MY GUILTY SECRET

When Martha paid a visit this summer, she told me how much she loves the Tolstoy novella Hadji Murad, a tale of an ill-starred Muslim warrior in the Caucasus. (Colm Tóibín lauds it here.) I'd tried reading it a decade ago, when the title turned up in Harold Bloom's list of Great Books. Hated it, absolutely hated it. Couldn't get beyond the first 50 pages. But Martha's enthusiasm made me think I'd got it all wrong. So, on a trip to Oxford with her and her husband, Peter, I dropped into Blackwells and bought a copy. Oh dear, the same thing happened again. I thought it was melodramatic, totally unconvincing and drearily written. (Although I did read the whole thing this time, and added it to the Bookshelf, purely out of a sense of duty.) I feel extremely embarrassed saying this, but Tolstoy tends to have this effect on me, as does Russian literature generally. (Although I love Fathers and Sons, and never get tired of re-reading it.) My own theory is that the problem's partly due to the clunking English translations. I dipped into Childhood, Boyhood and Youth in French on holiday - the language is simple enough - and quite enjoyed it. Next stop, Guerre et Paix, one of these days, anyway.