and the other is knowing I am doing my duty looking after Lev Nikolaevich and easing his suffering.
22nd February. A daughter, Tanya, has been born to Misha and Lina.
6th March. I went to Moscow to see Andryusha, who is ill, check the book sales, have my teeth filled, go shopping, place orders and go to concerts: Taneev’s cantata and various other pieces, performed by the philharmonic orchestra, a symphony concert, the Manfred overture, Der Freischütz and so on, some Beethoven and Mozart quartets, and the pianist Buyukli played Chopin’s ‘A Major Polonaise’.
I then went to St Petersburg. Lyova and Dora were very sweet, and so were their dear little boys; my sister Tanya was wretchedly short of money; my brother Vyacheslav was there with his ugly wife and was so kind and sensitive. I spent one day there and two nights on the train, then it was Moscow again and a lot of dashing around, entertaining guests, visiting sick Andryusha—and all this anxious, senseless waste of physical and emotional energy gave me such a sense of powerlessness, dissatisfaction and depression.
It is better in Yasnaya. The beauty of the bright days, the sun shining on the smooth glassy expanse of frozen water, the blue sky, the stillness of nature and the twittering birds are all a premonition of spring.
I have finished the proofs of Anna Karenina. By following the state of Anna’s soul, step by step, I grew to understand myself and was terrified…But people don’t take their lives to avenge themselves on someone, they take their lives because they no longer have the strength to live…At first struggle, then prayer, then reconciliation, then despair—and finally powerlessness and death.
And I had a sudden clear vision of Lev Nikolaevich weeping his old man’s tears and saying no one had ever seen what was taking place in my soul, no one had ever helped me…
How could they have helped me? To allow Sergei Ivanovich to be invited here again and help restore our old peaceful, friendly relations. And to forgive me for my feelings, so I needn’t feel guilty about them.
10th March. Lev Nikolaevich is well. We went for a lovely drive today along the forest paths through Zaseka, although the thaw has already started. Yet when I go into my room I am overwhelmed by the evil mystery of my emotional state, and I long to see the man who is now at the centre of my disgraceful, untimely madness. I must live, I must think of my husband and children, I mustn’t betray my madness, I mustn’t see the person I love to distraction…
All I can do is pray to be cured of this sickness…
1st July. I have written nothing all spring and summer, and have spent the whole time outside with nature, taking advantage of the delightful weather. I can’t remember such a beautiful summer or such a dazzling spring. I didn’t want to think or write or examine my soul. What would be the point?
There was a hateful conversation at dinner today. L.N., in front of large numbers of people and with a naive grin on his face, began cursing doctors and medicine in his usual way. I found this insufferable now that he is well, after those nine doctors in the Crimea worked so selflessly and intelligently to restore his health. I felt no honourable man should regard those who saved his life in this way. I would have kept quiet, if he hadn’t then added that according to Rousseau all doctors were in league with women. At that I couldn’t contain my rage. I am sick and tired of eternally acting as a screen for my husband to hide behind. If he didn’t trust the way these doctors treated him, why did he summon them in the first place and submit to their diagnoses?
Our painful conversation of 1st July 1903 is no mere chance event, it is a result of the solitude and the dishonesty of my life.
My husband blames me for everything: his works are sold against his will, Yasnaya Polyana is kept and managed against his will, the servants serve against his will, the doctors are summoned against his will…There’s no end to it…And meanwhile I work like a slave for everyone and my life is not my own.
9th July. The children have returned from abroad—Masha and Kolya Obolensky on the 6th, Andryusha on the 7th, and Lyova on the 8th. Andryusha looks weak and wretched, but he is being very agreeable. Poor Lyova is in a state of emotional turmoil; he is so pathetic, and so dear to me. Masha has recovered and is as much a stranger as ever.
10th July. L.N. was better yesterday evening. A young officer of the household cavalry called Adlerberg came with his immensely fat wife, and L.N. invited him into his room and questioned him closely about his military activities: “What do you do when you troop the colour? When does the Tsar get on his horse to review the troops? Who leads the horse?” and so on and so on. He is studying the history of Nicholas I’s reign at present, and is collecting and reading a lot of material for Hadji Murat.
12th July. I wanted to write something good today, but instead I became engrossed in reading, and now I am too tired. Yesterday I went to Taptykovo to see Olga on her name day. Andryusha is sick and exceedingly thin. I find Olga incomprehensible. What exactly does she live for? I went there with Lyova, and this son brings me no joy either. His wife is ill with nephritis in Sweden, and he is making plans, says he wants to enrol in the medical faculty and live in Moscow; there is a terrible restlessness about him. Lev Nikolaevich is not well: he still has difficulty breathing and an irregular pulse. The weather has turned—it’s terribly windy and only 11 degrees. This evening he played a lively game of vint with Masha, Kolya, Sasha and Nikitin.
13th July. We had a visit from an old man and his wife who had been arrested for blaspheming against Athanasius;* they were very pathetic, but it seems impossible to do anything for them. L.N. sent a letter to the Tsar via Count Olsufiev, making enquiries about this Athanasius.
10th August. It’s said no one but God can judge a husband’s treatmen
t of his wife. So let this letter which I am copying here not provide grounds for judging anyone.
It was in the year of my beloved little son Vanechka’s death. He died on 23rd February, 1895, at just seven years of age, and his death was the greatest tragedy of my life. At that time I clung with all my soul to Lev Nikolaevich, in whom I sought comfort and some purpose in life, and I worked for him and wrote for him. Once, when he went to Tula, I found his room hadn’t been properly cleaned, so I went in to tidy it up…How many tears I shed later as I wrote this letter.
Here it is; I found it today, 10th August, amongst my papers. It is a rough draft, dated 12th October, 1895, and ends:
Forgive me if I have been so base as to read your diaries; I was tidying your room and dusting a cobweb off your writing desk, and the temptation to look into your soul was too great…
And then I came across the words:
“S. came back from Moscow. Butted into my conversation with Bool. Pushed herself forward. She has become even more frivolous since Vanechka’s death. One must bear one’s cross to the end. Help me Lord…”
And so on.
I try to rise above the suffering that torments me now.
But if it is not very hard for you to do so, please delete those angry words about me from your diaries—for this is the Christian thing to do. I cannot beg you to love me, but please spare my name.
Forgive me if you can.
S. Tolstoy
At the time we did manage to reach some sort of agreement, and L.N. crossed out one or two things in his diary. But I wasn’t seeking love and comfort from him then, and my heart never again turned to my husband with that spontaneous love and trust that had once been there. It closed for ever then, irrevocably.