I was fortunate enough to grow up surrounded by people who loved one another and who loved me. I assumed then that such loving relationships were onl… - Tatyana Sukhotina-Tolstaya

We also loved a certain story papa used to tell us. It was called 'the Seven Cucumbers' … 'A little boy went into a garden. He saw a cucumber. A cucumber as big as this (holding up his two forefingers to demonstrate the length). He picked it, hup!, and ate it. (The voice quite matter of fact so far, and pitched fairly high.) The little boy continued on his way and saw a second cucumber, a cucumber as big as this. Hup! He ate it. (The voice now slightly louder and deeper.) He went on, he saw a third cucumber, a cucumber as big as this (the forefingers indicating a length of about eighteen inches), and hup ! He ate it. … And so it went on until the seventh cucumber, with papa's voice getting louder and louder, deeper and deeper … When papa showed how the little boy ate the seventh cucumber his mouth with its missing teeth opened so wide it was frightening to see.

My father was accustomed to say that disorders of the mind are simply a heightened form of egoism. And it was certainly in this form that my mother's psychological anomalies presented themselves. She who had once been always ready to give of herself totally, without any thought of self, now fell prey to a single morbid preoccupation: what other people were saying about her. What would they say about her in the future? Might they one day, after her death, treat her as a Xantippe? And she had some grounds for such fears, since she was surrounded by people who pitied her husband for all she made him endure.

Do you know why my father is buried under a little mound in the shade of some old oak trees, there in wood? It is because that spot conjured up for him a childhood memory particularly dear to his heart. The oldest of the Tolstoy children, Nicolai, who had a great influence on all his brothers, and particularly on my father, had told him that just there, in that particular part of the wood, he had secretly buried a little green stick on which he had carved a magic spell. Whoever found that wand would become its master, and would have the power to make everyone in the world happy. Hatred, war, disease, grief, and misfortunes would disappear from the face of the earth, all men would know happiness and become 'Muravei Brothers', or in other words 'Ant Brothers.' 'That phrase appealed to me particularly,' my father remarked later, 'because it made me think of all the members of an anthill living together in perfect harmony.'