by Cathy Porter
6th July. I didn’t sleep all night. I kept seeing the hateful Chertkov before my eyes, sitting very close to Lev Nik.
I went for a swim on my own this morning, praying as I went. I prayed for this delusion to go away. If it doesn’t, I nurture the idea of drowning myself in my beloved Voronka. Today I was remembering that time long ago when Lev Nik. came to the river where I was swimming alone…All that is forgotten now; what we need is quiet, affectionate friendship, sympathy and closeness…
7th July, morning. Rain, wind and damp. I have proofread The Fruits of Enlightenment and finished sewing Maria Schmidt’s skirt. I took the proofs of Resurrection from Lev Nik.’s divan, before Chertkov could sniff them out and take them away. Lev Nik. went to see his idol today, despite the weather, and I realized that although his last diaries are very interesting, they have all been composed for Chertkov and those to whom it pleases Mr Chertkov to show them! And now Lev Nikol. never dares to write a word of love for me in them, for they all go straight to Chertkov and he wouldn’t like this. What made them valuable in my hands was their sincerity, their power of thought and feeling.
I have guarded Lev Nik.’s manuscripts very badly. But he never gave them to me—before he used to keep them with him, in the drawers of his divan, and never allowed anyone to touch them. When I decided to move them to the museum we weren’t living in Moscow, so I could only move them and couldn’t sort them out. And when we were living in Moscow I was preoccupied with my large family and business that couldn’t be ignored, which was our daily bread.
Lyova also quarrelled with that rude, uncouth idiot yesterday.
It’s pouring with rain, but despite this Lev Nikol. rode over to Chertkov’s, and I waited for him in despair on the porch, worrying and cursing that he lives so close to us.
Evening. No, Lev Nik. has not been taken from me yet, thank God! I went into his room as he was going to bed and said: “Promise me you won’t ever leave me without telling me.” And he replied: “I wouldn’t ever do such a thing—I promise I shall never leave you. I love you,” and his voice trembled. I burst into tears and embraced him, saying how afraid I was of losing him, and that despite some innocent, foolish passions in the past I had never stopped loving him for a moment, and still in my old age loved him more than anyone else in the world. Lev Nik. said he felt exactly the same, that I had nothing to fear, that the bond between us was too strong for anyone to destroy, and I realized this was true, and I felt happy. I went into my room, and returned a moment later and thanked him for taking this weight off my heart.
I said goodnight to him then, and went off to my room, and after a little while the door opened and he came in.
“Don’t say anything,” he said. “I just want to tell you our conversation made me happy too, so very happy…” He burst into tears again, embraced me and kissed me…“Mine! Mine!” I said in my heart. I shall be much calmer now, I shall come to my senses, I shall be kinder to everyone, and try to get on better with Chertkov.
The cocks are crowing, dawn is breaking. Night. The trains rumble, the wind rustles the leaves on the trees…
9th July. Lord, when will these vile episodes and intrigues end! My daughter-in-law Olga arrived, and there was yet another discussion about my relations with Chertkov. He was rude to me again, and I didn’t say one impolite word to him—and they all go into corners and pick over my bones, gossip about me and accuse me of I know not what. I cannot get used to the fact that some people simply lie—I find it quite astonishing. Sometimes one is horrified and tries naively to establish the truth, to remind them or explain…But all such attempts are useless; people often simply don’t want the truth, it is neither necessary nor to their advantage. But I shall say no more about it, I have enough worries as it is. Today Lev Nikol. and Lyova went for a ride through the woods. There was a large black rain cloud ahead, but they rode straight into it, and Lev Nikol. was wearing just a thin white shirt, and Lyova a jacket.
They arrived home soaked to the skin. I wanted to rub Lev Nikolaevich’s back, chest and legs with spirit of camphor, but he angrily rejected my help and only grudgingly agreed to let his valet Ilya Vasilevich give him a massage.
Olga got angry for some reason and took her children away without staying for dinner. I was feeling quite debilitated this afternoon and went to my room, where I fell asleep and unfortunately slept on and off all evening.
Chertkov and Goldenweiser came, and Lev Nik.’s follower, the economist Nikolaev, who evidently annoys him with his talk. L.N. played chess with Goldenweiser, who then played the piano for a while. That heavenly Chopin Mazurka transported my soul! My son Lyova is very anxious about his foreign passport; they wouldn’t give him one in Tula, demanding evidence from the police that he was free to leave Russia, and he is under arrest for publishing two pamphlets in 1905 called ‘What Is the Solution?’ and ‘The Construction of Hell’. It’s a very worrying business.
10th July. Lev Nikolaevich naturally didn’t dare write in his diary how he came into my room late at night, wept, embraced me and said how happy he was that we had reached some understanding and closeness. Instead he writes: “I must restrain myself.” What does this mean? No one could possibly love or care for him as I do, no one could desire his happiness as I do. Yet he gives his diaries to Chertkov, who will publish them and repeat to the whole world what he said to me—that a wife like me would make one want to shoot oneself or run off to America.
L.N. rode with Chertkov into the forest today, where they had some sort of discussion. They gave Bulgakov a horse too, but made sure he kept his distance as they didn’t want him to disturb their privacy. It is I who have to “restrain myself” every day at the sight of that odious figure.
In the forest they dismounted twice for some reason, and in the gulley Chertkov pointed his camera at Lev Nik. and took his photograph. As they were riding back, Chertkov noticed he had lost his watch, and got as far as the balcony before telling Lev Nik. where he thought he had lost it. And L.N., looking so pathetic and submissive, promised to go to the gulley after dinner to look for Mr Chertkov’s watch.
We had some very pleasant guests to dinner—Davydov, Salomon and the artist Gué. Davydov brought me Resurrection, which he had read for the new edition, but I still have a great deal of work to do on it. My son Seryozha is also working on it.
I thought Lev Nik. would be embarrassed to drag these respectable people off to the gulley in search of Mr Chertkov’s watch. But he lives in such fear of him that even the thought of being made to look ridiculous didn’t deter him from taking a crowd of 8 out to the forest. We all stamped around in the wet hay, but couldn’t find the watch—heaven knows where that absent-minded idiot lost it! Why did he have to take a photograph in the soft wet hay anyway? Then for the first time this summer Lev Nik. asked me out for a walk with him. I was overjoyed, and waited anxiously to get away from the gulley and the watch. But I was wrong, of course. The following morning Lev Nik. got up early, went to the village, summoned some peasant lads, went off to the gulley again and found the watch.
This evening I felt quite ill and was thrown into another fit of despair. I lay down on the bare boards of the balcony and remembered how it was on that same balcony 48 years ago, when I was still a girl, that I first became aware of my love for Lev Nikolaevich. It was a cold night, and I liked the idea that I should find my death where I had found his love. But I had evidently not earned this yet.
Lev Nikolaevich heard a rustle, came out to the balcony and shouted at me to go away, as I was preventing him from sleeping. I then went to the garden, and lay on the damp ground for two hours in my thin dress. I was chilled through, and longed to die—and I still do.
They raised the alarm, and Dushan Makovitsky, Gué and Lyova came out and shouted at me and helped me up off the ground. I was shaking all over from cold and nerves.
Well, what now! What is to be done! I cannot live without his love and tenderness, and he cannot give it to me. 4 in the morning…
I had already told Davydov and Salomon about Chertkov’s malicious intrigues against me, and they were sincerely horrified. They were astonished that my husband could tolerate these insults to his wife, and unanimously spoke of their dislike for this proud, spiteful fool. Davydov was particularly incensed that Chertkov had stolen all Lev Nik.’s diaries since the year 1900.
“But these should belong to you and your family,” raged dear Davydov. “And that letter Chertkov wrote to the newspapers when Lev Nik. was staying with him was the height of stupidity and insensitivity.”*
All this seems quite clear to everyone else—but what about my poor husband?…
11th July. I slept only from 4 to 7.30 a.m. Lev Nik. also slept very little. I am ill and exhausted, but my soul is happy. Relations with Lev Nik. are friendly and straightforward again. I love him so intensely and foolishly! He needs me to make concessions and heroic sacrifices, but I am incapable of doing this, especially at my age.
Seryozha came this morning. Sasha and her shadow, Varvara Mikhailovna, are cross with me—as if I cared! Lyova is being very sweet to me, and the clever fellow has started working on a sculpture of me.
We all went to bed early. L.N. himself asked Chertkov not to come this evening. Thank God! Just to breathe freely for one day is a rest for one’s soul.
12th July. I posed for Lyova; his bust of me is beginning to look quite lifelike. What a talented, good person he is. Alas, what a contrast with Sasha!
Lev Nik. waited in for Goldenweiser, as he wanted to go for a ride with him, but he didn’t appear. So he sent Filka the stable boy to Telyatinki, and Filka invited Chertkov by mistake instead of Goldenweiser. I didn’t know about this, but L.N. eventually decided not to wait any longer for Goldenweiser and went to the stable to saddle his horse and ride out to meet him. I thought he would be all on his own in this fierce heat and might get sunstroke again, so I ran to the stable and asked where he was going and if he was meeting anyone. Lev Nik. was trying to hurry up the coachman, and Doctor Makovitsky was there too, and as soon as he left the stable I saw the odious figure of Chertkov, approaching from under the hill on his white horse. I shrieked that I had been deceived again, that they were trying to hoodwink me, that they had lied about Goldenweiser and invited Chertkov instead, and I had a hysterical attack right there, in front of all the servants, and ran off to the house. Lev Nik. told Chertkov he wouldn’t ride with him, Chertkov went home and L.N. rode on with the doctor.
Fortunately it turned out there had been no plot, merely that Filka had been half-asleep and forgotten where he had been told to go, and had accidentally invited Chertkov instead of Goldenweiser. But I am in such a state of torment that the merest mention of Chertkov, and especially the sight of him, drives me into a state of frenzied agitation. When he arrived this evening I left the room and shook like a leaf for a whole hour. Goldenweiser and his wife were here, and were both very kind.
Chertkov’s mother, Elizaveta Ivanovna, wrote inviting me to call on her today. Two preachers have come to visit her; one is called Fetler, and the other was some Irish professor whom I could barely understand, but who ate very heartily and occasionally made religious pronouncements in a mechanical sort of way. But Fetler was a man of principle and spoke beautifully and tried to convert me to his faith in Redemption. He got down on his knees and started praying for me, for Lev Nikolaevich, for the peace and happiness of our souls and so on. It was a beautiful prayer, but it was so strange! Elizaveta Ivanovna was there all the time, and at one point she called me over to ask me why I hated her son. I told her about the diaries, and explained that her son had taken my beloved husband from me. To which she replied: “And I have been unhappy because your husband has taken my son from me!” And she is quite right.
13th July. After sending Chertkov away yesterday for my sake while he was out riding, Lev Nik. spent the whole evening waiting for him to come so he could explain the reason. Chertkov didn’t come for a long time. Sensitive to my husband’s moods, I saw him anxiously looking for him, waiting like a lover, and becoming more and more agitated, sitting out on the balcony downstairs staring at the road. Eventually he wrote a letter, which I begged him to show me. Sasha brought it, and soon I had it in my hands. It was “dear friend”, of course, and endless endearments…and I was again in a frenzy of despair. Nevertheless he gave this letter to Chertkov when he arrived. I took it under the pretext of reading it, then burnt it. He never writes me tender letters, I am becoming even more wicked and unhappy and close to my end. But I am a coward. I didn’t want to go swimming yesterday, because I was afraid of drowning. I need only one moment of determination, and am incapable of even that.
Lev Nik. went for a ride with Goldenweiser and the Sukhotins, and I looked for his last diary but couldn’t find it. We are like two silent enemies, constantly suspecting, spying and sneaking up on each other! Lev Nik. hides everything he can from me by giving it to that “spiteful pharisee”, as Gué called him. Maybe he gave his last diary to Chertkov yesterday.
Lord take pity on me and save me from sin!…
Night of 13th—14th July. Let us assume I have gone mad, and my “fixation” is that Lev Nik. should get his diaries back and not allow Chertkov to keep them. Two families have been thrown into confusion, there have been painful arguments—I have been driven to the very limits of my endurance. (I haven’t eaten a thing all day.) Everyone is depressed, and my tormented appearance annoys everyone like a bothersome fly.
What can be done to make everyone happy again and put an end to my sufferings?
Get the diaries back from Chertkov, all those little black oilcloth notebooks, and put them back on the desk, letting him have them, one at a time, to make excerpts. That’s all!
If I do eventually summon up the courage to kill myself, everyone will look back and realize how easy it would have been to grant my wish.
When they explain my death to the world they won’t give the real reason. They’ll say it was hysteria, nerves and my wicked nature—and when they look at my dead body, killed by my husband, no one will dare say that the only thing that could have saved me was the simple expedient of returning those four or five oilcloth notebooks to my husband’s desk.
Where is their Christianity? Where is their love? Where is their “non-resistance”? Nothing but lies, deception and cruelty.
Those two stubborn men, Chertkov and my husband, have joined forces and are crushing me, destroying me. And I am so afraid of them; their iron hands crush my heart, and I long to tear myself from their grip and escape. But I am still so afraid…
Thoughts of suicide are growing stronger all the time. Thank God my sufferings will soon be over!
What a terrible wind! It would be good to go now…I must try once more to save myself…for the last time. If they refuse, it will be even more painful, and even easier to deliver myself from my suffering; I should hate to keep making threats, then pester with my presence all the people whose lives I have made a misery…But I should love to come back to life so I could see my husband carrying out my wishes, and see that gleam of love that has warmed and saved me so many times in my life, but which Chertkov now seems to have stifled for ever. Without that love my life is over.
14th July. I haven’t slept all night. These expressions of my suffering, however extreme, can’t possibly do them justice. Lev Nikol. came in, and I told him in terrible agitation that everything lay in the balance: it was either the diaries or my life, he could choose. And he did choose, I’m thankful to say, and got the diaries back from Chertkov. In my nervousness I have made a bad job of pasting into this diary the letter he gave me this morning;* I am very sorry about this, but there are several copies, including the one I made for the collection of Lev Nikolaevich’s letters to me, and the one our daughter Tanya has.
Sasha drove over to Chertkov’s to fetch the diaries and give him a letter from Lev Nikolaevich. But the thought of suicide, clear and firm, will always be with me the moment they open the wounds in my heart agai
n.
So this is the end of my long and once happy marriage!…But it is not quite the end yet; Lev Nik.’s letter to me today is a scrap of the old happiness, although such a small, shabby scrap!
My daughter Tanya has sealed up the diaries, and tomorrow she and her husband will take them to the bank in Tula. They will fill out a receipt for them in the name of Lev Nik. and his heirs, and will give this receipt to L.N. I hope to God they do not deceive me, and that Jesuit Chertkov doesn’t wheedle the diaries out of Lev Nik. on the sly.
Not a thing has passed my lips for three days now, and this has worried everyone terribly for some reason. But this is the least of it…It’s all a matter of passion and the force of grief.
I bitterly regret that I have made my children Lyova and Tanya suffer, especially Tanya; she is being so sweet and kind and compassionate to me again! I love her very much. Chertkov must be allowed to come here, although this is very, very difficult and unpleasant for me. If I don’t let them meet, there will be page upon page of secret, tender letters, and that would be much worse.
15th July. Another sleepless night. I kept thinking if it was so easy for Lev Nik. to break his promise in his letter not to leave me, then it would be equally easy for him to break all his promises, and where would all his “true and honest” words be then? I have good reason to worry! First he promised me in front of Chertkov that he would give me his diaries, then he deceived me by putting them in the bank. How can one keep calm and well when one lives under the constant threat of “I’ll leave, I’ll leave!”
I had another frightful nervous attack and longed to drink opium, but again lacked the courage, and instead told Lev Nik. a wicked lie and said I had taken it. I confessed immediately, and wept and sobbed, and made a great effort to regain my self-control. How ashamed and wretched I felt. But…no, I shall say no more: I am sick and exhausted.