Free The Diaries of Sofia Tolstoy by Cathy Porter Page A

there never will be. I am left alone morning, afternoon and night. I am to gratify his pleasure and nurse his child, I am a piece of household furniture, I am a woman . I try to suppress all human feelings. When the machine is working properly it heats the milk, knits a blanket, makes little requests and bustles about trying not to think—and life is tolerable. But the moment I am alone and allow myself to think, everything seems insufferable. He doesn’t love me, I couldn’t keep his love. In a moment of grief, which I now regret, when nothing seemed to matter but the fact that I had lost his love, I thought even his writing was pointless. What did I care what Countess So-and-So in his novel said to Princess So-and-So? Afterwards I despised myself. My life is so mundane. But he has such a rich internal life,talent and immortality. I have become afraid of him, and at times he is a complete stranger.
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    19th December . I’ve lit two candles, sat down at the table and I feel perfectly happy. Everything seems funny and unimportant. I feel like flirting, even with someone like Alyosha Gorshkoi,* or losing my temper with a chair. I played cards with Aunt for four hours, which made him furious, but I didn’t care. It hurts me to think of Tanya, she’s a thorn in my flesh.* But I have put even this out of my mind today. The baby is better, maybe that’s why I am so happy. At this moment I should love to go to a dance or do something amusing. He is old and self-absorbed, and I am young and long to do something wild. I’d like to turn somersaults instead of going to bed. But with whom?
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    24th December . Old age hovers over me; everything here is old. I try to suppress all youthful feelings, for they seem out of place in this sombre environment. The only one who is younger in spirit than the others is his brother Seryozha,* which is why I like it when he comes. I am gradually coming to the conclusion that Lyova wants only to restrain me; this is why he is so reserved, and why he constantly frustrates my spontaneous outbursts of love. How can I love him in this sober, sedate atmosphere? It’s so monotonous here, so lacking in love. But I won’t do anything. I complain as if I was really unhappy—but then I am really unhappy, for he doesn’t love me so much. He actually told me so, but I knew it already. As for myself I’m not sure. I see so little of him and am in such awe of him that I can’t be sure how much I love him. I dearly want to marry Tanya off to Seryozha, but it frightens me. What about Masha?* All Lyova’s pronouncements on the compartments of the heart are nothing but fanciful idealism and are no comfort to me.

1864
    In London, Marx’s International Workingmen’s Association (the First International) formed .
    4th October—the Tolstoys’ daughter, Tatyana (Tanya, Tanechka) is born. At the end of the year Tolstoy visits Moscow for an operation on his broken arm .
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    2nd January . My sister Tanya is all I can think about. I am worn out with grieving and planning and wrestling with it. Lyova, Aunt and I are in God’s hands. Yet I desperately, passionately, want them both to be happy. I am in a dismal mood. Tula was so cheerless today, it exhausted me. I wanted to buy up the whole town, how pathetic, but I soon came to my senses. Lyova is being sweet; there was an almost childlike expression on his face when he was playing the piano. I thought of Alexandrine and understood her perfectly; I realized how much she must adore him. “Grandmother”,* he calls her. He annoyed me just now when he said, “When you’re cross you talk to your diary.” What does he care? I’m not cross at the moment. Yet the slightest sarcastic remark from him hurts me terribly; he should cherish my love for him more. I am afraid of being ugly, morally and physically.
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    27th March . My diary is covered in dust, it’s so long since