After tliis explosion he had fled to his study, intending to sleep alone on the sofa. Sonya, choking with sobs, stared at the empty bed and refused to get into it. Carried away, as always, by her romantic imaginings, she told herself that Lyovochka had been scduccd by another woman. She went to her son, gave him his medicine, passed in front of the study door hoping her husband would call to her, heard nothing, went back to her bedroom, waited, motionless, her eyes blank, under the round circle of lamplight. He came back at dawn, but their recon-
ciliation was not immediate. At last, tears gave way to kisses. Worn out by emotion, lack of sleep and her husband's final caresses, Sonya made her way along the path through the woods to the bathhouse early in the morning. "I shall never forget that glorious morning, light and cool, and the silver-gleaming dew." Nor was she to forget her husband's cri du coeur, threatening to abandon her. Half-joyful, half-anxious, she dived into the chilly water and stayed longer than she should have. "I would have liked to catch cold and die," she wrote in her diary. "But I did not catch cold. I came back to the house and nursed Alyosha, whose smile filled me with joy."
When summer came to an end, Tolstoy left his wife at Yasnaya Poly- ana and went to Moscow with the two older boys to prepare for the family's return. Four months before, he had bought a house that was more to his liking—as a measure of economy, he said. In fact, he had paid 27,000 rubles* for it and thought to himself that it was cheap at the price. Naturally, with his simple tastes, he had not chosen to live in one of the luxurious parts of town, but in the industrial outskirts in the southwest, 011 Dolgo-Khamovnichesky Street.t Close by were a sock and stocking factory, a perfume distillery, a spinning mill and a brewery. Each had its own whistle, its special smell and its muffled, ceaseless, daily noise. The chief attraction of the new residence was a big walled garden (over two acres), with a row of lime trees, impenetrable thickets, a dozen apple trees, thirty or so cherry trees, a few plum trees and barberries, a little hummock covered with stiff grass, a pavilion for solitary daydreamers, a wide raised walk that could be used as a croquct lawn in summer and a skating rink in winter. The outbuildings (caretaker's house, coach house, stables, barn and cowshed) stood around the main house, which was built all of wood, two stories high. The facade was painted ochre and the shutters green. There were twenty rooms inside, all badly in need of redecoration. No running water. But they were used to that in the country. Besides, there was a well in the garden.
With surprising energy in a man who declared himself the enemy of all material contingencies, Tolstoy directed the renovation. The roof needed repairs, new floors had to be laid, the woodwork repainted, the wallpaper changed. A mere trifle! He had decided that they would move in at the beginning of October. Racing to meet his deadline, he bullied the contractor, heckled the workmen, raccd through the shops in search of antique furniture (preferably mahogany), brought everything he could from the Denezhny Street house and dispatched daily bulletins
• $76400.
t In 1920, this house becamc the Tolstoy Museum.
to Sonya: "Yesterday, to my great despair, the contractor announced that we would not be able to move in before October 1! . . . The four downstairs rooms will be ready on Tuesday. . . . The wallpaper has been hung, but the doors and woodwork still have to be repainted." (September 12.) "The main reason for the delay is that it is taking the plaster so long to dry. They heat and heat, but not everywhere. . . . The ceilings and one wall are already dry in the big hall and the drawing room, and have turned from gray to white. . . . The wallpaper in the corner room is too light, and too dark in the dining room, but in your room and Tanya's it is perfect!" (September 14.) "'Hie banister is very handsome, but the rails are so far apart that a baby could easily squeeze between them. I shall talk to the contractor about it tomorrow." (September 28.) "My dream of stunning you with my remodeled house will not come true. I am afraid you will be disagreeably surprised by the disorder you will find when you arrive. But we can all move in, warm and dry." (September 29.)
At first Sonya was amused by these technical reports, but she soon began to worry at the lack of affection in her husband's letters.
"You write of nothing but practical things," she said. "Do you think I am made of wood? Floors and toilets arc not the Only things in the world that interest me."
On October 8, the rest of the family arrived in the new house, where the table was laid for the travelers: cold meat, tea, fruit. Sonya went from room to room admiring her husbands taste; but the garden was the chief subject of enthusiasm.
It required a few weeks for the little tribe of eight children and twelve servants to divide up the rooms, unpack their belongings and adapt their habits to the new walls, furniture and echoes. Order was established. Lunch at one o'clock, dinner at six, evening tea at nine. 'There was a chef for the family and a woman cook for the staff. Fach member of the family had his own place at the big table in the dining room with its yellow walls and brown woodwork. Sonya presided; a voluminous soup tureen steamed on her right and a pile of soup plates mounted on her left; she filled them one after the other and a footman set them in front of each person in order of seniority. No wine, but a carafe of water and a jug of home-made kvass. Tolstoy had resolved to go on a vegetarian diet, as far as possible, and lived on oatmeal porridge, fruit jelly and preserves, This special menu suited both his philosophy and his lack of teeth. Conversation was always animated. The children whispered and teased each other. Chewing his bread in his toothless mouth, their father told a funny story, began to laugh before anyone else, and carried the whole table with him. Then, at a
moment's notice, the grownups would begin to "philosophize" and the youngsters to ache with boredom. At regular intervals a cuckoo clock on the wall uttered his wheezy hiccough.
When there was company, evening tea was served in the big white- walled drawing room with its outsize table and massive mahogany chairs. Not one picture, not one rug on the bare, gleaming floorboards, and, in the place of honor, a piano, at which Tolstoy and Sonya sometimes sat to play four-hand ducts. On reception clays, forty-four candles in the hanging chandeliers and wall-sconces were lighted, in addition to the three kerosene lamps. Famous musicians and singers came to perform for the master. A few years later Chaliapin sang his greatest arias for him-"Midnight," "The Miller's Return," "The Flea"-which he did not like as well as the folksongs sung by the same artist.
Tolstoy often left his wife and Tanya to receive their friends and hid himself away in his study, a little room halfway between the first and second floors, with bare walls painted pale green. To the left of the door stood a deal table covered with dark green felt, with three drawers and a railing around the top. No bric-^-brac, but two wooden-shafted penholders, a marble paperweight, a crystal inkwell, a goblet of ink, penwipers, folders and two bronze candlesticks. Tolstoy wrote by the light of a single candle. 'Hie corners of the room swam in darkness. He boasted that he didn't need glasses, but as lie was really quite myopic he had his chair legs sawed off to bring the paper closer to his eyes. When he tired of working seated, he would get up, open a folding writing- desk and continue standing. Or else he would settle himself among the brown silk pillows on his imitation leather sofa and read and take notes with his legs tucked under him. A litter of papers and books in Russian, French, English and German spread all around him. More books were stacked inside the glass-front bookcase.