that her parents were wrong to believe that he was in love with the fair Lisa, but that he was not wrong to identify himself with the horrible Dublitsky:
"When 1 read your story I recognized myself in Dublitsky and that unfortunately reminded me of what I really am and all too often forget: Uncle Leo, an old, exceedingly unsightly devil who needs to work, alone and unremittingly, at what God has given him to do, and not to think of any other felicity than that afforded by the knowledge of work well done. ... I am gloomy when I look at you, because your youth reminds me too vividly of my age and the impossibility of happiness for me. ... I am Dublitsky, but to marry simply liecause one must have a wife is something I cannot do. I demand something terrible, impossible, of marriage. ... I demand to be loved as I love. ... I shall not come to see you any more."
What a relief to have written that letter! Such a relief that he popped it into a drawer and promptly forgot all about it.f On September 10 he awoke with cramped muscles but renewed optimism. His resolution not to see Sonya again vanished with the day. He hardly took time to dress before rushing over to her home: "To the Kremlin. She wasn't in. . . . Then she arrived, severe, serious. I left, discouraged again, and more in love than ever. Underneath everything else, hope lives on. I must, I absolutely must free myself. I am beginning to hate Lisa, and pity her at the same time. Lord, help me, tell me what to do! Another cnicl, sleepless night coming, I can feel it; T who scoffed at lovers' agonies! I shall perish by the sword I have wielded! How many times I have planned to tell her, or Tanya, but in vain. . . . Help me, Lord, teach me what to do. Holy Virgin, help me!" (September 10.)
He was frightened by the fullness of his love as by a disease. The sole activity of which his mind was capable was obsessive thought about this soft-skinned little girl. The older and uglier he felt himself, the more desirable she seemed. On September 11 lie forced himself to stay at home and spent the day in prayer. On the twelfth he called on the Behrs and arrived in the midst of a party of friends, whose chatter made him dizzy. Sonya was inaccessible among all those trivial, fluttering people. He wanted to pick her up bodily and carry her away, bear her off to the country. ... "I am in love as I did not believe it possible to be," he wrote that evening. "I am insane, I shall put a bullet through my head if this goes on much longer. There was a party at their place. She is delightful in every respect. And I am the repugnant old Dublitsky. I should have taken my precautions sooner. Now I cannot stop.
t He gave the letter, dated September 9, 1862, to Sofya Andreyevna after their marriage.
Dublitsky, so be it; but transfigured by love. Yes, I'll go tomorrow morning. There have been propitious moments, and I have not taken advantage of them. I was afraid, when I should simply have told her. I feel like going back now and saying it in front of everybody. Lord, help me!"
On September 13, having broken his promise to himself again, lie renewed it: "Tomorrow I shall go and speak out, or else I shall kill myself." On second thought, he crosscd out the last part of the sentence. He would not kill himself. Nor would he speak out. He would present his proposal in writing. After all, it was easier that way. What despair if she were to refuse! What dread if she were to accept! Not a sound in the house; a candle burned on the table. lie let his pen slide across the paper. When he had finished, he wrote in his diary: "Four in the morning. I have written her a letter which I shall give to her tomorrow, that is, today, the fourteenth. God, I am afraid I shall die! Such happiness seems impossible. Help me, my God!" Then he closed his notebook, picked up the letter and calmly read it over:
"Sofya Andreyevna, the situation has become intolerable to me. Every day for three weeks I have sworn to myself: today I shall speak; and every day I leave you with the same anguish, the same regret, the same terror, the same joy in my heart. ... I am bringing this letter with me, to give to you in case I lack the opportunity, or the courage, to speak. . . . Tell me, tell me truthfully, do you want to be my wife? But do not answer yes unless you can do so fearlessly, from the bottom of your heart. If you cannot, if you have the shadow of a doubt, then it is better to answer no. For the love of God, be certain! If you say no, it will be awful for me, but I am expecting it and shall find strength to bear it. For if I were your husband and were not loved as much as I love, it would be more awful still."
He did not give his letter to Sonya on either the fourteenth or the fifteenth of September. But on the fifteenth, he whispered to her that he had something important to tell her. She looked up at him with her great dark astonished eyes. Did she really not understand, or was she pretending not to understand? He felt the letter in his pocket, did not say another word, and beat a retreat.
When he returned to the Kremlin after dinner the following day, September 16, he found Sonya at the piano playing "II baccio," an Italian waltz. She was so nervous that her fingers caught on the keys. To hide her confusion, she asked her sister Tanya to sing. After a bit, as she was getting the notes all wrong, Tolstoy took her place at the piano. He vowed that if Tanya sang the last note well, which was very high, he would give Sonya the letter. If not, he would conclude that
God counseled him to wait. The end of the song drew near. The note welled out of the girl's throat, pure, crystalline, imperative. Tolstoy felt as though he had received a blow on the head, and put his hand to his pocket. Tanya went to make tea. As though diving off the top of a tower, he murmured:
"I wanted to speak to you but I was not able to. Here is the letter I have been carrying with me for several days. Read it. I shall wait for your reply here."
Sonya snatched the letter, pounded along the hall and shut herself into the room she shared with her two sisters. Her heart was beating so hard that she scarcely understood what she read. Just as she reached the sentence: "Do you want to be my wife?" someone knocked at the door. It was Lisa.
"Sonya!" she cried out. "Open the door! Open the door immediately! I must speak to you!"
Sonya opened the door a crack.
"What has the count written to you?" Lisa said in a choked voice. "Tell me! Tell me!. . ."
"lie has proposed to mc," answered Sonya in French.
Lisa's eyes grew wider, the tears spilled over and her mouth twisted into a sob:
"Refuse! Refuse right away!"
Sonya, petrified with joy, said nothing; alerted by Tanya, her mother came running. She scolded Lisa, ordered her to take hold of herself and show a little dignity, and pushed Sonya forward by the shoulders, saying:
"Go give him your reply."
Bome on a gust of wind, she flew into the room where Tolstoy was waiting, pale, backed up against the wall. He took her hands in his and said weakly: "Well?"
"Yes, of course!" she burst out.
At her words, fear and joy surged through him so violently that he felt faint. Two minutes later the whole household had heard the news and he had to submit to the avalanche of congratulations. But Lisa stayed away, weeping in her room, and Dr. Bchrs sent word that he was not feeling well and also failed to appear. He thought it highly improper of Tolstoy to choose his second daughter, when he had intended him to many the eldest.
After the fiance's departure, Mrs. Behrs set out to win over her husband. She pointed out that with their large family and slender resources they had no right to reject a rich, talented and noble suitor on a mere point of order, that they would gain nothing by trying to oppose true love and that, furthermore, the important thing was not principle but Sonya's happiness. Mastering her resentment, Lisa joined her mother in pleading the cause of the future couple. Together, they won the doctor over; he blessed Sonya with the family icon and everybody cried.