mile.

chambcr. At the end of their aubade the musicians dispersed, one going off to feed the pigs, another to knit stockings in the servants' hall, a third to spade in the garden.

Visitors to the house, whatever their rank, were made to await the "Grand Levee" in the antechamber. And when the double doors of the dressing room swung open at last, there was not one among the assembly who did not feel something akin to fear at the sight of the little, withered old man tottering stiffly toward him out of the depths of the ages, in a powdered wig above heavy black brows that shaded an expression of sparkling youth. lie speedily dispatched the importunate callers and set off for a walk or drive around his estate, of which he was very proud. The grounds were extensive, overgrown and untidy, with avenues of venerable lime trees, giant lilacs, disheveled ciders, clumps of hazel and birch and dark families of larch. There were four ponds stockcd with carp, a deep stream—the Voronka—an orchard and a hamlet of a dozen isbas. The master's house, built of wood and embellished by a peristyle of columns and a neo-classical pediment, was always freshly painted white. It was flanked by two pavilions. The view from the top of the hill looked out on a calm, rolling landscape crossed by the old Kiev highway, from which the monotonous creak of carts and the cries of drivers on their way to Tula could be heard during the warm season.

Prince Volkonsky loved nature, books, music and rare flowers, which he grew in his greenhouses, and he loathed hunting. He held superstition and inactivity to be the roots of all evil. lie combatted the former by reading the French Encyclopedists, and he warded off the latter by writing his memoirs—which he did standing at a tall desk—by studying mathematics, and by turning snuffboxes—foot on the pedal, hand guiding the gouge and eyes sparkling with glee—in a cloud of pale sawdust and curly shavings.

But most of his time was devoted to the education of his daughter and only child Marya, offspring of his marriage to Princess Katerina Dmitricvna Trubetskoy. The princess died in 1792 when Marya was just two years old.t The prince remained a widower and grew to dote upon this lackluster, ungainly and docile child. However, as he had a horror of emotional effusions he maintained a lofty reserve in her presence. Above all, he wanted her to have a well-furnished mind; in addition to French, which all people of good society preferred to Russian, he accordingly had her learn English, German and Italian. She had taste, played the piano prettily and was interested in the history of art. Lastly,

t Princess Marya Nikolaycvna Volkonsky was bom on November 10, 1790.

her father himself taught her algebra and geometry, with such zest and intensity that she grew faint as he leaned over her, exuding a sour smell of pommadcd decrepitude, and assailed her with questions and reprimands. Well, if he could not make a mathematician of her, at least he could hope to fashion her in his own image, give her self-control and a clear and logical mind and prepare her to sail unruffled through life's stormy seas. From her association with this caustic and domineering old man, Marya learned to hide her feelings; but at heart she remained an emotional girl with a penchant for daydreaming. She cared for the poor, read French novels and thought it natural to devote her existence to the worship of her father. The idea of marriage did not even cross her mind: the prince would never consent to let her go! Besides, she was not pretty. She had her father's heavy brows, and flushed scarlet whenever anything annoyed her. Nobody was interested in her. It was as though the steely glare of Nicholas Sergeyevich Volkonsky repulsed all the young men for twenty miles around. Only one had found favor in his eyes: a son of Prince Sergey Fyodorovich Golitsin and that same Varenka Engelhardt, Potemkin's niece and mistress, whom he had refused to marry in his youth. The two men had become friends late in life and, to consolidate their mutual esteem, resolved to many their children, without consulting them. As a first step family portraits were exchanged, painted by serfs on the two estates. Marya, to whom nobody had ever paid court, was ecstatic at the thought of this mysterious suitor whom she had hardly ever glimpsed, but whose father, begirt with the ribbon of the Order of St. Andrew, and mother, opulent, red-haired and covered with jewels, already presided in effigy over the drawing room at Yasnaya Polyana. When her excitement had reached fever pitch, a dreadful blow fell: her fiancЈ died of typhoid fever. For her, this was a sign from God: she was not to think of any man other than her father. She swallowed her tears as she had been taught, but looked wistfully back to this nascent love, whose purity and melancholy were so reminiscent of the romantic reading of her childhood. Now, imprisoned in her remote province, she knew she was destined to die an old maid and tried not to let the fact make her too unhappy. After all, life at Yasnaya Polyana was very pleasant. Her father had given her two young companions to entertain her. She preferred Mile. Louise Ildnissienne,® a mischievous, lively young Frenchwoman but, "I manage very well with both of them," she wrote. "I play music, giggle and frolic about with one, and talk of noble feel-

• Mile. Bouricnne, in War and Peace.

ings and deplore frivolity with the other; and both of them are terribly fond of me."²

Sometimes, wearying of the cooing of these turtledoves, Marya would slip across to the outbuildings to talk to the passing pilgrims. They stopped off there to eat and sleep, unknown to the prince, who was reputed to have no patience with visionary vagabonds. Hirsute and lice- infested, their packs 011 their backs and their eyes full of sky, they walked from one end of Russia to the other to rcach some miraculous monastery. Without believing a word of their tales, Marya marveled at the strength of their faith. If only she, too, could break her bonds and set off to roam the world! But she was riveted to Yasnaya Polyana. And she was growing old and faded. When she compared herself with her companions, she hated her plain, prematurely old face with its heavy brows and weary mouth. "I shall go to some town to pray," she wrote, "and then, before I have time to settle down and become attached to it, I shall move on. I shall walk until my feet give way beneath me, I shall lie clown and die somewhere, and rcach at last that eternal, peaceful haven where there are no more sorrows or sighs."

She dreamed of ending her life, but it was her father who died. On February 3, 1821 she suddenly found herself alone in the world. She was thirty-one years old and until that day she had lived with the sole aim of coddling the master of Yasnaya Polyana in his old age. With him gone, she was cast adrift and rudderless; she could see nothing of the slightest attraction in the days ahead. Her need to dedicate herself now encountered nothing but empty space. Seeking an outlet for her surplus affection, she took it into her head to marry Louise Henis- sienne's sister to one of her cousins, Prince Michael Alexandrovich Volkonsky.

The rest of the family howled "Misalliance!," but Marya stood her ground, sold one of her estates, and put the money in her companion's name to help the young couple. Bulgakov, postmaster-general of Moscow, wrote indignantly to his brother: "After losing all hope of tasting the joys of wedlock herself, the princess, daughter of the late Prince Nicholas Sergeyevich—an ugly old maid with bushy eyebrows—has given part of her property to an Englishwoman (a Frenchwoman) who lives with her."

Louise Ildnissicnne's sister and Prince Michael Alexandrovich Volkonsky were married in Moscow in April 1821. Marya made a special trip; she was the only member of the fiance's numerous kin to attend the religious ceremony. As she watched the two young people being blessed by the priest, her heart contracted within her. Her thoughts were turning more and more often to love, marriage, motherhood. Was she really to be deprived of these simple joys, the common lot of woman?

In Moscow she lived in the family house, which, although it was much too big for her, held fewer reminders of the old prince than Yasnaya Polyana. Her friends exhorted her to go out and enjoy herself. One day in a drawing room, she found herself face to face with a man of average height, who had wavy hair, a mclancholy expression and a mustache brushed demurely downward. He wore his uniform well and spoke French correctly. He was introduced to Marya: Count Nicholas Ilich Tolstoy. Marya found him quite pleasant but, as always, allowed nothing of her feelings to show. This meeting was not an accident. 'Hie very next day negotiations with a view to matrimony got under way between the plenipotentiaries of the two parties.

To tell the truth, Count Nicholas Ilich Tolstoy was not overjoyed by the prospect of a union with a person who, in addition to being dismayingly homely, was Eve years older than he. But he was on the brink of bankruptcy and a rich marriage was the only thing that could save him. The great name he bore would have rccommcndcd him to any heiress in Russia. 'Hie Tolstoys claimcd dcsccndancy from a Lithuanian knight named Indris, who had settled and been baptized at Chernigov in the fourteenth century; his great-grandson was given the name of Tolstoy, or "The Stout," by Grand Duke Basil the Blind. One Peter Andrcyevich Tolstoy had been appointed ambassador to Constantinople by Peter the Great, and then head of the Secret Chancellery; in 1724 he was raised to the nobility for his services, although this did not prevent him from ending his days in prison for plotting against Catherine II. Less ambitious than his ancestors, Ilya Tolstoy contented himself with squandering his fortune and that of his wife, ncc Gorcliakov, by sending his laundry to be washed in Holland, having his fish shipped directly from the Black Sea, giving balls and theatrical performances on his estate near Belyev, losing substantial sums at hombre and whist— until the day when, crippled with debt, he acccptcd a post as governor of Kazan for want of anything better. In the meantime his son Nicholas, just eighteen years old, had gone off on a sudden impulse to join the army. The year was 1812, Napoleon was marching on Russia, the young were afire with patriotism. From standard-bearer in a regiment of hussars, Nicholas soon became an aide-de-camp to General Gorchakov —a close relative of his mother—but despite this powerful protector, he did not shine in the campaign of 1813. Shortly after the blockade of Erfurt he was taken prisoner by the French on his way back from a mission to St. Petersburg. He was liberated in 1814 when the allied troops entered Paris, returned to Russia, and was made a major, then a lieutenant-colonel. Was this security at last? No; the extravagance of old Count Ilya Tolstoy in his post as governor of Kazan had assumed such proportions that there could no longer be any question of his son honorably pursuing a military career. The family was ruined, the Belyev estate mortgaged. Nicholas, smelling bankruptcy in the air, resigned his commission and went to live with his parents at Kazan. Aline and Pelagya, his two sisters, had married while he was away, the first to Count Ostcn-Sakcn and the second to V. I. Yushkov, and left home. Even without them, the household had preserved its appeal, thanks to a distant cousin—'Tatyana Alexandrovna Ergolskaya, nicknamed "Toi- nette." She was a poor orphan, who had been