I lived in Moscow with my parents. They had taken a country house for
the summer near the Kalouga gate, facing the Neskutchny gardens. I was
preparing for the university, but did not work much and was in no
hurry.
No one interfered with my freedom. I did what I liked, especially after
parting with my last tutor, a Frenchman who had never been able to get
used to the idea that he had fallen “like a bomb” (_comme une bombe_)
into Russia, and would lie sluggishly in bed with an expression of
exasperation on his face for days together. My father treated me with
careless kindness; my mother scarcely noticed me, though she had no
children except me; other cares completely absorbed her. My father, a
man still young and very handsome, had married her from mercenary
considerations; she was ten years older than he. My mother led a
melancholy life; she was for ever agitated, jealous and angry, but not
in my father’s presence; she was very much afraid of him, and he was
severe, cold, and distant in his behaviour…. I have never seen a man
more elaborately serene, self-confident, and commanding.
I shall never forget the first weeks I spent at the country house. The
weather was magnificent; we left town on the 9th of May, on St.
Nicholas’s day. I used to walk about in our garden, in the Neskutchny
gardens, and beyond the town gates; I would take some book with
me—Keidanov’s Course, for instance—but I rarely looked into it, and
more often than anything declaimed verses aloud; I knew a great deal of
poetry by heart; my blood was in a ferment and my heart ached—so
sweetly and absurdly; I was all hope and anticipation, was a little
frightened of something, and full of wonder at everything, and was on
the tiptoe of expectation; my imagination played continually,
fluttering rapidly about the same fancies, like martins about a
bell-tower at dawn; I dreamed, was sad, even wept; but through the
tears and through the sadness, inspired by a musical verse, or the
beauty of evening, shot up like grass in spring the delicious sense of
youth and effervescent life.
I had a horse to ride; I used to saddle it myself and set off alone for
long rides, break into a rapid gallop and fancy myself a knight at a
tournament. How gaily the wind whistled in my ears! or turning my face
towards the sky, I would absorb its shining radiance and blue into my
soul, that opened wide to welcome it.
I remember that at that time the image of woman, the vision of love,
scarcely ever arose in definite shape in my brain; but in all I
thought, in all I felt, lay hidden a half-conscious, shamefaced
presentiment of something new, unutterably sweet, feminine….
This presentiment, this expectation, permeated my whole being; I
breathed in it, it coursed through my veins with every drop of blood …
it was destined to be soon fulfilled.
The place, where we settled for the summer, consisted of a wooden
manor-house with columns and two small lodges; in the lodge on the left
there was a tiny factory for the manufacture of cheap wall-papers…. I
had more than once strolled that way to look at about a dozen thin and
dishevelled boys with greasy smocks and worn faces, who were
perpetually jumping on to wooden levers, that pressed down the square
blocks of the press, and so by the weight of their feeble bodies struck
off the variegated patterns of the wall-papers. The lodge on the right
stood empty, and was to let. One day—three weeks after the 9th of
May—the blinds in the windows of this lodge were drawn up, women’s
faces appeared at them—some family had installed themselves in it. I
remember the same day at dinner, my mother inquired of the butler who
were our new neighbours, and hearing the name of the Princess Zasyekin,
first observed with some respect, “Ah! a princess!” … and then added,
“A poor one, I suppose?”
“They arrived in three hired flies,” the butler remarked deferentially,
as he handed a dish: “they don’t keep their own carriage, and the
furniture’s of the poorest.”
“Ah,” replied my mother, “so much the better.”
My father gave her a chilly glance; she was silent.
Certainly the Princess Zasyekin could not be a rich woman; the lodge
she had taken was so dilapidated and small and low-pitched that people,
even moderately well-off in the world, would hardly have consented to
occupy it. At the time, however, all this went in at one ear and out at
the other. The princely title had very little effect on me; I had just
been reading Schiller’s _Robbers_.