by Cathy Porter
17th November. I went into Lev Nikolaevich’s room this evening as he was getting ready for bed, and realized I never hear a single word of comfort or kindness from him nowadays.
What I predicted has indeed come true: my passionate husband has died, and since he was never a friend to me, how could he be one to me now?
This life is not for me. There is nowhere for me to put my energy and passion for life; no contact with people, no art, no work—nothing but total loneliness all day while L.N. writes, with games of vint all evening for his recreation. Oh, those hateful shrieks of “Little slam in spades! No threes!” It’s like the raving of lunatics, and I can’t get used to it. I have tried joining in this madness myself so as not to have to sit on my own, but whenever I play I always feel ashamed of myself and more depressed than ever.
1904
January—Russia declares war on Japan. Disastrous defeats for Russia unleash more demonstrations, riots and strikes. June—Russian governor of Poland assassinated. July—Minister of the Interior, V.K. Plehve, blown up. Summer—south and west Russia see a wave of pogroms. October—Union of Liberation formed by liberal landowners. December—Port Arthur, Russia’s stronghold in the far east, surrenders to Japan.
January—Tolstoy starts on the Circle of Reading. August—Andrei Tolstoy joins the army. Pavel Biryukov, released from exile, settles at Yasnaya Polyana where he writes biography of Tolstoy. 23rd August—Tolstoy’s brother Sergei dies. Sofia writes a short story, ‘Groans’, under the pseudonym “A Tired Woman” and works on My Life. She becomes increasingly distant from Taneev.
18th January. Life flies past so quickly. From the 6th to the 27th December my daughter Tanya stayed with her family. The elections, the Christmas party and the holidays were so exhausting that there was no time to rejoice. An attack of influenza has left me feeling very weak. L.N. fell ill just before the New Year, and we had a sad party with Seryozha, Andryusha, Annochka, Sasha and the Sukhotin boys. Then my sister Tanya came to stay, happy and irresponsible as ever; but she has been broken by life, hence that peculiar manner of hers. There was an unpleasant scene at the card table, and I felt ill with chagrin. On 8th January three students from the St Petersburg Mining Institute arrived with a letter. I had a long talk with them; they were very intelligent, but like all young people nowadays they don’t know where to put their energy.* That evening we all left for Moscow, where I stayed until the evening of the 15th.
I took Sasha everywhere with me. We went to a symphony concert at which Chaliapin performed. He is the most intelligent, talented singer I have ever heard in my life. We went to a Goldenweiser concert too—he played with more spirit than usual—then a rehearsal of Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard,* which gave me immense pleasure. Sensitive and intelligent, humour alternating with a genuine sense of the tragedy of the situation—just right.
But my main business in Moscow was to transport nine boxes containing Lev Nikolaevich’s manuscripts from the Rumyantsev to the Historical Museum. They had asked me to remove these boxes from the Rumyantsev Museum because they were repairing the building. It seemed strange to me that there should be nowhere in the building to store nine boxes, 28 inches long, so I asked to speak to the director, a former professor called Tsvetaev. He made me wait for half an hour, then didn’t even apologize and addressed me rudely:
“You see, we’re putting up new shelves in the room where the boxes were kept, and we now need the space for more valuable manuscripts,” he said, among other things.
That made me very angry. “What sort of rubbish could be more important than Tolstoy’s manuscripts and the diaries for his whole life?” I said. “I suppose you support the views of the Moscow Gazette?”
After this I left for the Historical Museum to see its director, eighty-year-old Zabelin. A white-haired old man with kind eyes and a ruddy face came out to see me, barely able to move his legs. When I asked if he could store Lev Nikolaevich’s manuscripts, he took my hands and kissed them, saying in a sweet voice: “Can we take them? But of course we can, bring them immediately! Oh, what a joy! My dear lady, this is history, you know!”
The next day I went to visit Prince Shcherbatov, who said how pleased he was that I had decided to store Tolstoy’s manuscripts at the Historical Museum. I also met his dear wife Princess Sofia Alexandrovna (née Princess Apraxina) and his lovely little girl, Marusya. The following day we went to inspect the place where the manuscripts would be stored—they are giving me two rooms directly opposite Dostoevsky’s rooms.
The staff of the Historical Museum—Stankevich the librarian, his assistant Kuzminsky, Prince Shcherbatov and his wife—all treated me with the respect and esteem due to me as Lev Nikolaevich’s representative.
In Moscow I discovered that the March issue of the Journal for All is to print my prose poem ‘Groans’, which will appear under the pseudonym “A Tired Woman”.
3rd February. L.N. is well. Three days ago he was out for a very long time. He appeared at almost six and we discovered he had ridden to Tula and back to buy the last telegraph for the latest news about the war with the Japanese.* This war has stirred us all up, even here in the peaceful countryside. The mood of elation here and the general sympathy with the Tsar are astounding. This is because the Japanese attack was so utterly brazen and unexpected. As far as Russia is concerned, neither the Tsar nor anyone else had the slightest desire for this war. It was simply forced on us.
26th May. Lev Nikolaevich told us the story of how he entered military service. Once, after he had lost badly at cards in Moscow and squandered a lot of money, he decided to go to the Caucasus to see his brother Nikolai Nikolaevich, who was serving there. At the time he had no intention of serving in the army; he went to the Caucasus in his civilian coat, and when he went on a raid for the first time he wore the same coat and a service cap. He stayed with Nikolai Nikolaevich in Stary Yurt (known as Hot Springs, as there were sulphur springs there), and from there they went on a raid on Grozny. (Lev Nikolaevich has described this raid elsewhere.)
Once L.N. rode over to Khasav Yurt with an old Cossack to visit some acquaintances. The old Cossack had a falcon on his arm. On the road, which was thought to be very dangerous, they met his cousin Count Ilya Tolstoy driving along in his carriage, surrounded by Cossacks. Count Ilya invited L.N. to go with him to see Baryatinsky, and Baryatinsky praised Lev Nikolaevich for the calm and courage he had displayed during the raid, and urged him to join the army, so that was what he did: he applied to the brigade commander and entered the artillery as a cadet. He remained a cadet for two years without being promoted, although he took part in several dangerous operations.
It was only after two years that he was transferred to the ensigns. When war with Turkey broke out, he applied to enter the Danubian army under Gorchakov, then applied to go to Sevastopol, when the military operations there commenced.*
8th August. On 5th August, just three days ago, I saw off to war my sweet, devoted, loving son Andryusha (even though he has lived badly). I want now to describe his departure with the staff of the 6 Kromsk Infantry Regiment from Tambov. He enlisted in this regiment as a non-commissioned officer, a senior cavalry orderly. He went to war voluntarily. He had just left his wife and children, having fallen in love with Anna Tolmacheva, daughter of General Sobolev, a weak, empty-headed woman who nonetheless knew how to be tender and loving to him. I shall not judge either my son or my pretty, virtuous, intelligent daughter-in-law Olga. Only God can judge a husband and wife. But I struggled with myself for a long time before I finally decided to petition for Andryusha to be taken into the army. He convinced me by saying it was all the same to him whether they took him or he went without my help—only that way would be much harder for him. And indeed if anywhere is the right place for him at present, it is certainly the regiment. His warm, open charm makes him universally liked, and the regimental commander told me, “Andrei Lvovich had so far given full satisfaction.”
Having made all the necessary purchases for him in Moscow
and completed my own financial transactions, I went with Lyova to Tambov, where Misha, Ilya and his wife Sonya had all gathered. We stayed in the Evropeisky Hotel, which by Tambov standards was quite magnificent. I was feeling very ill, and couldn’t sleep all night, and got up early. That morning I set off for the camp with Andryusha, and he took me to the stables, where we met his fellow orderlies. Like all my children Andryusha loves horses, and he showed me his mare, the best horse in the regiment, which he had bought from Mary Boldyreva (née Cherkasskaya). Twelve men, Andryusha’s comrades, were running about the stables, their red shirts flashing; I had bought these shirts for them and they put them on with great excitement. Andryusha introduced me to an adjutant of their regiment, a very decent man called Nikolai Ruzhentsov, and we walked round the square, chatting and waiting for the horses to be harnessed to the military carts. We were also approached by Ruzhentsov’s elderly mother, who looked like a merchant’s wife. She was bitterly lamenting her fate, sobbing that her youngest and only remaining son was going to war, leaving her alone in the world. She wept uncontrollably, and I tried to comfort her, inviting her to join me in my cab and follow the officers and soldiers as they left the camp. She was delighted to accept, and said God had sent me to help her endure the parting in better spirits. Yet despite all this, that unhappy mother is now completely alone!
When she and I got into the cab, we saw a crowd of people approaching in the distance. These were the soldiers, accompanied by their relatives and loved ones. There was something melancholy about the distant music and drumbeats. The orderlies were riding along with them, and my Andryusha, in his sand-coloured shirt and cap, led them all on his lovely mare. It is all etched vividly in my memory: the mare’s legs bound with white bandages, Andryusha looking so handsome in the saddle, and the old woman’s words: “Oh, how your son rides that horse—what a picture he makes, just like the one in the study at home.”
The crowds of friends and relatives kept growing larger and accompanied the soldiers to the waiting train, not far from the station.
The wives, mothers, fathers and little children were all carrying things—parcels and bundles of ring-shaped rolls. Not far from me stood a young soldier boy with his wife and mother. The old woman stopped and said in a heart-broken voice: “I can’t go any further!” The soldier embraced her, kissed her and ran off to catch up with his regiment. His wife followed him, but his mother stood there as if turned to stone.
When they reached the train they were given the order “Stand at ease!” The soldiers loosened their uniforms and began to load the horses. Andryusha helped and gave orders. The crowd milled around the carriages. Some started eating, some soothed their children, some cried. Almost no one was drunk. The task of loading the horses and vehicles on the train was completed quickly and efficiently. They had a long struggle with one bay horse, however, that had to be dragged on by force.
By now the crowd around the train was even denser. The soldiers were getting into their compartments, and the wives and relatives were handing them their things and food for the journey. One soldier leant out and shouted to his four-year-old son: “Don’t cry, Lyonka, I’ll bring you some chocolate back!” Another soldier, whose hair was already grey, lay down, tipped back his head so his cap fell off, raised his legs in the air, and sobbed with such despair that it broke my heart. A pale young ensign stood on the platform, his eyes dull and his white face tinged with yellow, like a wax doll. He didn’t say a word. A few soldiers were weeping. I went to the regimental commander and thanked him for being so good to Andryusha, and he said it was a “great pleasure to have him in the regiment”. I was then introduced to the head of the division—Lieutenant-General Klaver, I think it was. He kissed my hands and said: “We are certainly living through extraordinary times.”
Andryusha took us to his first-class compartment. He had a folding seat by the door. It will be hard for him, spoilt and ill as he is, to endure the discomforts of the journey and army life.
Eventually the third and final whistle went, there was a flourish of music and everyone wept. I kissed Andryusha, made the sign of the cross over him and could look at no one else. His flushed, distraught face, wet with tears, nodded to us out of the window. Further and further away, then he disappeared completely, and for a moment I lost consciousness of life and its meaning. I felt something similar to this, only much more intensely, when I left Vanechka’s funeral. Only mothers will know what I mean.
Everyone was suffering, everyone was leaving against his will, bewildered and unhappy. General Klaver shouted to the soldiers, as they said goodbye to him from the train: “Give them hell!” But his words sounded vile and absurd. It was as if he had suddenly realized he was supposed to encourage them as they left, but knew how pointless it was.
Yet again something has broken in my heart. Seeing my son and the other soldiers off to war marks the end of one phase in my life. What is war? Is one foolish man, Nicholas II, really capable of creating so much evil?
17th August. When I saw Andryusha off to war I suddenly felt connected with everyone grieving over the fate of their children, husbands, brothers and loved ones. I lost all pleasure in life, and was terrified for my son, and the horror of war, which had lain buried for so long in the depths of my soul, suddenly surfaced with terrible power and clarity and wouldn’t let go of me.
Andryusha sent a cheerful letter from Ufa, where the train had stopped. But he says nothing of the future…His poor wife Olga and the children are staying here with me, and it breaks my heart to see them. His daughter Sonyusha is such a sad and touching sight, with her sensitive little soul.
But Misha’s family is a joy. What charming children—what cheerful, lovable, warm-hearted little mites; it’s a pleasure to be with them. And Misha’s wife, what a lovely, warm, intelligent woman she is. I sometimes long to hug her and tell her how much I love her and how sorry I would be if she were ever unhappy.
L.N. has been staying in Pirogovo with Masha for the past week. He went there to see his brother Sergei Nikolaevich, who is dying of cancer of the face, eyes and jaw. The poor man is suffering very much, but his emotional state is far worse; no patience, no faith, no love of people…Save us from such an end.
1905
Sunday, 9th January—thousands of workers assemble outside the Tsar’s palace to present their petition for a constitution. Cossacks fire on the peaceful crowd and many hundreds killed. Bloody Sunday is the start of Russia’s first revolution. Waves of strikes follow, the countryside is ablaze with riots, and hundreds of estates are looted and burnt. February—Russian army defeated at Mukden. The Tsar announces the formation of a new consultative assembly, or Duma. May—Russian fleet annihilated in the Tsushima Straits. As riots continue, extreme right-wing organizations unleash a wave of pogroms. Summer—general strike in Odessa, supported by the battleship Potemkin. August—Treaty of Portsmouth ends war. Universities become forums for great protest meetings. September to October—general strike in Moscow. 17th October—Tsar issues manifesto promising more freedom and the formation of a Council of Ministers. Workers’ councils (soviets) formed in St Petersburg and elsewhere. November—St Petersburg soviet delegates arrested. Moscow soviet organizes armed uprising in protest. Troops sent into Moscow; hundreds killed.
January—Andrei Tolstoy discharged from army with nervous disorder. Tolstoy writes ‘On the Social Movement in Russia’ and letters and articles condemning violence. His influence on the revolution is in decline. November—Tanya Sukhotina gives birth to a daughter, Tanya (Tanechka, Tanyushka).
14th January. I went in to see Lev Nikolaevich on the morning of 1st January, kissed him and wished him a happy new year. He was writing his diary, but stopped when I came in and stared at me. “I feel so sorry for you, Sonya,” he said. “You are always so unhappy.” And at that he burst into tears, caressed me and started telling me how much he loved me and how happy he had been with me all his life. Then I began to cry too; I told him if I wasn’t very happy sometimes i
t was my own fault, and I asked him to forgive me for my unstable state of mind.
L.N. always weighs up his life at the beginning of every year. And just before this new year Pavel Biryukov, who was recently released from exile in Switzerland,* was reading his diaries and his letters to me. L.N. glanced at these from time to time and read through one or two passages, and his whole life seemed to flash before him, and he told Biryukov he couldn’t dream of any greater family happiness, that I had given him everything, that he could never love anyone so much…It made me so happy when Biryukov told me this.
On the night of 10th–11th January, our son Andryusha returned from war, thank God. He has been given a year’s leave. His head is sick and his nerves are shattered. He is as childish as ever, but the war has left its mark and he seems changed for the better. The cruelty of war is atrocious. Shooting aside, people are punished like martyrs; they are beaten with sabres and bayonets, then cast aside, before receiving the final blow, to die in frightful agony; they are tied up and burnt alive on fires; they are thrown into wolf-holes with stakes at the bottom…And so on. To think human beings could do such things!…It’s beyond my understanding. It makes me suffer terribly to hear of people’s brutalization and this endless war.
Lev Nikolaevich is writing an article saying the government must act, voicing the demand for a constitution and an assembly of the zemstvo.*
Dreadful news from St Petersburg. 160 thousand workers came out on strike, the troops were called in, and it is said 3,000 were killed.*
1906
Events prove the freedoms promised in the Tsar’s October manifesto to be a fraud, and his Duma a fiction. January—first congress of the new Constitutional Democrat (Cadet) Party, which supports a constitutional monarchy. 27th April—opening of the First State Duma. All its demands for reforms rejected by the Tsar. 9th July—Duma dissolved. Strikes and riots continue, but with less intensity than the previous year.