The Diaries of Sofia Tolstoy (49 page)

 

16th February
. Lev Nikolaevich is a little better today: he is not in pain and is lying quietly; he slept much better too.

It's extraordinary how selfless these doctors are: neither Shchurovsky nor Altschuler nor the
zemstvo
doctor Volkov, the poorest but kindest of them all, will accept any money; they are so generous with their time, and never begrudge the labour, the financial loss or the sleepless nights. They put a plaster on his right side today.

My head was aching this evening and it felt as if it would burst, so I lay down on the divan in Lev Nikolaevich's room. He called out to me. I got up and went to him. “Why are you lying down?” he said. “I can't call you if you do that.”

“My head is aching,” I said. “What do you mean, you can't call me? You call me at night.” And I sat down on a chair. He then called to me again: “Go into the other room and lie down. Why are you sitting up?” “But I can't leave—there's no one here,” I said. I was terribly agitated and almost hysterical with tiredness. Masha came and I left, but then urgent tasks awaited me on all sides—business documents from the accountant in Moscow, summonses and translations, and everything had to be entered in the book, signed and sent off. Then the washerwoman and the cook had to be paid, the notes had to be sent to Yalta…

 

19th February
. I haven't written my diary for several days: the nursing is very hard work and leaves me little time—barely enough for housework and essential letters and business.

My poor Lyovochka is still very weak. He has been thirsty, and today drank four half-bottles of
kefir
. The doctors say the pneumonia is making slow progress in clearing from the right lung.

 

20th February
. He was better yesterday; his temperature was only 37.1 and he was much more cheerful. “I see I shall now have to live again,” he said to Doctor Volkov.

“Are you bored then?” I asked him, and he said with sudden animation: “Bored? How could I be? On the contrary, everything is splendid.” This evening, concerned that I might be tired, he squeezed my hand, looked at me tenderly and said: “Thank you, darling, that's wonderful.”

 

22nd February
. He is much better; his temperature was 36.1 this morning and 36.6 this evening. They are still giving him camphor injections, and arsenic every other morning.

I received a letter from the orphanage suggesting I resign as patron, as I am away and cannot be useful to them. We shall see who they choose in my place and how they run their affairs.

 

23rd February
. Another bad night. Towards evening his temperature rose to 37.4 and his pulse was 107, although it soon dropped to 88, then 89.

At night he called out to me: “Sonya?” I went in to him. “I was just dreaming that you and I were driving to Nikolskoe in a sledge together.”

This morning he told me how well I had looked after him in the night.

 

25th February
. The first day of Lent. I yearn for the mood of peace, prayer and self-denial, the anticipation of spring and all the childhood memories that assail me in Moscow and Yasnaya with the approach of Lent.

But everything is so alien here.

Lev Nikolaevich is more cheerful, and for the first time last night he slept from 12 to 3 without waking. At 5 a.m. I went off to take a nap and he stayed awake. This morning he read the papers and took an interest in his letters. Two exhort him to return to the Church and receive the Eucharist, two beg him to send some of his works as a gift, and two foreigners express feelings of rapture and reverence.
I too received a letter, from Princess Maria Dondukova-Korsakova, saying I should draw him back to the Church and give him the Eucharist.

These spiritual sovereigns expel L.N. from the Church—then call on me to draw him back to it! How absurd!

 

27th February
. Seryozha looked after his father all night with extraordinary gentleness. “How astonishing,” Lev Nikolaevich said to me. “I never expected Seryozha to be so sensitive,” and his voice was trembling with tears.

Today he said: “I have now decided to expect nothing more; I kept expecting to recover, but now what will be will be, it's no use trying to anticipate the future.” He himself reminds me to give him his digitalis, or asks for the thermometer to take his temperature. He is drinking champagne again and lets them give him his camphor injections.

 

28th February
. Today he said to Tanya: “A long illness is a good thing, it gives one time to prepare for death.”

And he also said to her today: “I am ready for anything; I am ready to live and ready to die.”

This evening he stroked my hands and thanked me. But when I changed his bedclothes he suddenly lost his temper because he felt cold. Then of course he felt sorry for me.

A terrible blizzard, with one degree of frost. The wind is howling and rattling the window frames.

I spilt some ink and got it all over everything.

 

5th March
. He is better; his temperature was 35.7 this morning and 36.7 this evening. The doctors say there is still some wheezing, but apart from that everything is normal. He has such a huge appetite he cannot wait for his dinner and lunch, and has drunk three bottles of
kefir
in the past twenty-four hours. Today he asked for his bed to be moved to the window so he can look out at the sea. He is still very weak and thin, he sleeps badly at night and is very demanding. He once called out five times in one hour—first he wanted his pillow adjusted, then he needed his leg covered up, then the clock was in the wrong place, then he wanted some
kefir
, then he wanted his back sponged, then I had to sit with him and hold his hands…And the moment one lies down he calls again.

We have had a fine day and the nights are moonlit, but I feel dead, dead as the rocky landscape and the dull sea. The birds sing outside, and for some reason neither the moon nor the birds, nor the fly buzzing at the window seem to belong to the Crimea, but keep reminding me of springtime in Yasnaya Polyana or Moscow. So the fly takes me back to a hot summer at harvest time, and the moon evokes memories of our garden in Khamovniki Street, and returning home from concerts…

 

6th March
. Last night was frightful. Agony in his body, his legs, his soul—it was too much for him. “I can't imagine why I recovered, I wish I had died,” he said.

 

8th March
. I had a nasty scene with Seryozha. He shouted at a servant about Lev Nikolaevich's new armchair: he said we should wire Odessa about it, but had absolutely no idea where or whom. I said we should first decide what kind of chair was needed. This made him lose his temper and he began shouting.

 

10th March
. I went out for my first walk today and was astonished to see spring was here. The grass is like the grass at home in Russia in May. Various coloured primulas are in flower, and there are dandelions and dead-nettles all over the place. The sun is bright, the sea and sky are blue and the birds, sweet creatures, are singing.

Lev Nikolaevich has made a marked improvement in this fine weather—his temperature was 35.9 today and his pulse was 88. He has a huge appetite, drinks
kefir
day and night with great relish and reads the papers and letters. But he doesn't seem very cheerful.

 

11th March
. He is getting better. I went to Yalta. It was a lovely day, the sea and sky were blue, the birds were singing, the grass was springing up everywhere.

We rubbed him all over with spirit and warm water, and at ten we put him to bed.

 

12th March
. He is slowly but surely improving. Today he read the
Herald of Europe
and the newspapers, and took an interest in the latest Moscow news.

 

13th March
. It is warmer, 13 degrees in the shade, and there was a warm rain. He continues to recover. I am still sitting with him until
5 in the morning. Sasha took my place yesterday, and Tanya will do so today.

Late yesterday evening I read a translation of an essay by Emerson. It was all said long ago and much better by the ancient philosophers—that every
genius
is more closely connected to the dead philosophers than to the living members of his family circle. It is rather a naive conclusion.

For a
genius
one has to create a peaceful, cheerful, comfortable home. A
genius
must be fed, washed and dressed, must have his works copied out innumerable times, must be loved and spared all cause for jealousy, so he can be calm. Then one must feed and educate the innumerable children fathered by this genius, whom he cannot be bothered to care for himself, as he has to commune with all the Epictetuses, Socrateses and Buddhas, and aspire to be like them himself.

I have served a
genius
for almost forty years. Hundreds of times I have felt my intellectual energy stir within me, and all sorts of desires—a longing for education, a love of music and the arts…And time and again I have crushed and smothered these longings, and now and to the end of my life I shall somehow continue to serve my
genius
.

Everyone asks: “But why should a worthless woman like you need an intellectual, artistic life?” To this I can only reply: “I don't know, but eternally suppressing it to serve a genius is a great misfortune.” However much one loves this man who people regard as a
genius
, to do nothing but bear and feed his children, sew, order dinner, apply compresses and enemas and silently sit there dully awaiting his demands for one's services, is torture. And there is never anything in
return
for it either, not even simple gratitude, and there's always such a lot to grumble about instead. I have borne this burden for too long, and I am worn out.

This tirade about the way geniuses are misunderstood by their families was provoked by my anger at Emerson and all those who have written and spoken about this question since the days of Socrates and Xantippe.

 

15th March
. He was awake all last night with terrible pains in his legs and stomach. It's a little warmer, the parks are slightly green, but it's just the same old rocks, the same crooked trees, lifeless earth and tossing sea.

I did a lot of sewing today.

 

19th March
. Life here is so monotonous, there's nothing to write about. His illness has almost run its course.

Whenever I come into his room he is intently counting his pulse. Today he was looking through the window at the sun, poor man, and begged me to open the door of the terrace for a moment.

 

5th April
. A lot of time has passed and little has happened. Tanya left on 30th March with her family and Andryusha arrived on the 24th. L.N.'s various treatments continue—he has been having arsenic injections since 2nd April, and today they gave him electrical treatment for his stomach. He was taking nux vomica but is now taking magnesium, and at night he has bismuth with codeine and ether-valerian drops. His nights are very disturbed, and his legs and stomach ache, so his legs have to be massaged, which I find very tiring: my back aches, the blood rushes to my head and I feel quite hysterical. He rejected all such things, of course, when his health was good, but with the onset of his first serious illness every conceivable treatment is set in motion. Three doctors visit practically every day; nursing him is extremely hard work, there are a lot of us here, we are all tired and overworked, and our personal lives have been completely eaten up by his illness. Lev Nikolaevich is first and foremost a writer and expounder of ideas: in reality and in his life he is a weak man, much weaker than us simple mortals. I couldn't endure the thought of writing and saying one thing and living and acting another, but it doesn't seem to bother him, just so long as he doesn't suffer, so long as he lives and gets better…What a lot of attention he devotes to himself these days, taking his medicines and having his compresses changed, and what a lot of effort he takes to feed himself, sleep and lessen the pain.

 

13th April
. Saturday, the evening before Easter Sunday, and my God, the depression is unbearable! I am sitting on my own upstairs in the bedroom, with my granddaughter Sonyushka sleeping beside me, while downstairs in the dining room there is the most vile heathen commotion going on. They are all playing vint, they have wheeled Lev Nikolaevich's armchair in, and he is enthusiastically following Sasha's game.

I am feeling very lonely. My children are even more despotic, rude and demanding than their father. Day and night, hour after hour, he attends to and cares for his body, and I can detect no spiritual feelings in him whatsoever. With me he is rude and demanding, and
if I do something careless out of sheer exhaustion he shouts at me peevishly.

 

11th May
. I am ashamed of the unkind things I wrote in my diary last time about Lyovochka and my family. I was angry about their attitude to Holy Week, and instead of being mindful of my own sinfulness I transferred my anger to my nearest and dearest. “Grant me to see my own sins and not judge my brother…”

What a long time has passed since then, and what a ghastly time we are going through once again!

He was at last beginning to recover from the pneumonia; he was walking about the house with a stick, eating well and digesting his food. Masha then suggested that I attend to my urgent business in Yasnaya and Moscow, and on the morning of 22nd April I set off.

My trip was very pleasant and successful. I spent a day at Yasnaya Polyana, where Andryusha joined me. The weather was delightful; I adore the early spring, with its soft green hues and fresh hopes for a new and better life…I busied myself with the accounts and bills, toured the apple orchards, inspected the cattle and walked over to Chepyzh as the sun was setting. The lungwort and violets were blooming, the birds were singing, the sun was setting over the felled forest, and this pure natural beauty, free of all human cares, filled me with joy.