The Diaries of Sofia Tolstoy (8 page)

Why did I quarrel with Nurse? I am just like Maman. I have recently discovered an alarming number of things about myself which are like her and which I disliked in her, mainly my habit of announcing to the world what a good woman I am and expecting all my faults to be forgiven.

4th April—a former student, Dmitry Karakozov, makes an attempt on the Tsar's life. Hundreds of people rounded up and arrested. 3rd October—Karakozov publicly hanged. The end of the “era of reforms” and the start of a period of repression
.

22nd May—the Tolstoys' second son, Ilya (Ilyusha), is born
.

 

12th March
. We spent 6 weeks in Moscow and returned here on the 7th,* and in Yasnaya I immediately felt the old security; slightly melancholy, but imperturbably happy nonetheless. I enjoyed myself in Moscow. I loved seeing my family, and they loved seeing my children. Tanya is a clever, healthy, affectionate little girl. Seryozha is much stronger now; he is a reasonable child, less amenable than he used to be, but very sweet-natured. I am afraid I overindulge them, but I am delighted by them. Lyova and I have been cold and awkward together ever since P. behaved so rudely in Moscow in response to my inept treatment of him. It has put a great strain on our relations.* I now feel horribly ashamed, but it's not as if there was the slightest blot on my conscience, now or at any moment in my marriage. Lyova has judged me too harshly. Yet even so it pleases me, for it proves he cares for me, and in future I shall be a hundred times more careful, and shall enjoy being so. Yet it's terrible to think this incident is another “cut” in our relationship. I now feel even more contemptible, even more liable to abase myself, which means that I make even fewer claims on the happiness and self-esteem I need to survive.

We spent most of our time in Moscow with my parents in the Kremlin. In the morning the carriage would come for the children and we would go and see them for the whole day. Lyova would go off to his sculpture classes and his gymnastics. The friends of ours I saw most of were the Perfilevs, the Bashilovs and Princess Gorchakova; we also developed an acquaintance with Princess Obolenskaya. I went to some concerts and very much enjoyed the classical music. It was a nice life and I loved everything in Moscow, even our hotel on Dmitrovka Street, and our stuffy bed-sitting room and study, where Lyova modelled his red clay horse and the two of us sat talking in the evenings. My brother Petya* is a dear creature and I love him. I often
think of them still, and it breaks my heart that I cannot see them now.

 

9th June
. On 22nd May I was unexpectedly delivered of my second son, Ilya. I was expecting him in the middle of June.

 

19th June
. We have a new bailiff here with his wife.* She is an attractive young woman and a “nihilist”. She and Lyova have endless lively discussions about literature and politics. This is quite improper in my opinion; their conversations go on far too long, and they may be flattering for her but for me they are complete torture. He was the one who preached against admitting any outsider, especially a young and attractive person, into the
intimité
of our family circle, yet now he is the first to do so. I haven't let him know how much I hate it of course, but I haven't a moment's peace of mind. We have been sleeping in separate rooms since Ilya's birth, which is wrong, for if we were together I would have it out with him this evening and blurt out all my resentment, whereas I shan't go into his room now, and he won't come in to see me. The children are the joy of my life. Having experienced the happiness they give me it would be a sin to ask for anything more. Yet it still grieves me that Lyovochka doesn't observe his own rules. And why was he saying only today that a man always worries he might accuse his wife of something she didn't do—as if one suffered only when one's husband actually
did
something wrong. For even the most momentary private doubts about his love for his wife can be just as disastrous. It's very wrong of him to honour Maria Ivanovna with these ardent speeches. It's almost one o'clock in the morning but I can't sleep. I have a horrible premonition that this nihilist woman will be my
bête noire
.

 

22nd July
. Lyovochka invented some excuse for visiting
that
house earlier today. Maria Ivanovna told me so herself, and that he stood under her balcony talking to her. What reason can he have had for going there in the rain? It's obvious: because he likes her. The thought is driving me insane. I wish her every conceivable ill, although I'm always especially nice to her for some reason. I wonder if her husband will turn out to be unfit for the job so they'll have to leave? At the moment I am wild with jealousy. He treats me with the utmost coldness. My breasts ache, and it's agony for me to feed the baby. Today I had to call in Mavrusha to give him some extra milk to allow my breasts to heal. These ailments of mine always make him treat me cruelly.

 

24th July
. Lyovochka visited her house again today and came back saying how he pitied the poor woman and her dull life. Then he asked me why I hadn't invited them to dinner. If I had had my way I would never have had her here in the first place. Oh Lyovochka, can't you see you've been caught! My aching breasts rob me of so much time and happiness. And the worst thing is I have completely withdrawn from him and he has withdrawn even further from me. It disturbs him that I have Mavrusha to help me feed Ilyusha, and it grieves me to see him suckling another woman's milk as well as my own. God only knows when my breasts will heal. Everything is going wrong. My heart rejoices whenever Lyova expresses his dissatisfaction with the way the farm is being run. Maybe he'll dismiss the bailiff, and I shall be rid of my tormenting jealousy for Maria Ivanovna. I would be sorry for his sake, but her I hate.

 

10th August
. There are days when you feel so happy and light-hearted that you long to do something to astonish people and make them love you. When I hear of others' misfortune I count myself very fortunate. Yesterday Bibikov told us the dreadful story of the regimental clerk here in Yasenki who has just been shot for hitting his company commander in the face. Lyovochka was a defence witness at the open court martial, but of course the defence was unfortunately a mere formality.*

We had a lot of visitors all on the same day: the two Princesses Gorchakova, nice Prince Lvov and fat Sollogub with his two adolescent sons. He told me I was the perfect wife for a writer, and that a wife should be “the nursemaid of her husband's talent”. I appreciate that, and shall try to be an even better nursemaid of Lyovochka's talent from now on. All my jealousy of Maria Ivanovna has vanished—it was virtually groundless anyway—and our relations are much simpler and happier, if still somewhat reserved.

 

12th November
. Lyova is in Moscow and has taken my sister Tanya with him. She is very poorly and I am desperately worried about her. The more hopeless her health is, the more I love her. She will probably visit Italy with the Dyakovs.* I am afraid I failed to realize how ill she was this autumn. We were having such a good time here in the first three weeks of September that I instinctively repressed all sad thoughts. When I don't open my diary for a long time I always think what a pity it is I don't record the happy times. The Dyakovs spent those weeks with us, with Lyova's sister Mashenka and her
little girls and Tanya, and there was so much friendship between us, so much simple affection; it's not often one enjoys such happiness with friends. I shall always remember my name day, 17th September, with special joy.* To my surprise and delight, a band struck up a tune for me as we were eating dinner, and there was dearest Lyova gazing at me so tenderly. That evening we sat out on the veranda, which was lit by lanterns and candles. I shall never forget the young ladies darting about in their white muslin dresses, and good-natured little Kolokoltsev; but it's Lyovochka's sweet cheerful face I remember most clearly, as he rushed here, there and everywhere, doing everything he could to ensure we all enjoyed ourselves. I quite surprised myself, dancing with such abandon. The weather was perfect and everyone had a wonderful time. I now spend most of my time copying out his novel (which I am reading for the first time).* It gives me great pleasure. As I copy I experience a whole new world of emotions, thoughts and impressions. Nothing touches me so deeply as his ideas, his genius. This has only been so recently. Whether it's because I have changed or because this novel really is extraordinarily good, I don't know. I write very quickly, so I can follow the story and catch the mood, but slowly enough to be able to stop, reflect on each new idea and discuss it with him later. He and I often talk about the novel together, and for some reason he listens to what I have to say (which makes me very proud) and trusts my opinions.

May—a Polish émigré attempts to kill the Tsar in Paris. Summer—a small group of populists travel to the villages to teach the peasants
.

July—Tanya Behrs marries Alexander Kuzminsky, a young magistrate. December—first three volumes of
War and Peace
published
.

 

12th January
. I am in a terrible state of agitation, as though something was coming to an end. There are indeed many things that must soon come to an end, and that terrifies me. The children have been continuously ill, and I still find the Englishwoman awkward and gloomy.* I don't warm to her. They say one becomes very anxious when one is about to die. Well, I feel extremely anxious and keep rushing about and have so much to do. Lyovochka has been writing all winter, irritable and excited, often with tears in his eyes.* I feel this novel of his will be superb. All the parts he has read to me have moved me to tears too; whether this is because as his wife I feel so much for him, or because it really
is
very good I cannot say for certain—although I think the second. His family generally gets nothing but his
fatigues de travail
; with me he is often impatient and bad-tempered, and I am beginning to feel very lonely.

 

15th March
. At ten o'clock last night, when I was already asleep, a fire broke out in the greenhouses and everything was burnt to ashes. Lyova woke me up and I stood and watched the blaze from the window. He dragged the gardener's children and their possessions from the building, while I ran to the village to fetch some peasants. But there was nothing they could do: everything was burnt, all those plants Grandfather had so lovingly cultivated all those years ago, which had given pleasure to three generations; the little that is left is probably frozen and charred too. I wasn't so upset about it last night, but today I had to struggle to control my feelings, otherwise I would have been in floods of tears. What a blow. I feel desperately sorry for Lyovochka; he looks so crushed, and every little tribulation of his weighs heavily upon me. He had lavished so much love on those plants, and everything he planted was just beginning to flourish. But nothing can bring them back now, only time will ease the pain.

16th September
. Tomorrow is my name day. All day I have been unable to stop thinking of 17th September last year.* God knows I don't need parties or music or dancing—all I need is for him to want me and love giving me pleasure as he used to; if only he knew how much I appreciated his kindness to me last year—I shall remember it as long as I live. Then I felt so sure of myself, so happy and strong and beautiful. Now I feel equally sure I am worthless, weak and ugly.

This morning we had a friendly discussion about the estate and agreed about everything and were such good friends, just as though we were
one
again, yet we seldom talk to each other about anything these days. I think of nothing but my children and my own trivial preoccupations. Seryozha came up to me just now and said, “What's that you're writing in your little book?” And I told him he could read it when he grew up. What will he make of it? Will he think badly of me? Will the children stop loving me too? It's because I am so demanding that I can never make people love me.

Universities of St Petersburg and Moscow in ferment. September—first issue of Mikhail Bakunin's periodical, the
People's Cause,
published in exile in Switzerland
.

Tolstoy immersed in the last part of
War and Peace.
Sofia assumes most of the responsibility for the household and estate. Autumn—entire Tolstoy family travels to Moscow, where Sofia's father is dying
.

 

31st July
. It makes me laugh to read my diary. What a lot of contradictions—as though I were the unhappiest of women! But who could be happier? Could any marriage be more happy and harmonious than ours? When I am alone in my room I sometimes laugh for joy and cross myself and pray to God for many, many more years of happiness. I always write my diary when we quarrel. There are still days when we quarrel, but this is because of various subtle emotional reasons, and we wouldn't quarrel if we didn't love each other. I have been married for six years now, but I love him more and more. He often says it isn't really
love
, but we have grown so used to each other we cannot be separated. But I still love him with the same poetic, fevered, jealous love, and his composure occasionally irritates me.

He has gone off hunting with my brother Petya. It's hard for him to write in the summer. Afterwards they'll go to Nikolskoe. I am unwell and have stayed indoors almost all day. The children go out for long walks and come back only to eat their meals on the veranda. Ilya is a perfect darling. Tanya's husband Kuzminsky is neither flesh nor fowl.