The Diary of Tolstoy's Wife—IV By arrangement with Victor Gollancz,

Ltd., who will publish the complete book on November 20th, we are able to print a series of extracts from "The Diary of Tolstoy's Wife," which have been translated by Alexander Werth. The Russian text first appeared at Moscow in September of this year, and the inform- ation it contained has not previously been made public. We have already published entries from a retrospective account of her engagement in 1862, when Tolstoy was thirty-four years old, further extracts from the account of her marriage and entries relating to ." Anna Karenina " and to Tolstoy's religious awakening. This week's excerpts are taken from her diary. The first one was written ten months after her marriage. June 6th, 1863. A lot of young people have arrived and have disturbed our life ; I am sorry. None of them seem to be very cheerful. Is it because everything is so cold ? It all affects me quite differently from what I expected. They did not cheer me up ; they merely made me more nervous, and things have become even drearier. I love Lyova Tolstoy immensely, but it annoys me that I should have accepted this unequal role in our relationship. I am entirely dependent on him, and God knows how I treasure his love. But he either takes mine for granted or else doesn't need it, for he seems to be alone all the time. I feel as though everything were over and that autumn was coming. But I don't know what everything means. I don't know what kind of a winter there will be after autumn, or whether there will be any at all—I can't picture. it. It's so annoying that I should have no desires, that nothing can give me joy, as though I had become an old woman—old age is unbearable. I no longer wanted to go out driving after. he said to me, "You and I, the old ones, will stay at home." I was so happy to stay alone with him once again. As if I were in love with him, and were not allowed to be. Now they have driven away, and Lyova has gone out, and I am alone again,. and bored and miserable. I feel annoyed, and am prepared to accuse him of being thoughtless and of not having- bought a carriage for me, and so on, and to tell him that the best thing for him to do is to leave me lying on the sofa with a book, and to take no further notice of rec. But, when I stop being annoyed, I realize that he has lots of work to do, that he really hasn't time to trouble about me, that the work on the estate is like convict labour, and, in addition to it all, there are all these visitors who don't give him a moment's peace: That repulsive fellow, Anatole, keeps hanging around. It isn't his fault if they cheated him about the carriage—he is such a fine, wonderful man, and I love -him with all my soul.

July 23rd.

I have now been married for ten months. I lose courage terribly. I automatically look for support, as the child. looks for the breast. I am all doubled up with pain. Lyova is hopeless. He can't run the estate for anything—it isn't in his line. He is too restless. He still isn't satisfied with what, he's got ; I know what he wants, but he shan't have it. Every- thing is so cheerless. I am used to his caresses, like a dog— but he has grown cold. I believe that such moods do occur. But it seems to happen too often. Patience . . .

. July- 31st.

He goes on uttering platitudes, which is terrible. Why should he be angry ? Whose fault is it ? Our relations are. frightful---at such a miserable time, too. He has -become so unpleasant that I try all day long to avoid him. When he says : "I'm going to sleep," or "I'm going for a bathe," I say to myself, "Thank God." When I look at the boy, my heart breaks. God has taken from me both my husband and. my child ; and yet we both prayed so fervently. -. . Every- thing seems to be at an end. But patience ! At any rate,. can always bless our past. I have loved him deeply, and feel grateful to him for everything. I have just been reading his diary: . . Everything seems wrong to him. These past nine months are about the worst in my life—to say nothing of the tenth one. . How often has he said to himself : "Why did I get married," and how often has he said aloud, "What has become of my old self ? "

- August 3rd. - I have talked to him, and I feel more at ease, for my assumption was right. It is revolting not to nurse one's

own child—who says it isn't ? But what can be done against a bodily defect ? I instinctively feel that he is unjust to-

me. Why should he go on torturing me like this ? I have become irritable ; I don't even see my duty towards the baby in the same light to-day ; and, just as he would like to wash me off the face of the earth because I am suffering and am not taking proper care of the child, so I don't want to see him because he goes on writing and doesn't suffer, Here's another aspect of the cruelty of husbands. I had never thought of this before. At this very moment I feel that I don't love him. One can't love a fly that keeps stinging one all the time. I can't improve matters, though I shall take care of the boy and shall do all within my power, though not for Lyova's sake, who ought to be paid out in his own coin. What a weakness on his part not to be able to be patient until I am better. I suffer and endure ten times as much as he. I wanted to write all this because I was in a temper.

It has started raining, and I'm afraid he will catch a cold. I am no longer angry ; I love him—may God bless him.

[Added in Tolstoy's handwriting and then crossed out : Sonya, forgive me, I now realize my fault, and I know how great it is. There are days when one seems to be guided not by one's own will, but by some irresistible outside power. That's why I treated you so badly—and to think it could have been me ! I always knew that I had many faults, but thought that I at least had a tiny spark of feeling and generosity within me. And yet I could be cruel and unkind—and to whom ? To the one being who has given me the greatest happiness in life and who alone loves me. Sonya, I know that one doesn't forgive and forget such things ; but I know you better now, and realize more fully all my meanness. Sonya, my darling, I was unkind and revolting and . . . but there is a good man within me who sometimes falls asleep. Lore him, Sonya, and don't blame him.]

Lyova wrote this, as he asked my forgiveness. But soon afterwards, he lost his temper and crossed it all out. It was at the time when I had those terrible pains in my breast and was unable to nurse Serezha. Surely, it wasn't that I didn't want to, when all I longed for was to be able to do it. I deserved those few lines of kindness and remorse, yet in his irritation against me he crossed them out before I had even time to read them.

September 22nd. ' It'll be a year to-morrow since we were married. Then I looked forward to happiness, now I anticipate unhappiness. I had thought that all this about going to the war was a joke, but there seems to be something in it. It's most puzzling. He isn't eccentric, is he ? No; but merely inconstant. I wonder whether it is consciously or unconsciously that he seems to be trying to arrange our life in such a way as to make me thoroughly unhappy ? He has placed me in such a pos, ition that I may find myself, any day, stranded without a husband and with one, or even with two, children. Everything to them is a joke, a momentary fancy. They get married, and like it, and produce a number of children, and then— drop it all and go off to fight. I ought to hope now that my, child will die, for I will never survive him. I haven't much faith in all this patriotism and enthousitteme in a man of thirty-five. Are not children the same patrie, the same Russia ? But no ! he is quite prepared to drop them because it's fine to gallop across the battlefield and revel in the romance of war and listen to the whistling of bullets. His inconstancy and cowardice make me respect him less. His talent is almost more important to him than his family. Let him explain to me the important motives of his desire. Why did I ever get married to him ? Even Voierian Petrovich would have been preferable ; at least, I wouldn't have minded -so much if he had left me. What did he need my love for ? Was it merely a momentary infatuation ? I know it is my fault ; or why should he be so peevish-? It is my fault to love him and to be afraid of his absence and his death in the war. Let him be peevish : but I should like to have prepared myself for it by ceasing to love him, and then the parting would be easier. Let him push me away altogether, WHO shall go further away from him. One year of happiness is enough for him ; and now he wants a change. He is tired

of this life. He shan't hive any more children ; I shan't

give him any more, so tbat he can desert them. Just listen to the despot : "I want to do it, and-dnn't you dare say a word." The war hasn't begun yet and he is still here. All the worse for me having to wait and languish. It will- be the. same in the end, anyway. And the Worst of it is that I still love him. It breaks my heart to see him sad.

March 23rd, 1865.

My fever has gone, and with it my depression. I am

greatly perturbed, for the children are still nOt well. Lyova has gone to Tula to get a doctor. Our relations are very good. I feel happy and free with him and am no longer troubled with doubts and jealousy. The weather is lovely. Spring has come, and the brooks are rustling, and yet I am indoozs. Lyova is very busy with the dairy farm, and the novel isn't making very much progress at present. His head is bursting with ideas—but when will he ever write them down ? He sometimes speaks to me of his plans and ideas, which is always a joy to me, and I can always follow him. But what am I talking about ? I shan't write down his conversation, anyway.

July 19, 1866.

We've got a new factor for the estate. His wife is young,

good-looking, and a nihilist. She and Lyova have long, lively talks on literature and politics. I find these talks rather out of place—flattering to her, and painful to me. He used to preach that an outsider, especially a young and attractive person, ought not to be admitted into the intimate family circle—and yet in practice he always does the opposite. Of course, I don't show any iign of being displeased, although I haven't a moment of "peace now. since Ilya's birth we have been sleeping in separate rooms, which is wrong ; for if we were together I wouldn't stand it any longer, but would blurt it all out to him this very evening ; but I can't go to him now, —and it is the same with him. My children make me very happy ; they give me so much joy. that it seems a sin to ask for more. There is so much happiness in loving them ; but it is a pity that Lyova should break his own rules. Yet why did he say to-day that a husband would be afraid to hurt a wife, whose conduct was irreproachable ? As if one were only unhappy after one's husband had already done something evil.. It's a 'great enough Misfortune if for a second one's husband doubts in his soul that he loves his wife. Lyova is wrong to treat Marya Ivanovna to such grand speeches. It is nearly one o'clock, but I can't sleep. I just feel as if that nihilist woman was going to be my bgte noire.

July 22nd.

This morning Lyova made some excuse for going to that house. So M. I. told me, and she also said that he had talked to her below her balcony. What was the need of going there in the rain ? It's quite obvious that he likes her, and the thought of it drives me insane. I wish her every misfortune, but to her face, for some reason, I am particularly pleasant. I wonder how soon her husband will turn out to be useless, so that they can both go away ? I remain locked up in my own room, while she sits in the drawing-room with the children. I simply can't bear her ; it annoys me to see her beauty and vivaciousness, especially when Lyova is there.

July 24th.

Lyova went again to that house, and said afterwards that the poor woman found life very dull. Then he asked me why I hadn't invited them to dinner. If only I could forbid her ever to come into the house at all, I would gladly do it. My dear Lyova! Can't you see how easily you get caught !

January 12th, 1867.

I am in a terrible state of worry and distraction, just as though something were coming to an end. So many things are bound to come to an end, and the thought terrifies me. The children have been ill all this time, and I still can't get used to the English nurse and still -feel unfriendly towards her. I believe one always feels very depressed before dying. I am fussed and worried, and seem to be in a constant hurry to do things. • All this winter Lyova kept on writing, full of irritation and excitement, and with tears coming to his eyes. I -believe his novel is going to be wonderful. The parts he reads to me often bring tears into my eyes ; is it because I am his wife and can sympathize with him, or is the novel really so wonderful ? I believe it is the latter. His family gets only his fatigues de travail, and he has become impatient

and irritable with me, so that I am beginning to feel very lonely.

August 29th, 1867.

We have been quarrelling, and haven't got over it yet. "It's your own fault if you haven't learned what your husband likes and what he can tolerate." All the time we were quarrelling I kept saying to myself : "may it end speedily and well." And yet it kept going from bad to worse. It is a painful struggle seeking for the truth ; but none of my intentions were evil, I know it. Nothing is left to me now but jealousy, and fear, and the memory of what is lost fin ever.

September 12th.

Yes, it has all gone. Everything seems so cold and un- friendly, and I feel I have lost all his love and candour. This feeling keeps pursuing me. I fear to be left alone, and yet I fear to be with him. I give a start every time he begins to speak, in ease he says I repel him. But he says nothing, and doesn't lose his temper, although he doesn't love me any longer and never refers to our relations. I never dreamed it could come to this ; and it is all so unbearably sad. At times I am filled with proud anger, and then I feel I can do without his love, seeing he hasn't learned to love a woman like me ; but most of all it irritates me to think that I still love him so deeply and painfully and with such humility. Mother often boasts that Father has loved her all this time ; but it required no skill on her part ; it was simply because he knew how to love, which is a special gift. How can one attach anyone to one's self ? There is no way. I have always been told that a woman must love her husband and be honourable and be a good wife and mother. They write such things in A B C books, and it is all nonsense. The thing to do is not to love, to be clever and sly, and to hide all one's bad points—as if anyone in the world had no faults ! And the main thing is not to love. See what I have done by loving him so deeply ! And what can I do now with all my love ? It is so painful and humiliating ; but he thinks that it is merely silly. "You say one thing and always do another." But what is the good of arguing in this superior manner, when I have nothing in me but this humiliating love and a bad temper ; and these two things have been the cause of all my misfortunes, for my tempet has always interfered with my love. I want nothing but his love and sympathy, and he won't give it me ; and all my pride is trampled in the mud ; I am nothing but a miserable, crushed worm, whom no one wants, whom no one loves, a useless creature with morning sickness, and a big belly, two rotten teeth, and a bad temper, a battered sense of dignity, and a Jove which nobody wants and which nearly drives me insane.

September 16th, 1867. In spite of myself, I keep thinking of the 17th of September a year ago. Heaven knows, I want no music, no dancing, none of all that, but merely his desire to give me pleasure and to see me happy as then ; if only he knew how grateful I still am, and always will be, for his kind thought last year. I firmly believed then that I was happy and strong and beautiful, and now I only feel that he doesn't love me, and that I am a weak, ugly, useless woman. He talked about the estate this morning, and we discussed things in such a friendly way, as though we were one again ; we so seldom talk to each other at all nowadays.

July 31st, 1868. It makes me laugh to read over this diary. It's so full of contradictions, and one would think I was such an unhappy woman. Yet is there a happier woman than 1! It would be hard to find a happier or more friendly marriage than ours. Sometimes, when I am alone in the room, I just laugh with joy, and making the sign of the cross, say to myself, "May God let this last many, many years." I always write in my diary when we quarrel. We still quarrel, sometimes, but only on account of some very subtle psychological difference, which we wouldn't even notice if we didn't love one another so much. I shall soon have been married for fibi years, and I-still love him more and more. He often says that this is not really love, but merely a habit, and that we couldn't do without each other now. And yet I still love him in the same restless, passionatedealous, and poetic way, and at times his placid ways annoy me. He has gone out shooting. with Petya. He is unable to write much in the summer.

(A further extract from the diaries of the Countess Tolstoi/ will appear new week.)