APPENDIX IV
TOLSTOY’S WILL OF 22 JULY, 1910
THE FOLLOWING IS the text of Tolstoy’s will, written by him on 22 July, 1910, and proved for execution by the Tula High Court on 16 November, 1910: —
July, 1910, I, the undersigned, being of sound mind and memory, make the following disposition in the event of my death: all my literary works, both those already written and those which may be written between now and my death, both those which have already been published and those which are unpublished, my works of fiction as well as any other works finished or unfinished, dramatic works or those in any other form, translations, revisions, diaries, private letters, rough drafts, jottings, and notes, — in a word everything without any exception, written by me up to the day of my death, wherever such may be found or in whosever possession, whether in manuscript or in print, and also the rights of literary property in all my works, as well as the MSS. themselves and all my papers left after my death — I bequeth in full ownership to my daughter, Alexandra Lvovna Tolstoy. In the event of my daughter, Alexandra Lvovna Tolstoy, dying before me, I bequeath the above-mentioned absolutely to my daughter, Tatyana Lvovna Sukhotin. (Signed) Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoy.
I hereby bear witness that the above will was actually made, written by his own hand, and signed by Count Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoy, who is of sound mind and memory, Alexander Boresovich Goldenweiser, artist.
Witness to the same: Alexei Petrovich Sergeenko, citizen.
Witness to the same: Anatolii Dionsevich Radinskii, son of a lieutenant-colonel.
APPENDIX V
TOLSTOY’S GOING AWAY
THE FOLLOWING LETTER from Tolstoy to his daughter Alexandra and extracts from his diary give his own account of his going away, and will enable the reader to see something of his side of the question:
TOLSTOY’S LETTER TO HIS DAUGHTER ALEXANDRA LVOVONA
29 OCTOBER, 1910, Optina Monastery.
“…will tell you all about me, my dear friend Sasha. It is hard. I can’t help feeling it a great load on me. The chief thing is — not to do wrong. That is the difficulty. Certainly, I have sinned and shall sin, but I should wish to sin less.
This is the chief thing above all others, that I wish for you, the more so that I know that the task is terrible and beyond your powers at your age. I have not decided anything, and I do not want to decide. I am trying to do only what I can’t help doing; and not to do what I need not do. From my letter to Chertkov you will see, not how I look at this question, but how I feel about it. I hope very much that good will come from the influence of Tanya and Serge.
The chief thing is that they should realize and try to suggest to her (Countess S. A. T.) that this perpetual spying, eavesdropping, incessant complaining, ordering me about, as her fancy takes her, constant managing, pretended hatred of the man who is nearest and most necessary to me, with her open hatred of me and pretence of love, — that a life like this is not only unpleasant, but impossible; and if one of us is to drown himself, let it not be her on any account, but myself; that there is but one thing I want — freedom from her, from that falsehood, pretence, and spite with which her whole being is permeated.
Of course they cannot suggest this to her, but they can suggest to her that all her acts towards me not only do not express love but are inspired by the obvious wish to kill me, which she will achieve since I hope that the third fit which attacks me will save her as well as myself from the terrible state in which we have lived, to which I do not wish to return.
You see, my dear, how wicked I am. I do not conceal myself from you. I do not send for you yet, but I will as soon as I can, very shortly. Write and tell me how you are. I kiss you.
L. Tolstoy.
The following extracts from Tolstoy’s diary which describe his actual flight and the circumstances that led up to it also throw light upon Countess Tolstoy’s attitude to her husband, and completely refute the false accounts which she persisted in publishing everywhere from the day of Tolstoy’s death until the present time.
FROM TOLSTOY’S DIARY
25 OCT. 1910…. Sophie Andreevna is as anxious as ever.
27 Oct. 1910. I got up very early. All night I had bad dreams. The difficulty of our relation is constantly increasing.
28 Oct. 1910. I went to bed at half past eleven. Slept till two. I woke, and again as on other nights heard steps and the opening of doors. On previous nights I did not look out of my door; now I looked and saw through a chink a bright light in my study and heard rustling. It is Sophie A. searching for something and probably reading my papers.
Yesterday she asked, indeed demanded, that I should not shut the door. Both her doors are open, so that my least movement is audible to her. Both during the day and during the night all my movements and words must be known to her and be under her control.
Again steps, a cautious opening of the door, and she passes by.
I do not know why this has roused in me such overpowering repulsion and indignation. I wanted to fall asleep, but could not, tossed about for an hour, lit the candle, and sat down.
The door opens and in comes S. A. asking about “my health,” and surprised at seeing a light in my room.
The repulsion and indignation are growing. I am choking. I count my pulse: 97. I cannot lie down; and I suddenly come to a final decision to go.
I write a letter to her, and begin to pack only what things are needed for the journey. I wake Dushan then Sasha they help me with the packing. It is night, pitch dark, I lose my way to the ledge; get into the wood; I am pricked by the branches; knocked against the trees; fall; lose my hat; cannot find it; get out with difficulty; walk home; take my cap; and with a lantern go to the stable, give an order to harness the horses. Sasha, Dushan, Varya come there. I tremble, expecting that S. A. T. will pursue me.
But we leave. In Schekino we wait an hour for the train, and every minute I expect her to appear. But now we are in the train; we start.
The fear passes. And pity for her rises in me, but no doubt at all but that I have done what I ought to do. Perhaps I am wrong to justify myself, but I believe that I am saving myself — not Leo N. T., but that which at times exists, though ever so feebly, in me….
The End