Chapter I: Front Matter

Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/rstalkswithtolst00golduoft

TALKS WITH TOLSTOI

by

A. B. GOLDENVEIZER

Translated by

S. S. Koteliansky and Virginia Woolf

Published by Leonard & Virginia Woolf at The Hogarth Press, Paradise Road, Richmond 1923

TRANSLATORS’ NOTE

In the following pages we have made a selection from vol. i. of the diary of the well-known Russian musician, A. B. Goldenveizer, which was published at the end of 1922 in Moscow under the title _Vblizi Tolstovo_ (literally _Near Tolstoi_).

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

In publishing the diary devoted to my friendship of nearly fifteen years with Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoi, I think it best to state first what my aim was in making notes, and the method I pursued in doing so.

I put down chiefly Tolstoi’s words, and to some extent the events of his private life, making no attempt to select what would be interesting from some special point of view, but adopting no method and attempting to supply no connection between one entry and another.

My diary, therefore, is in no sense “literature.” Its aim is to be a document.

Unfortunately, I did not always make notes and was far from writing down everything. After 1908 my records were fuller; in 1909-1910, the last year of Tolstoi’s life, my reports were voluminous; but it was only in 1910 that my records were as complete as they could possibly be. This is the cause of a great disproportion between the parts. The first volume of my diary contains the long period from January 1896 to January 1st, 1910, the second volume records and materials for the year 1910 only, yet vol. ii. is considerably larger than vol. i.

My notes from 1896 to 1904 are now published for the first time. The notes from 1904 to 1908 were published in _Russ. Prop._ vol. ii., and the notes from the end of 1908 to January 1st, 1910, appeared in _Tolstoi: Pamyatniki Zhizni i Tvorchestva_. The parts of the diary which have been previously published are here published in a considerably enlarged form.

A. GOLDENVEIZER.

1896

My first visit to the house of Leo Nikolaevich was on January 20th, 1896. I was not then twenty-one years old. I was almost a boy. I was taken to the Tolstois’ by a well-known Moscow lady singer who used to visit the Tolstois. She took me there in my capacity as pianist, of course. If one is so unlucky as to play some instrument, or to sing or recite, one has a constant impediment in one’s relations with people. People do not take to one, are not interested in one as in a person: one is asked to play something, to sing, to recite.... Hence one feels so embarrassed, so awkward, in other people’s society.

I felt awkward then, and painfully shy. I was introduced. I went into the drawing-room, where, fortunately, two or three people I knew were sitting. I did not yet see Tolstoi. Shortly afterwards he came in, dressed in a blouse, with his hands in his belt. He greeted us all. I do not remember whether he spoke to me then. Then I played, and played badly. Of course, out of politeness I was thanked and complimented, which made me inexpressibly ashamed. And then, when I stood in the middle of the large room, at a loss, not knowing what to do with myself, not daring to raise my eyes, Leo Nikolaevich came up to me, and, speaking with a simplicity which was his alone, began to talk to me.

Among other things, talking of the piece I had played, he asked me:

“Which composer do you like best?”

“Beethoven,” I replied.

Tolstoi looked straight into my eyes and said quietly as if doubting me:

“Is that so?”

It seemed as if I were repeating what every one says; but I spoke the truth.

Leo Nikolaevich observed that he loved Chopin beyond almost all other composers.

He said to me:

“In every art--this I know from my own experience too--there are two extremes which it is difficult to avoid: emptiness and virtuosity. For instance, Mozart, whom I love so much, is at times empty, but after that he soars to an extraordinary height. Schumann’s defect is virtuosity. Of these two faults virtuosity is the worse, if only for this reason, that it is harder to get rid of it. Chopin’s greatness consists in the fact that, however simple he may be, he is never empty, and in his most complicated works he is never a mere virtuoso.”

I left the Tolstois’ house with a vague feeling of happiness that I had seen Tolstoi and spoken to him, and also with a bitter sense of my own unworthiness.

One evening as I approached the Tolstois’ house in Khamovniki I met Leo Nikolaevich, who was going for a walk. He asked me to come with him. We walked in the Prechistenka. The street was deserted and quiet. The few passers-by whom we met at intervals nearly all bowed to Leo Nikolaevich. By degrees Leo Nikolaevich brought me to talk about myself. At that time I was carried away by the philosophy of pessimism; I raved about Schopenhauer. Probably everything I said to Leo Nikolaevich was naïve and silly, but Leo Nikolaevich listened to me attentively and spoke to me seriously without making me feel my naïveté.

In passing, Leo Nikolaevich said to me:

“The most complete and profound philosophy is to be found in the Gospels.”

I remember that at that time it seemed to me strange. I was used to thinking the Gospels a book of moral teaching; and I did not understand that all the wisdom of the most profound philosophy was contained in its simplicity and lucidity.

Once I met Leo Nikolaevich in the street. He again asked me to walk with him. We were somewhere near the Novinsky Boulevard, and Leo Nikolaevich suggested we should take the tram. We sat down and took our tickets.

Leo Nikolaevich asked me:

“Can you make a Japanese cockerel?”

“No.”

“Look.”

Tolstoi took his ticket and very skilfully made it into a rather elaborate cockerel, which, when you pulled its tail, fluttered its wings.

An inspector entered the car and began checking the tickets. L. N., with a smile, held out the cockerel to him and pulled its tail. The cockerel fluttered its wings. But the inspector, with the stern expression of a business man who has no time for trifling, took the cockerel, unfolded it, looked at the number, and tore it up.