The Diaries of Sofia Tolstoy by Cathy Porter Page B

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.
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    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.
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    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—
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    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 beesand 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.
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    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