The Diaries of Sofia Tolstoy (18 page)

Vsevolozhsky received me in a somewhat overfamiliar manner and introduced me to his assistant, a person named Pogozhev. “So you don't want to give us your plays, eh Countess?” he said. “I merely don't want to take on a lot of obligations I can't fulfil,” I replied. “But all that's just a formality!” he said. “It may be a formality for you,” I said. “But for me it's a matter of principle and I shall sign nothing.” At that point Pogozhev intervened: “If you don't sign these conditions you'll receive only 5 per cent of the gross takings instead of 10 per cent.” At that I turned on him in a fury: “I don't live on Merchants' Row and am not accustomed to haggling with shopkeepers, so kindly leave aside all questions of money since they do not interest me, or, more importantly, the Count. And I shall not give you that play.” I then turned to Vsevolozhsky and said: “What is this? How is it that a person of our circle like you doesn't understand that one can't treat Lev Nikolaevich like a vaudeville writer? We must all take his wishes into account, especially I, as his wife and a respectable woman, and that is why I can't sign your conditions or undertake that his plays will
never
be performed on a private stage. It's Lev Nikolaevich's greatest joy that he hasn't made a single kopeck out of the play, and this undertaking would deprive people of the right to perform it at charity benefits…” I became so heated that Vsevolozhsky eventually suggested deleting several of the conditions. But I wouldn't agree to that either, so he proposed that I write an unofficial letter instead, giving the Imperial Theatre the right to perform the play against 10 per cent of the gross takings. This I did.

My son Seryozha suggested that this money be donated to the Empress Maria's Charitable Institutions. I should have been delighted to do this, but I had to think of my 9 children who need the money so badly—where else would I find it for them?

I profited from my free time in the capital to visit two art exhibitions, the Wanderers' and the Academy.* I don't know if I was in a bad mood or just tired, but neither of them impressed me. Afterwards I went shopping with Tanya, sewed my dress and sat with her family and their guests. The rest of the time I stayed at home. They tried to tempt me to go to the theatre and see Duse, the celebrated Italian actress, but my nerves were shattered, and besides I couldn't afford it. All the time I was there I never slept more than five hours a night.

Eventually, on Friday the 12th, I could wait no longer for my audience with the Tsar. Holy Week was approaching, I was feeling
homesick, and my nervous condition was growing worse: I decided to return home on Sunday.

At eleven that night I had just gone to bed when a note arrived from Zosya informing me that the Tsar had sent me an invitation, through Sheremeteva, to see him at 11.30 the following morning at the Anichkov Palace.

Early that morning I checked that I had paid all my bills, asked Tanya to settle the rest for me, got dressed and sat waiting for the time when I had to leave. I had on a black mourning dress I had made myself, a veil and a black-lace hat. At a quarter to eleven I set off. My heart was pounding as we approached the Anichkov Palace. I was saluted at the gates, then at the porch, and I bowed back. I entered the antechamber and asked the doorkeeper whether the Tsar had instructed him to receive Countess Tolstoy. No, he said. He then asked someone else, and got the same reply. My heart sank. Then they summoned the Tsar's footman. A handsome young man appeared, wearing a crimson-and-gold uniform and a huge three-cornered hat. “Do you have instructions from the Tsar to receive Countess Tolstoy?” I asked him. “I should think so, Your Excellency!” he said. “The Tsar has just returned from church and has been asking about you.” (The Tsar had apparently been at the christening of Grand Duchess Elizaveta Fyodorovna, who has just converted to Orthodoxy.) The footman then ran up a steep stairway covered in an ugly bright-green carpet, and I followed him up. I hadn't realized how fast I was running, and when he left me with a deep bow at the reception room, my heart was pounding so wildly I thought I should die. I was in a terrible state. The first thought that came into my head was that this business wasn't worth dying for. I imagined the footman coming back to summon me to the Tsar and finding my lifeless body. I should be unable to say a word, at any rate. My heart was beating so violently it was literally impossible for me to breathe, speak or cry out. I sat down and longed to ask for a glass of water, but couldn't. Then I remembered that the thing to do when a horse has been driven too hard is to lead it about quietly for a while until it recovers. So I got up from the sofa and took a few paces around the room. That didn't make it any better though, so I discreetly loosened my stays and sat down again, massaging my chest and thinking of the children. How would they take the news of my death, I wondered. Fortunately the Tsar hadn't been informed of my arrival and had received someone else before me. So I had time to rest and get my breath back, and had fully recovered by the time the
footman returned and said: “His Majesty begs Her Excellency the Countess Tolstoy to enter.” I followed him to the Tsar's study and he bowed and left. The Tsar came to the door to meet me and shook my hand, and I curtseyed slightly.

“Do forgive me, Countess, for keeping you waiting for so long,” he said. “It was impossible for me to receive you earlier.”

I replied: “I am deeply grateful to Your Majesty for doing me the honour of receiving me.”

Then the Tsar began to talk about my husband (I don't remember his exact words), and asked me the nature of my request. I spoke in a quiet but firm voice:

“Your Majesty, I have recently observed that my husband seems disposed to resume his literary endeavours. Only the other day he was saying to me: ‘I have moved so far beyond these philosophical and religious works now that I think I might start on some literary work—I have in mind something similar to
War and Peace
, in form and content.' Yet with every day that passes the prejudice against him grows stronger. Volume 13 was banned for instance, although it has now been decided to pass it. His play
The Fruits of Enlightenment
was banned, then the order was given for it to be performed on the Imperial stage.
The Kreutzer Sonata
was banned…”

“Surely though you wouldn't give a book like that to your children to read?” the Tsar said.

I said: “The story has unfortunately taken a rather extreme form, but the fundamental idea is that the ideal is always unattainable if the ideal is total chastity.”

I also recall that when I told the Tsar that Lev Nikolaevich seemed disposed to write
literary
works again, he said: “Ah, how good that would be! What a very great writer he is!”

After defining what I took to be the main point of
The Kreutzer Sonata
, I went on to say: “It would make me happy if the ban was lifted from
The Kreutzer Sonata
in the
Complete Collected Works
. That would be clear evidence of a gracious attitude to Lev Nikolaevich. And who knows, it might even encourage his work.”

To this the Tsar replied: “Yes I think it might very well be included in the
Complete Works
. Not everyone can afford to buy it after all, it won't have a very wide circulation.”

On two separate occasions in the conversation (I don't remember exactly when), the Tsar regretted that Lev Nikolaevich had left the Church. “There are so many heresies springing up among the simple people that are having a very harmful effect on them,” he said.

To this I replied: “I can assure Your Majesty that my husband has never preached any philosophy either to the people or to anyone else. He has never mentioned his beliefs to the peasants, and not only does he not distribute the texts of his manuscripts to people, he is actually in despair when others do so.”

The Tsar was astounded. “Why that's disgraceful, absolutely disgraceful! It's a wicked thing to do, to steal someone's manuscripts!”

The Tsar is rather shy and speaks in a pleasant, melodious voice. His eyes are warm and kind, and he has a friendly bashful smile. He is very tall and somewhat stout, but he is sturdily built and looks strong. He is almost completely bald, and his head is very narrow at the temples, as though it had been squeezed in at the top. He reminded me a little of Vladimir Chertkov, especially his voice and manner of speaking.

The Tsar then asked me how the children felt about their father's teachings. I replied that they couldn't but feel the greatest respect for the lofty moral standards he preached, but that I considered it important for them to be educated in the faith of the Church. I had fasted with them over August, I said, but in Tula, not in the village, as several of our priests, far from being our spiritual fathers, were in fact police spies who had been sending in false reports about us.

“Yes, I have heard about that,” the Tsar said. Then I told him my eldest son was a leading
zemstvo
official, my second was married and had his own home, my third was a student, and the others still lived at home. Oh, and I forgot to note that when we were discussing
The Kreutzer Sonata
, the Tsar said, “Could your husband not alter it a little?”

I said: “No, Your Majesty. He can never make any corrections to his works, and besides, he says that he has grown to hate this story and cannot bear it to be mentioned.”

The Tsar then asked: “And do you see much of Chertkov, the son of Grigory Ivanovich and Elizaveta Ivanovna? It seems your husband has completely converted him.”

I was quite unprepared for this question and for a moment I was at a loss for words. But I soon regained my composure. “We haven't seen Chertkov for over two years now,” I said. “He has a sick wife he cannot leave. His relations with my husband weren't initially based on religion but on other matters. Seeing how many stupid and immoral books were being published for popular consumption, my husband gave him the idea of transforming this popular literature and giving it a moral and educational direction. My husband wrote several stories
for the people which sold millions of copies, but were then suddenly found to be harmful and not sufficiently pious, and were also banned. Besides this they published a number of scientific, philosophical and historical books. It was a successful venture and doing very well—but this too has been persecuted by the authorities.”*

The Tsar said nothing to this, and finally I made so bold as to add: “Your Majesty, if my husband
should
start writing works of fiction again and I should publish them, it would be a great pleasure for me to know that the final verdict on his work rested with Your Majesty in person.”

To this the Tsar replied: “I should be most happy to do so. Send his works directly to me for my perusal.”

I cannot remember if anything more was said. I do remember though that at the end he said: “Rest assured, everything will be for the best. I am very happy to have met you.” And he stood up and gave me his hand.

I curtseyed again, and said: “I am sorry I didn't ask to be presented to the Empress, I was told she was unwell.”

“No, the Empress is quite well today and will receive you. I shall give orders for you to be announced,” he said.

I then turned to go. The Tsar stood in the doorway leading to the little room next to his study and took his leave of me. “Will you be staying in St Petersburg for a while?” he asked.

“No Your Majesty, I am leaving today.”

“So soon? Why is that?”

“One of my children is sick.”

‘Really? What's the matter?”

“Chickenpox.”

“Well, that's not dangerous, so long as he doesn't catch a chill.”

“Yes Your Majesty, I'm afraid they might let him catch a chill in this cold weather if I'm not there.”

The Tsar shook my hand very warmly, then I bowed again and went out.

I went back to the reception room, which was upholstered in red satin, with a statue of a woman in the middle, two statues of boys at the sides and two pier glasses in the arches separating this room from the main hall. Everywhere was a profusion of plants and flowers. I shall never forget the mass of bright-red azaleas I had looked at when I thought I was dying. Outside the window was a desolate view of a cobbled courtyard with two waiting carriages and some soldiers on parade.

An elderly footman, who looked and spoke like a foreigner, was standing at the door of the Tsarina's reception room. On the other side stood a Negro in national costume. There were also more Negroes, three I believe, standing by the door of the Tsar's study. I asked the footman to announce me to the Tsarina, telling them the Tsar himself had authorized it. He told me the Empress was with another lady at the moment, but he would announce me the moment she left.

I waited for fifteen to twenty minutes. The lady came out, the footman told me the Tsar had spoken to the Empress and informed her I wanted to be presented to her, and I went in.

The Empress, a slim woman, quick and light on her feet, came to meet me. She had a lovely complexion, and her beautiful chestnut-coloured hair was wonderfully neatly arranged, as though glued to her head. She was neither very tall nor very short, and was wearing a high-necked, narrow-waisted black woollen dress, very narrow in the arms. She gave me her hand, and like the Emperor immediately invited me to sit down. Her voice was loud and rather guttural, and we spoke in French.

“We have already met once before, I believe?” she said.

“I had the pleasure of being presented to Your Majesty several years ago at the Institute of St Nicholas in Mme Shostak's house.”

“Ah yes, of course, and your daughter too. Now do tell me, is it really true that people have stolen manuscripts from the Count and published them without his permission? But that is horrifying—what a frightful thing to do!”