This is why Jane Austen’s books never go beyond the wedding. Sofia Tolstoy lived a long, mostly miserable life, controlled and overshadowed by her husband, the more famous Leo Tolstoy. Had she not carried thirteen children (not counting the miscarriages), had she not been so occupied with editing and transcribing Leo’s work, getting it past the Tsar’s censors, and publishing it to furnish income for her family, would she be remembered as a better writer than Leo ever was? Unfortunately, much of Sofia Tolstoy’s writing aside from her diaries have been kept secret by the estate, but spending so much time with this hefty volume represents a “what could have been” of a great literary mind, lost to history. 

I had read about Sofia Tolstoy’s life and her diaries in Andrea Dworkin’s Intercourse, which considers parallels in her life to Leo’s The Kreutzer Sonata. I was vaguely aware that they had a long and fraught marriage, but I expected at least some sort of arc. On the second page of her diary (out of almost five hundred!) she already laments, “I am terribly sad, and am withdrawing further and further into myself. My husband is ill and out of sorts and doesn’t love me.” The first year of their marriage (Sofia was 18, Leo was 34) was bad (tainted by Leo’s affairs with maids) and it only got worse for the next 48 years. By far the most disturbing episode was when Leo wrote The Kreutzer Sonata as essentially a thinly-veiled murder threat. Every time it seemed like Leo was about to die, I cheered, and when he finally did it was depressing that Sofia spent her last seven years of freedom grieving for someone who never cared for her. A literary feat in their own right, her diaries also demystify the cult of Leo Tolstoy: 

“I have served a genius for almost forty years. Hundreds of times I have felt my intellectual energy stir within me and all sorts of desires - a longing for education, a love of music and the arts… And time and again I have crushed and smothered these longings… Everyone asks, “But why should a worthless woman like you need an intellectual or artistic life?” To this question I can only reply: “I don’t know, but eternally suppressing it to serve a genius is a great misfortune".” 

I have spent a long time reading this. I frequently found myself putting it down because it was too overwhelmingly tragic. Like all real diaries, there are definitely a lot of slow moments of everyday life, but experiencing fifty years of someone’s life in the span of mere months really makes you feel like you’ve got a parasocial relationship with that person. Perhaps that’s why reading diaries interests me; it helps keep alive those forgotten by history.