IN one of his letters to his great-aunt, Alexandra Andreyevna Tolstoy,
my father gives the following description of his children:
The eldest [Sergei] is fair-haired and good-looking; there is something
weak and patient in his expression, and very gentle. His laugh is not
infectious; but when he cries, I can hardly refrain from crying, too.
Every one says he is like my eldest brother.
I am afraid to believe it. It is too good to be true. My brother's chief
characteristic was neither egotism nor self-renunciation, but a strict
mean between the two. He never sacrificed himself for any one else; but
not only always avoided injuring others, but also interfering with them.
He kept his happiness and his sufferings entirely to himself.
Ilya, the third, has never been ill in his life; broad-boned, white and
pink, radiant, bad at lessons. Is always thinking about what he is told
not to think about. Invents his own games. Hot-tempered and violent,
wants to fight at once; but is also tender-hearted and very sensitive.
Sensuous; fond of eating and lying still doing nothing.
Tanya [Tatyana] is eight years old. Every one says that she is like
Sonya, and I believe them, although I am pleased about that, too; I
believe it only because it is obvious. If she had been Adam's eldest
daughter and he had had no other children afterward, she would have
passed a wretched childhood. The greatest pleasure that she has is to
look after children.
The fourth is Lyoff. Handsome, dexterous, good memory, graceful. Any
clothes fit him as if they had been made for him. Everything that others
do, he does very skilfully and well. Does not understand much yet.
The fifth, Masha [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.