The Diaries of Sofia Tolstoy (28 page)

Ginzburg left today. He has finished his statuettes of me and Lev Nikolaevich. He was working on the one of Lev Nikolaevich yesterday when three young ladies arrived and begged to have a look at Tolstoy.
They were taken into his study and he enquired whether they had any questions to ask him and they said no, they just wanted to see him. So they looked at him and left. A little later some young man arrived with the same thing in mind, but was told Lev Nikolaevich was out. Then just as we were having our tea a man wheeling a bicycle and covered in blood arrived asking for him. He turned out to be a teacher from the Tula gymnasium who had fallen off his bicycle and hurt himself. He was taken into the pavilion, where his wounds were washed and bandaged, and he then stayed for supper.

 

13th August
. Masha still has a high fever—over 40° all day. Poor girl, I feel so sorry for her and powerless against the implacable course of this terrible illness. I have never before seen such a bad case of typhus. The doctor called again—Lev Nikolaevich rode over to fetch him; he said she was in no danger, but I have a great weight on my heart.

I have copied out a great deal of Lev Nikolaevich's manuscript
On Art
. I spoke to him about it yesterday, and asked him how he expected art to exist without all the specialist “schools” he attacks. But one can never have a
discussion
with him; he always gets irritable and shouts, and it becomes so unpleasant one loses sight of the subject under discussion, and merely wants him to stop talking as soon as possible.

 

14th August
. Lyova and Dora have arrived from Sweden, looking cheerful and well. Thank God—they'll cheer us up too. The doctor came and said Masha was in no danger, which reassured us. I also consulted him about my own health; he said my nervous system was in a bad state but there was nothing organically wrong with me, and prescribed bromide.

Lev Nikolaevich rode to Baburino at the invitation of some schoolmistress from St Petersburg. I spent a lazy day, for I had an exhausting night sitting up until 4.30 a.m. with Masha, who was very restless and had a fever of 40.7. I went for a swim, pasted up some photographs, read a little of Taine's
Philosophie de l'art
and sat with her. Still this terrible drought continues!

 

16th August
. Life is hard. Masha is still very ill. I felt dazed when I got up today. I had watched over her all night in a state of terror until 5 a.m. She was terribly delirious, and has been so all this morning. At 5 I went to my room but couldn't sleep. Nothing but trouble on all sides. Tanya had another meeting with Sukhotin in Tula and sat
with him in his hotel, then travelled back with him on the train. As far as I can see, she has never for one moment given up the idea of marrying him. Misha didn't go to Moscow, where his tutor is waiting for him—he's doing no work and is bound to fail his exams. He just loafs around the village playing his harmonium until 2 in the morning with the peasant lads and that silent, stupid Mitya Dyakov. Andryusha arrived this morning, and will stay for a month and a half. He said he wanted to go to Samara and visit Ilya, which is good. But the hardest thing is my relationship with Lev Nikolaevich. There's no pleasing him, one can say nothing to him. Boulanger was here yesterday; we talked to him and agreed it would be a good idea to go through
On Art
with the censors in mind, discard a few passages to which they might object, then publish it simultaneously in the Intermediary and in Volume 15 of the
Complete Collected Works
. I didn't want to be the first to suggest this, as I am terrified of the angry way he almost always speaks to me—and to almost everyone else who dares contradict him.

Boulanger* talked it over with him and told me he had agreed. But he was furious when I mentioned it to him, and said Chertkov had expressly asked that none of his works should be published here before they had appeared in English.* That Chertkov has Lev Nikolaevich completely in his power again, even in England!

Today we had a talk about Tanya. He said we should keep our thoughts to ourselves—we might want the wrong thing for her or give her the wrong advice. But I said we shouldn't lie, and should tell her what we thought, even if we were wrong, and shouldn't be dishonest merely for fear of being mistaken. I don't know which of us is right—maybe he is, but it's not a question of being right, it's a question of being able to say what one thinks without losing one's temper.

Just today, as he was coming out of his study, he went for Misha and said some terribly—though deservedly—harsh words to him and Mitya Dyakov. But what did he achieve by it? How much better if he had had a quiet talk with Misha this morning and firmly told him to go to Moscow, stop shirking and work for his exams. As it was, this rebuke only made his sons angry; they were saying their father never gave them any sympathy or advice and did nothing but scold and shout at them. Only their mother had the right to scold them, they said, for she was the only one who cared for them. I have indeed cared for them—but what good has it done, what have I achieved? Absolutely nothing! Andryusha has failed to do anything so far, and
I cannot think what will become of Misha—he has absolutely no strength of character…Oh, how sad it all is, how terribly sad…

 

17th August
. A nurse has arrived to look after Masha; she is a little better today, and her temperature is down to 38.6°. Lyova and Dora are both lethargic and under the weather. Poor Dora, I feel sorry for her, it's hard for her in Russia, so far from her family. Another dry, windy day, but much cooler since morning. I walked back from the bathing hut with Tanya and we had a talk about Sukhotin. She says she hasn't come to any definite decision. Misha left for Moscow yesterday evening, and Andryusha has gone off to some mysterious destination. I have been copying again for Lev Nikolaevich and sitting with Masha, but there's no satisfaction in merely fulfilling my duties, and I feel melancholy. Then there was distressing news of another fire on Ilya's estate; the whole of this year's harvest was burnt, as well as the barn, the farm implements and various other things. Oh, how cruel life is!

I remember how I used to wait for my pages of
War and Peace
to copy after Lev Nikolaevich had finished his day's work. I used to write on and on in a state of feverish excitement, discovering new beauty as I went along. But now I am bored. I must work on something of my own, or my soul will wither.

 

18th August
. Masha is much better. Maria Schmidt visited. There was a shower. We went swimming. The nurse arrived in the evening yesterday to take Masha's pulse and keep an eye on her, and Doctor Rudnyov came. I saw to various tedious domestic matters—mattresses, lamps, jam-making—and put the house in order. I then did some copying for Lev Nikolaevich and managed to do a great deal. My lower tooth is loose, which has put me in a bad mood. Oh, how I dread growing old. I must get used to the idea.

 

21st August
. I have been terrified for Masha these past three days. First she had a temperature of over 40°, then this morning it suddenly dropped to 35.6°. We made her take some wine and champagne, but today she couldn't drink a thing, and everything made her vomit. She started shivering and we sent for the doctor, then her temperature shot up to 40° again. It's frightful! Poor thing, I feel so sorry for her, she's worn out.

Sasha is embroidering a table napkin, which she is giving me for my birthday tomorrow. 22nd August. I shall be 53.

 

23rd August
. Masha is better and everyone is more cheerful. But I have another weight on my heart: Sukhotin is coming tomorrow and Tanya is very excited. Tomorrow I am going to Moscow, where I have a mass of things to attend to and must stay with Misha for his exams. I have no desire to go, it's a great nuisance, but I feel I must.

 

26th August
. This is my second day in Moscow. I went to the banks yesterday, withdrew the interest and paid in 1,300 rubles for the mortgage on Ilya's property. I shall soon have to pay the same again, and then he had the fire and lost a further 2 thousand rubles on the deposit on an estate he and Seryozha rashly decided to buy in the province of Volhynia. How depressing and annoying it all is. Ilya is incapable of doing
anything—
studying, managing his affairs or conducting any sort of
business
.

Seryozha's wife Manya gave birth to a son on the 23rd. Poor Seryozha and that poor little boy with a mother like her!

Moscow is quiet and dull with everyone away. Sergei Ivanovich isn't in Moscow yet, and I am very sad that I won't be seeing him.

It rained, and now it's cold and overcast. Tomorrow Misha will sit his exams; I have an appointment with the board of censors, then with the accountant at home.

 

28th August
. Today is Lev Nikolaevich's 69th birthday. It must be the first time in the whole of my marriage that I haven't spent it with him. How sad. I wonder what sort of state he is in today?

Misha took his last exam today, and I am anxiously waiting for him to return. Will he go up to the 7th form?

For the whole of the past two days I have been busy with the accounts, adding up endless rows of figures with the accountant.

I am living a calm, healthy life on my own, and shall return here on 10th September. It has become cold—or rather cool—and cloudy. I went to the bathhouse today.

 

31st August (Yasnaya Polyana)
. It's all so sad, everything has gone wrong. Misha failed, and will now have to stay down in the 6th form. Andryusha made another painful scene in Moscow, and the poor boy went off in tears with Misha to visit the Gruzinskys. I thought he might have been slightly drunk, for he was veering most oddly between extremes of violence and tenderness. Misha's attitude to his failure also saddened me: he was completely unperturbed, and went straight out to the garden with Andryusha, Mitya Dyakov and Boris
Nagornov, where they started yelling folk songs in coarse, tuneless voices. My children haven't turned out at all as we would have liked: I hoped that they would be cultured with refined aesthetic tastes and a sense of duty. Lev Nikolaevich wanted them to lead simple lives of hard work. And we both wanted them to have high moral standards. But alas this hasn't happened! I set off for Yasnaya Polyana the day before yesterday feeling worn out and depressed. Lev Nikolaevich met me not far from the house, got into the carriage beside me and didn't ask once about the children. How painful that always is! The house was packed with guests: Dunaev, Dubensky and his wife, Rostovtsov and the writer Sergeenko. The rooms were full of bustle and chatter, and it was all extremely tiresome. These gentlemen come here expecting to get something out of Lev Nikolaevich, and now he has decided to write an open letter to be published abroad.* It seems a Swedish kerosene merchant named Nobel has left a will bequeathing all his millions to the person who made the greatest contribution to peace (
la paix
), and against war. They held a meeting in Sweden to discuss it, and said the prize should go to Lev Nikolaevich. He would never accept the money of course, but he did write them a letter, saying it was the Dukhobors who had done most for the cause of peace by refusing military service and suffering cruelly for it.

Now I would have had nothing against that, but in this letter Lev Nikolaevich went on to abuse the Russian government in the most crude and provocative terms—quite inappropriately too, merely for the love of being outrageous. I was terribly distressed by the letter, my nerves were overwrought, and I became quite desperate, sobbing and blaming him for risking his life by needlessly provoking the government. I actually wanted to leave; I cannot live this nerve-racking life any longer, under the constant threat that he will write something truly desperate and evil against the government and get us all deported.

He was touched by my despair and promised not to send the letter. Today, however, he decided he would, although a modified version of it. But all of a sudden I no longer cared—simply from a sense of self-preservation. One cannot endure endless sleepless nights such as I endured yesterday, one cannot endlessly weep and torture oneself.

 

1st September
. All our guests have left and we are on our own again, I'm glad to say. I had a short but unpleasant conversation with Lev Nikolaevich yesterday evening. I had been feeling unwell, he kept finding fault with me, and we brought up the subject of our diaries.
But we are friends again today. I copied out two chapters for him, tidied his room and put a lovely bunch of flowers there, and went swimming with Sasha. The water is 11°, the nights are cold and bright, with little clouds passing across the moon. The days are beautiful, dry and sunny. Tanya went to Tula to visit an exhibition. Masha is better. Sasha is upset about the disappearance of her pet hare from the barn. Lev Nikolaevich went for a ride and received a visit from a Catholic canon who has come here to make a study of Russian monasteries.

I have been yearning for music all day—I
dream
of it. I shall soon be going to Moscow, where I shall hire a piano and play, and I hope Sergei Ivanovich will come and play to me. How good that will be, the very thought of it revives my spirits.

 

2nd September
. I sorted and arranged the books in the library, had a swim—the water was 11°—went for a walk, took a photograph of the apple trees covered in apples, and copied out a rewritten and modified version of Lev Nikolaevich's letter in which he says the Nobel Prize should go to the Dukhobors. I haven't finished it yet, but the first part is quite moderate.

There was a shower but it's not cold yet.

 

4th September
. I try and try, but I cannot stretch life far enough. Every member of our family feels isolated, however friendly we may appear to be. Even Lev Nikolaevich complains of loneliness and of feeling “abandoned”. Tanya is in love with Sukhotin, Masha has got married, and I haven't felt close to any of them for a long time. And we're all tired of devoting our whole lives to the service of Lev Nikolaevich. He considered himself fortunate to have enslaved the lives of three women, his two daughters and me. We wrote for him, looked after him, diligently supervised his elaborate vegetarian diet (which can be extremely inconvenient when he is ill), and never left his side. And now we have all suddenly announced that we have a right to some life of our own, his friends have been deported* and there are no new followers—and he is wretched.