sha [Mary] is two years old, the one whose birth nearly
cost Sonya her life. A weak and sickly child. Body white as milk, curly
white hair; big, queer blue eyes, queer by reason of their deep, serious
expression. Very intelligent and ugly. She will be one of the riddles;
she will suffer, she will seek and find nothing, will always be seeking
what is least attainable.

The sixth, Peter, is a giant, a huge, delightful baby in a mob-cap,
turns out his elbows, strives eagerly after something. My wife falls
into an ecstasy of agitation and emotion when she holds him in her arms;
but I am completely at a loss to understand. I know that he has a great
store of physical energy, but whether there is any purpose for which the
store is wanted I do not know. That is why I do not care for children
under two or three; I don't understand.

This letter was written in 1872, when I was six years old. My
recollections date from about that time. I can remember a few things
before.

FAMILY LIFE IN THE COUNTRY

FROM my earliest childhood until the family moved into Moscow--that
was in 1881--all my life was spent, almost without a break, at Yasnaya
Polyana.

This is how we live. The chief personage in the house is my mother. She
settles everything. She interviews Nikolai, the cook, and orders dinner;
she sends us out for walks, makes our shirts, is always nursing some
baby at the breast; all day long she is bustling about the house with
hurried steps. One can be naughty with her, though she is sometimes
angry and punishes us.

She knows more about everything than anybody else. She knows that one
must wash every day, that one must eat soup at dinner, that one must
talk French, learn not to crawl about on all fours, not to put one's
elbows on the table; and if she says that one is not to go out walking
because it is just going to rain, she is sure to be right, and one must
do as she says.

Papa is the cleverest man in the world. He always knows everything.
There is no being naughty with HIM. When he is up in his study
"working," one is not allowed to make a noise, and nobody may go into
his room. What he does when he is at "work," none of us know. Later on,
when I had learned to read, I was told that papa was a "writer."

This was how I learned. I was very pleased with some lines of poetry one
day, and asked my mother who wrote them. She told me they were written
by Pushkin, and Pushkin was a great writer. I was vexed at my fa