That was how my father felt toward his novel while he was writing it. Afterward I often heard him say much harsher things about it. "What difficulty is there in writing about how an officer fell in love with a married woman?" he used to say. "There's no difficulty in it, and above all no good in it." I am quite convinced that if my father could have done so, he long ago would have destroyed this novel, which he never liked and always wanted to disown. (To be continued) REMINISCENCES OF TOLSTOY (Part II.) BY HIS SON, COUNT ILYA TOLSTOY TRANSLATED BY GEORGE CALDERON IN the summer, when both families were together at Yasnaya, our own and the Kuzminsky's, when both the house and the annex were full of the family and their guests, we used our letter-box. It originated long before, when I was still small and had only just learned to write, and it continued with intervals till the middle of the eighties. It hung on the landing at the top of the stairs beside the grandfather's clock; and every one dropped his compositions into it, the verses, articles, or stories that he had written on topical subjects in the course of the week. On Sundays we would all collect at the round table in the zala, the box would be solemnly opened, and one of the grown-ups, often my father himself, would read the contents aloud. All the papers were unsigned, and it was a point of honor not to peep at the handwriting; but, despite this, we almost always guessed the author, either by the style, by his self-consciousness, or else by the strained indifference of his expression. When I was a boy, and for the first time wrote a set of French verses for the letter-box, I was so shy when they were read that I hid under the table, and sat there the whole evening until I was pulled out by force. For a long time after, I wrote no more, and was always fonder of hearing other people's compositions read than my own. All the events of our life at Yasnaya Polyana found their echo in one way or another in the letter-box, and no one was spared, not even the grown-ups. All our secrets, all our love-affairs, all the incidents of our complicated life were revealed in the letter-box, and both household and visitors were good-humoredly made fun of. Unfortunately, much of the correspondence has been lost, but bits of it have been preserved by some of us in copies or in memory. I cannot recall everything interesting that there was in it, but here are a few of the more interesting things from the period of the eighties. THE LETTER-BOX THE old fogy continues his questions. Why, when women or old men enter the room, does every well-bred person not only offer them a seat, but give them up his own? Why do they make Ushakof or some Servian officer who comes to pay a visit necessarily stay to tea or dinner? Why is it considered wrong to let an older person or a woman help you on with your overcoat?