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