WHEN my father married and brought home his young and inexperienced
bride, Sofya Andreyevna, to Yasnaya Polyana, Nikolai Mikhailovitch
Rumyantsef was already established as cook. Before my father's marriage
he had a salary of five rubles a month; but when my mother arrived, she
raised him to six, at which rate he continued the rest of his days; that
is, till somewhere about the end of the eighties. He was succeeded in
the kitchen by his son, Semyon Nikolayevitch, my mother's godson, and
this worthy and beloved man, companion of my childish games, still
lives with us to this day. Under my mother's supervision he prepared
my father's vegetarian diet with affectionate zeal, and without him my
father would very likely never have lived to the ripe old age he did.
Agafya Mikhailovna was an old woman who lived at first in the kitchen
of "the other house" and afterward on the home farm. Tall and thin, with
big, thoroughbred eyes, and long, straight hair, like a witch, turning
gray, she was rather terrifying, but more than anything else she was
queer.
Once upon a time long ago she had been housemaid to my
great-grandmother, Countess Pelageya Nikolayevna Tolstoy, my father's
grandmother, nee Princess Gortchakova. She was fond of telling about her
young days. She would say:
I was very handsome. When there were gentlefolks visiting at the big
house, the countess would call me, 'Gachette [Agafya], femme de chambre,
apportez-moi un mouchoir!' Then I would say, 'Toute suite, Madame la
Comtesse!' And every one would be staring at me, and couldn't take their
eyes off. When I crossed over to the annex, there they were watching
to catch me on the way. Many a time have I tricked them--ran round the
other way and jumped over the ditch. I never liked that sort of thing
any time. A maid I was, a maid I am.
After my grandmother's death, Agafya Mikhailovna was sent on to the home
farm for some reason or other, and minded the sheep. She got so fond of
sheep that all her days after she never would touch mutton.
After the sheep, she had an affection for dogs, and that is the only
period of her life that I remember her in.
There was nothing in the world she cared about but dogs. She lived with
them in horrible dirt and smells, and gave up her whole mind and soul
to them. We always had setters, harriers, and borzois, and the whole
kennel, often very numerous, was under Agafya Mikhailovna's management,
with some boy or other to help her, usually one as clumsy and stupid as
could be found.
There are many interesting recollections bound up with the memory of
this intelligent and original woman. Most of them are associated in
my mind with my father's stories about her. He could always catch and
unravel any interesting psychological trait, and these traits, which he
would mention incidentally, stuck firmly in my mind. He used to tell,
for instance, how Agafya Mikhailovna complained to him of sleeplessness.
"Ever since I can remember her, she has suffered from 'a birch-tree
growing inside me from my belly up; it presses against my chest, and
prevents my breathing.'
"She complains of her sleeplessness and the birch-tree and says: 'There
I lay all alone and all quiet, only the clock ticking on the wall: "Who
are you? What are you? Who are you? What are you?" And I began to think:
"Who am I? What am I?" and so I spent the whole night thinking about
it.'
"Why, imagine this is Socrates! 'Know thyself,'" said my father, telling
the story with great enthusiasm.
In the summer-time my mother's brother, Styopa (Stephen Behrs), who was
studying at the time in the school of jurisprudence, used to come and
stay with us. In the autumn he used to go wolf-hunting with my father
and us, with the borzois, and Agafya Mikhailovna loved him for that.
Styopa's examination was in the spring. Agafya Mikhailovna knew about it
and anxiously waited for the news of whether he had got through.
Once she put up a candle before the eikon and prayed that Styopa might
pass. But at that moment she remembered that her borzois had got out and
had not come back to the kennels again.
"Saints in heaven! they'll get into some place and worry the cattle and
do a mischief!" she cried. "'Lord, let my candle burn for the dogs
to come back quick, and I'll buy another for Stepan Andreyevitch.' No
sooner had I said this to myself than I heard the dogs in the porch
rattling their collars. Thank God! they were back. That's what prayer
can do."
Another favorite of Agafya Mikhailovna was a young man, Misha
Stakhovitch, who often stayed with us.
"See what you have been and done to me, little Countess!" she said
reproachfully to my sister Tanya: "you've introduced me to Mikhail
Alexandrovitch, and I've fallen in love with him in my old age, like a
wicked woman!"
On the fifth of February, her name-day, Agafya Mikhailovna received a
telegram of congratulation from Stakhovitch.
When my father heard of it, he said jokingly to Agafya Mikhailovna:
"Aren't you ashamed that a man had to trudge two miles through the frost
at night all for the sake of your telegram?"
"Trudge, trudge? Angels bore him on their wings. Trudge, indeed! You
get three telegrams from an outlandish Jew woman," she growled, "and
telegrams every day about your Golokhvotika. Never a trudge then; but I
get name-day greetings, and it's trudge!"
And one could not but acknowledge that she was right. This telegram,
the only one in the whole year that was addressed to the kennels, by
the pleasure it gave Agafya Mikhailovna was far more important of course
than this news or the about a ball given in Moscow in honor of a Jewish
banker's daughter, or about Olga Andreyevna Golokvastovy's arrival at
Yasnaya.
Agafya Mikhailovna died at the beginning of the nineties. There were no
more hounds or sporting dogs at Yasnaya then, but till the end of her
days she gave shelter to a motley collection of mongrels, and tended and
fed them.