As I reach the description of the last days of my father's life, I must
once more make it clear that what I write is based only on the personal
impressions I received in my periodical visits to Yasnaya Polyana.
Unfortunately, I have no rich shorthand material to rely on, such as
Gusef and Bulgakof had for their memoirs, and more especially
Dushan Petrovitch Makowicki, who is preparing, I am told, a big and
conscientious work, full of truth and interest.
In November, 1906, my sister Masha died of inflammation of the lungs.
It is a curious thing that she vanished out of life with just as little
commotion as she had passed through it. Evidently this is the lot of all
the pure in heart.
No one was particularly astonished by her death. I remember that when I
received the telegram, I felt no surprise. It seemed perfectly natural
to me. Masha had married a kinsman of ours, Prince Obolenski; she lived
on her own estate at Pirogovo, twenty-one miles from us, and spent half
the year with her husband at Yasnaya. She was very delicate and had
constant illnesses.
When I arrived at Yasnaya the day after her death, I was aware of an
atmosphere of exaltation and prayerful emotion about the whole family,
and it was then I think for the first time that I realized the full
grandeur and beauty of death.
I definitely felt that by her death Masha, so far from having gone away
from us, had come nearer to us, and had been, as it were, welded to us
forever in a way that she never could have been during her lifetime.
I observed the same frame of mind in my father. He went about silent and
woebegone, summoning all his strength to battle with his own sorrow; but
I never heard him utter a murmur of a complaint, only words of tender
emotion. When the coffin was carried to the church he changed his
clothes and went with the cortege. When he reached the stone pillars
he stopped us, said farewell to the departed, and walked home along the
avenue. I looked after him and watched him walk away across the wet,
thawing snow with his short, quick old man's steps, turning his toes out
at a sharp angle, as he always did, and never once looking round.
My sister Masha had held a position of great importance in my father's
life and in the life of the whole family. Many a time in the last few
years have we had occasion to think of her and to murmur sadly: "If only
Masha had been with us! If only Masha had not died!"
In order to explain the relations between Masha and my father I must
turn back a considerable way. There was one distinguishing and, at first
sight, peculiar trait in my father's character, due perhaps to the fact
that he grew up without a mother, and that was that all exhibitions of
tenderness were entirely foreign to him.
I say "tenderness" in contradistinction to heartiness. Heartiness he had
and in a very high degree.
His description of the death of my Uncle Nikolai is characteristic in
this connection. In a letter to his other brother, Sergei Nikolayevitch,
in which he described the last day of his brother's life, my father
tells how he helped him to undress.
"He submitted, and became a different man.... He had a word of praise
for everybody, and said to me, 'Thanks, my friend.' You understand the
significance of the words as between us two."
It is evident that in the language of the Tolstoy brothers the phrase
"my friend" was an expression of tenderness beyond which imagination
could not go. The words astonished my father even on the lips of his
dying brother.
During all his lifetime I never received any mark of tenderness from him
whatever.
He was not fond of kissing children, and when he did so in saying good
morning or good night, he did it merely as a duty.
It is therefore easy to understand that he did not provoke any display
of tenderness toward himself, and that nearness and dearness with him
were never accompanied by any outward manifestations.
It would never have come into my head, for instance, to walk up to my
father and kiss him or to stroke his hand. I was partly prevented also
from that by the fact that I always looked up to him with awe, and his
spiritual power, his greatness, prevented me from seeing in him the mere
man--the man who was so plaintive and weary at times, the feeble old man
who so much needed warmth and rest.
The only person who could give him that warmth was Masha.
She would go up to him, stroke his hand, caress him, and say something
affectionate, and you could see that he liked it, was happy, and even
responded in kind. It was as if he became a different man with her. Why
was it that Masha was able to do this, while no one else even dared to
try? If any other of us had done it, it would have seemed unnatural, but
Masha could do it with perfect simplicity and sincerity.
I do not mean to say that others about my father loved him less than
Masha; not at all; but the display of love for him was never so warm and
at the same time so natural with any one else as with her.
So that with Masha's death my father was deprived of this natural source
of warmth, which, with advancing years, had become more and more of a
necessity for him.
Another and still greater power that she possessed was her remarkably
delicate and sensitive conscience. This trait in her was still dearer to
my father than her caresses.
How good she was at smoothing away all misunderstandings! How she always
stood up for those who were found any fault with, justly or unjustly! It
was all the same to her. Masha could reconcile everybody and everything.
During the last years of his life my father's health perceptibly grew
worse. Several times he had the most sudden and inexplicable sort
of fainting fits, from which he used to recover the next day, but
completely lost his memory for a time.
Seeing my brother Andrei's children, who were staying at Yasnaya, in the
zala one day, he asked with some surprise, "Whose children are these?"
Meeting my wife, he said, "Don't be offended, my dear; I know that I am
very fond of you, but I have quite forgotten who you are"; and when he
went up to the zala after one of these fainting fits, he looked round
with an astonished air and said, "Where's my brother Nitenka." Nitenka
had died fifty years before.
The day following all traces of the attack would disappear.
During one of these fainting fits my brother Sergei, in undressing my
father, found a little note-book on him. He put it in his own pocket,
and next day, when he came to see my father, he handed it back to him,
telling him that he had not read it.
"There would have been no harm in YOUR seeing it," said my father, as he
took it back.
This little diary in which he wrote down his most secret thoughts and
prayers was kept "for himself alone," and he never showed it to any one.
I saw it after my father's death. It is impossible to read it without
tears.
It is curious that the sudden decay of my father's memory displayed
itself only in the matter of real facts and people. He was entirely
unaffected in his literary work, and everything that he wrote down to
the last days of his life is marked by his characteristic logicalness
and force. It may be that the reason he forgot the details of real life
was because he was too deeply absorbed in his abstract work.
My wife was at Yasnaya Polyana in October, and when she came home she
told me that there was something wrong there. "Your mother is nervous
and hysterical; your father is in a silent and gloomy frame of mind."
I was very busy with my office work, but made up my mind to devote my
first free day to going and seeing my father and mother.
When I got to Yasnaya, my father had already left it.
I paid Aunt Masha a visit some little time after my father's funeral. We
sat together in her comfortable little cell, and she repeated to me once
more in detail the oft-repeated story of my father's last visit to her.
"He sat in that very arm-chair where you are sitting now, and how he
cried!" she said.
"When Sasha arrived with her girl friend, they set to work studying this
map of Russia and planning out a route to the Caucasus. Lyovotchka sat
there thoughtful and melancholy.
"'Never mind, Papa; it'll be all right,' said Sasha, trying to encourage
him.
"'Ah, you women, you women!' answered her father, bitterly. 'How can it
ever be all right?'
"I so much hoped that he would settle down here; it would just have
suited him. And it was his own idea, too; he had even taken a cottage in
the village," Aunt Masha sadly recalled.
"When he left me to go back to the hotel where he was staying, it seemed
to me that he was rather calmer.
"When he said good-by, he even made some joke about his having come to
the wrong door.
"I certainly would never have imagined that he would go away again that
same night."
It was a grievous trial for Aunt Masha when the old confessor Iosif,
who was her spiritual director, forbade her to pray for her dead brother
because he had been excommunicated. She was too broad-minded to be able
to reconcile herself to the harsh intolerance of the church, and for a
time she was honestly indignant. Another priest to whom she applied also
refused her request.
Marya Nikolayevna could not bring herself to disobey her spiritual
fathers, but at the same time she felt that she was not really obeying
their injunction, for she prayed for him all the same, in thought, if
not in words.
There is no knowing how her internal discord would have ended if her
father confessor, evidently understanding the moral torment she was
suffering, had not given her permission to pray for her brother, but
only in her cell and in solitude, so as not to lead others astray.