The Diaries of Sofia Tolstoy (5 page)

28th June—birth of the couple's son, Sergei. Shortly afterwards Tolstoy talks of going to war (possibly to put down the Polish uprising against Russian domination). But instead he starts on
War and Peace.
Summer—Sofia's seventeen-year-old sister Tanya Behrs visits Yasnaya Polyana and embarks on a romance with Tolstoy's brother Sergei, twenty years her senior
.

 

9th January
. Never in my life have I felt so wretched with remorse.* Never did I imagine I could be so much to blame. I have been choked with tears all day, and am afraid to talk to him or look at him. I love him deeply, he has never been so precious to me, and I feel so worthless and loathsome. Yet he is not even angry and still loves me, and his face is so gentle and saintly. A man like this could make one die of humility. Mental pain has made me physically ill. I thought I would miscarry, I was in such pain. I have been praying all day, trying to lighten my crime and undo what I have done. I feel a little easier when he isn't here, for then I can cry and love him. When he is here my conscience tortures me; it's agony to see his sweet face, which I have avoided looking at since yesterday evening. How could I have treated him so badly? I have racked my brains for some way of making amends for that stupid word—or not so much make amends as make myself a better person for him. I cannot love him any more than I already do. I already love him to such excess, with all my heart and soul, that there is nothing in my mind but my love for him, nothing. There is absolutely no evil in him, nothing I could ever dream of reproaching him for.

 

11th January
. I am calmer now because he is being a little kinder to me. But my unhappiness is still so fresh that every memory of it brings on a terrible physical pain in my head and body—I feel it passing through my veins and nerves.

He saw this diary but hasn't referred to it, I don't know if he has read it. It was vile and I have no desire to reread it.

I am alone and afraid, which is why I wanted to write sincerely and at length, but fear has confused my thoughts. I am afraid of being
frightened now that I'm pregnant. My jealousy is a congenital illness, or maybe in loving him I have nothing else to love; I've given myself so completely to him that my only happiness is with him and I am afraid of losing him, as old men fear to lose an only child on whom their whole life depends. People always told me I wasn't egotistical, although this is really the most complete egotism. But I love him so much that this too will pass. Only I shall need a lot of patience and strength of will, otherwise it will be no good. There are days when I am morbidly in love with him, and this is one of those days. It is always so when I have done something wrong. It hurts me to look at him, listen to him or be with him, like a devil in the presence of a saint.

 

14th January (Moscow)
.* I am alone again and sad. Yet we have managed to make peace. I don't know what reconciled him to me or me to him, it happened of itself. All I know is that I have my happiness back. I want to go home. I have so many dreams of how I will live in Yasnaya with
him
. I feel sad to have broken so completely from the Kremlin crowd. I see terribly clearly how much my world has changed, yet I love my family more than ever, especially Maman, and it saddens me that I'm no longer part of their lives. I live completely through him and for him, and it's often painful for me to realize that I am not
everything
to him and that if I were suddenly to die he would be able to console himself somehow, for he has so many
resources
, whereas I have such a weak nature. I have given myself to one man and would never be able to find another world for myself.

Life in this hotel depresses me. I am happy only when I am sitting with my family, and with
Lyovochka
, of course. I could leave for home at once I know, it's largely up to me, but I haven't the heart to say goodbye to my family so soon after arriving, and I'm too lazy to move. I had such a bad dream last night. Our Yasnaya peasant girls and women were visiting us in a huge garden, all dressed up as ladies, then started going off somewhere, one after the other. A.* came last, wearing a black silk dress. I began speaking to her and was seized with such violent rage that I picked up her child and began tearing him to pieces. I tore off his head and legs—I was like a madwoman. Then Lyovochka came up and I told him they would send me to Siberia, but he picked up the legs and arms and all the other bits and told me it was only a doll. I looked down and saw that it was indeed, with just cloth and stuffing for a body. And that made me furious.

I often torture myself thinking about her, even here in Moscow. Maman was right when she said I had become sillier than ever—rather, I think my mind is lazier. It's an unpleasant feeling, this physical lethargy. And physical lethargy produces mental lethargy too.

I regret my former liveliness. But I think it will return. I feel it would have as good an effect on Lyovochka as it once had on the Kremlin crowd.

 

17th January
. I've been feeling angry that he loves everything and everyone, when I want him to love only me. Now that I'm alone in my room I realize I was just being wilful again; it's his kindness and the wealth of his feelings that make him good. The cause of all my whims and miseries is this wretched egotism of mine, which makes me want to possess his life, his thoughts, his love, everything he has. This has become a sort of rule with me. The moment I think fondly of someone I tell myself no, I love only Lyovochka. But I absolutely
must
learn to love something else as he loves his
work
, so I can turn to it when he grows cold towards me. These times will become more frequent. I see this clearly now—why should Lyovochka study all the subtleties of our relations as I do, for want of anything else to occupy me? From this I also learn how I should behave with him, and I do this not as a duty but quite involuntarily. I can't yet put this knowledge into practice, but everything comes in time. We must get back to Yasnaya very soon; there he devotes himself more to me, for there is nobody else but Aunt and me. I know I can make the house a happier place, as long as he doesn't want visitors, for I don't know where I would find the right people to ask, and besides I don't like them. But if he wants me to I'll entertain whomever he cares to invite; anything to keep him happy and not bored, for then he'll love me and there's nothing else I want.

I waited and waited for him and have now sat down again to write. Some people live in solitude, but it's terrible to be alone. I don't suppose we shall go to that lecture now. Perhaps I annoyed him. This thought often torments me. I have grown terribly close to Maman and it frightens me, for we can never live together now.

 

29th January
. Kremlin life is oppressive; it evokes the lazy, aimless life I led here as a girl. All my illusions about the aims and duties of marriage vanished into thin air when Lyovochka let me know that one can't be satisfied merely with one's family, one's husband or wife, but needs something more, a larger cause. (“
I need nothing but
you. Lyovochka talks a lot of nonsense sometimes
.” [L.N. Tolstoy's note])

 

3rd March (Yasnaya Polyana)
. Still the same old story—writing on my own. But I'm not lonely now, I'm used to it. And happy in the knowledge that he loves me, and loves me constantly. When he gets home he comes up to me so kindly and asks me or tells me something. My life is cheerful and easy now. I read
his
diary and it made me happy.* There is me and his work—nothing else matters to him. Yesterday and today he has been preoccupied. I am afraid to disturb him when he is writing, and that he'll get angry and my presence will be unbearable to him. I'm glad he's writing. I wanted to go to church this morning, but instead I stayed at home and prayed here. Since my marriage every form of ceremony has become loathsome to me. I long with all my heart to manage the household and
do
something. But I haven't yet learnt how, I don't know how to go about it. It will come in time.

 

1st April
. I am unwell and in low spirits. Lyova has gone off again. My misfortune is that I have no inner resources to draw on, and this is indeed necessary and important in life. The weather is wonderful, it's almost summer, and my mood is like the summer—sad. It's bleak and lonely here. He has his work and the estate to think about while I have nothing…What am I good for? I can't go on living like this. I would like to
do
more, something
real
. At this wonderful time of year I always used to long for things, aspire to things, dream about God knows what. But I no longer have these foolish aspirations, for I know I have all I need now and there's nothing left to strive for. So much happiness and so little to do.

 

6th April
. We have started attending to the estate together, he and I, him taking it all very seriously, me so far pretending to. But it interests me greatly. He seems preoccupied and unwell, and this makes me anxious. I'm afraid to let him know how much these blood rushes of his worry me. It's a terrible thought, but I can't help worrying that this life of ours and our happiness together is not real happiness at all but just a trick of fate, and will suddenly be snatched away. I'm afraid…It's stupid, but I cannot write it down. I wish this fear would pass quickly, for it poisons my life. He has bought some bees, which pleases me very much; managing the estate is interesting, but hard work. He certainly has something on his mind; he's being so
unstraightfoward and secretive. Or is it just a headache? What's the matter with him? What does he want? I would do anything he wanted if only I could. He is out now, but I fear when he comes back he'll be in a bad temper and will find something to irritate him. I love him desperately, I feel I could endure anything for his sake if I had to.

 

10th April
. He has gone to meet Papa in Tula and I already feel miserable. I have been rereading his letters to V.A.* They seem so youthful. It wasn't her he loved but love itself and family life. I recognize him well—his moral precepts, his splendid strivings for all that is noble and
good
. What a wonderful man he is! And reading through these letters I almost stopped feeling jealous, as if it wasn't V. at all but
me
, the woman he
had
to love. I put myself into their world. She was apparently rather a pretty girl, essentially empty-headed, morally good and lovable only because she was so young, while he was just as he is now, not really in love with V. so much as with his love of life and goodness. Poor man, he was still too young to realize that you can never plan happiness in advance, and will inevitably be unhappy if you try. But what noble, splendid dreams these were.

 

24th April
. Lyova is either old or unhappy. He seems to think of nothing but money, the estate and the distillery—nothing else interests him.* If he isn't eating, sleeping or sitting in silence he is roaming about the estate alone the whole day. And I am wretched and alone, always alone. He shows his love for me merely by kissing my hands in a mechanical fashion, and by being kind to me and not cruel.

 

25th April
. The same wretchedness all morning, the same premonition of something terrible. I still feel very shy with him. I cried as if demented and afterwards couldn't understand why this was always happening—I knew only that I had good reason to cry, and even possibly to die, if he had stopped loving me as he used to. I didn't mean to write today, but I am all alone downstairs and have given in to my old habit of scribbling. I've been interrupted—

 

29th April, evening
. I get annoyed about trifles—some parcels, for instance. I make great efforts not to be irritable, and shall soon achieve this. Towards Lyovochka I feel terribly affectionate and rather shy—a result of my petty moods. Towards myself I feel a disgust such as I haven't felt for a long time. I want to go out and look at the bees
and the apple trees and work on the estate.* I want to be active, but I am heavy and tired, and my infirmity tells me to sit still and look after my stomach. It's infuriating. It distresses me that it should make him so unkind to me, as if it's my fault I am pregnant. I'm no help to him at present. And there is another thing which makes me disgusted with myself. (One must above all speak the truth in a diary.) It made me happy to recall the time when V.V.* was in love with me. I wonder if it could make me happy if someone fell in love with me now? Oh, how loathsome. I always laughed at him then and never felt anything for him but contempt. Lyova ignores me more and more. The physical side of love is very important for him. This is terrible. For me it's quite the opposite.

 

8th May
. My pregnancy is to blame for everything—I'm in an unbearable state, physically and mentally. Physically I'm always ill, mentally there is this awful emptiness and boredom. As far as Lyova is concerned I don't exist. I feel I am hateful to him, and want only to leave him in peace and cut myself out of his life as far as possible. I can do nothing to make him happy, because I'm pregnant. It's a cruel truth that a wife only discovers whether her husband really loves her when she is pregnant. He has gone to his beehives and I would give anything to go too but shan't, because I have been having palpitations and it's difficult to sit down there, and there'll be a thunderstorm any moment, and my head aches and I'm bored—I feel like weeping, and I don't want him to see me in this state, especially as he is ill too. I feel awkward with him most of the time. If he is occasionally kind to me it's more a matter of habit, and he still feels obliged to continue the old relations even though he doesn't love me any more. I'm sure it would be terrible for him to confess that he did once love me—not so long ago either—but all this is over now. If only he knew how much he has changed, if only he could step into my shoes for a while, he would understand how hard life is for me. But there's no help for it. He will wake up again after the baby is born, I suppose, for this is what always happens.