Forgive me, dear friend Seryózha, for only writing two words--I have no time for more. I have been most unlucky since I left home; there is no one here I like. It seems that I have been abused in the _Fatherland Journal_ for my war stories--I have not yet read the attack; but the worst is that Konstantínof [the General under whose command was the battery to which Tolstoy was attached] informed me as soon as I got here that the Grand Duke Michael, having learnt that I am supposed to have composed the Soldiers' Song, is displeased, particularly at my having (as rumour says) taught it to the soldiers. This is abominable. I have had an explanation with the Head of the Staff. The only satisfactory thing is that my health is good, and that (Dr.) Schipoulínsky says my lungs are thoroughly sound. On 20th November 1856 Tolstoy left the army, in which he had never secured promotion though he had private influence enough to enable him, about this time, to save from trial by Court Martial the Commander of the battery in which he had served in the Crimea. Early in December he left Petersburg for Moscow. From there, on 5th December, he writes to Aunt Tatiána: When I first went away and for a week after, I thought I was 'in love' as it is called; but with an imagination such as mine that was not difficult. Now, however, especially since I have set to work diligently, I should like--and very much like--to be able to say that I am in love, or even that I love her; but it is not the case. The only feeling I have for her is gratitude for her love of me, and the thought that of all the girls I have known or know, she would have made me the best wife, as I understand family life. And that is what I should like to have your candid opinion about. Am I mistaken or not? I should like to hear your advice because, in the first place, you know both her and me; and chiefly because you love me, and those who love are never wrong. It is true that I have tested myself very badly, for from the time I left home I have led a solitary rather than a dissipated life, and have seen few women; but notwithstanding that, I have had many moments of vexation with myself for having become connected with her, and I have repented of it. All the same, I repeat that if I were convinced that she is of a steadfast nature, and would love me always--even though not as now, yet more than any one else--then I should not hesitate for a moment about marrying her. I am confident that then my love of her would increase more and more and that through that feeling she would become a good woman. [Illustration: TOLSTOY IN 1856, THE YEAR HE LEFT THE ARMY.]