Calm had come to her during her final years. Her husband's dream for her had in part come true, that transformation for which he would have sacrifice… - Tatyana Sukhotina-Tolstaya

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.

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.

One of my friends, Vasilii Maklakov, a learned and sharp-witted person, used to talk of Tolstoy's followers: "The one who understands Tolstoy does not become his follower. Whereas the one who becomes a follower does not understand him." I was often convinced of the truth of these words. There were many so called "Tolstoyans" amongst the numerous visitors who came from all over the world to meet father. More often than not they strove to resemble their teacher in their outward appearance without comprehending the real essence of his ideas. Those who understood Tolstoy could not follow in his footsteps. After all, Tolstoy felt that each person was free to live according to his own beliefs. And so, for those who understood Tolstoy the external appearances did not mean much. I once noticed an unknown young man amongst father's visitors. He was dressed in a Russian shirt, his trousers tucked into enormous boots. "Who is it?" I asked my father. Papa bent towards me and shielding his mouth with his hand whispered into my ear: "This young man belongs to an alien and totally beyond my understanding, sect—the Tolstoyan sect."