The Story of a Life

12

The Forests of Bryansk

In the autumn of 1902, I was to enrol in the preparatory class of the First Kiev Gymnasium. My elder brother Vadim was already a pupil there, and having heard his stories about the school I was afraid to go, and sometimes even cried and begged my mother to let me stay at home.

‘Do you really want to be an extern?’ Mama asked in a startled voice. ‘Extern’ was the name for a boy who studied at home and only visited the school once a year to take examinations. From my two brothers I knew well the nightmarish fate of these externs. They were deliberately failed in their exams, humiliated in every way, and expected to know much more than the regular schoolboys. The externs could not look to anyone for help – no one would even prompt them. I pictured these boys exhausted from cramming, their eyes all cried out, and their ears blood red with anxiety. It was a pitiful image. I gave in.

‘Well, all right,’ I said. ‘I won’t be an extern.’

‘Cry baby! Little mama’s boy!’ yelled Borya from his room.

‘Don’t you dare hurt his feelings!’ Mama seethed. She considered Borya heartless and could never understand why he was so hard and unfeeling. Obviously, it was from our Turkish grandmother. Everyone else in the family was exceptionally sensitive, affectionate and impractical.

My father knew of my worries, tears and anxieties, and found, as always, an unexpected remedy for my miseries. After a minor row with my mother, he decided to send me on my own to her brother, Uncle Nikolai Grigorievich. This was the very same Uncle Kolya, the cheerful cadet, who would come from St Petersburg to visit Grandmother in Cherkassy and loved to waltz with Aunt Nadya. Now he was a military engineer, married, and stationed in the town of Bryansk in Orël province, where he worked at an antiquated factory called the Arsenal that produced gun-carriages. Uncle Kolya had taken a dacha for the summer near Bryansk on the old rundown Rëvny estate in the Bryansk forest and invited us all to come and visit. My parents accepted, but they could not come until after my sister and brothers had completed their exams, and so I was sent on ahead by myself.

‘Let him get used to being on his own,’ Father said. ‘It’s good for such shy little boys.’

He wrote Uncle Kolya a letter. What it said I don’t know. Mama, furtively wiping away her tears, packed a small suitcase for me that had everything I might need, including a note with a list of dos and don’ts. They bought me a second-class ticket to the station of Sinezërki. From there it was ten versts to my uncle’s dacha. Everyone, even Borya, saw me off at the station. My father said something to the grey-haired conductor and gave him some money.

‘I’ll see he gets there safe and sound,’ the conductor said to Mama. ‘You have no cause to worry, madam.’

Mama asked the passengers in my compartment to keep an eye on me and not let me leave the train at the stations along the way. They willingly agreed. I was terribly embarrassed and kept tugging on Mama’s sleeve. At the second whistle they all kissed me goodbye, even Borya, who then sneaked in when no one was looking what we called a ‘pear’ – a painful thump with his thumb on the top of my head. Then they left the train, all except Mama, that is, who couldn’t leave. She held my hands.

‘Be a good boy, understand?’ she said. ‘A good, sensible boy. And be very careful!’

She looked at me with searching eyes. The third whistle sounded. She hugged me and made quickly for the exit, her skirts rustling behind her. She jumped down as the train began to pull out. Father caught her in his arms and shook his head.

I stood at the closed window and watched as Mama walked swiftly down the platform ahead of the others, and only then did I realise how pretty she was, how petite, how tender. My tears fell onto the dusty window frame. Long after Mama and the platform were gone, I still stood at the window, looking out as the sidings, goods trains and screeching shunting engines rushed past and the new Gothic-style Catholic church being built on Vasilkovskaya Street appeared and then seemed to rotate before my eyes. I was afraid to turn round and show the other passengers my tear-stained face. Then I remembered that a telegram had been sent to Uncle Kolya about my arrival. A sense of pride that I had been deemed worthy of a real telegram calmed me a bit, and I turned round.

The compartment was upholstered in red velvet. It was small and cosy. Tiny reflections of sunlight darted from one corner of the dusty compartment to the other, as if on command, and then back again, while the train broke free of the tangled outskirts of Kiev and rocked from side to side along a series of curves. They’d put me in a compartment reserved for ladies. Mama had insisted on it. I cautiously examined my fellow passengers. One of them, a dark and withered Frenchwoman, gave me a few quick nods, smiled, exposing a mouth of horsy teeth, and offered me a box of candied fruit. I didn’t know what to do, but thanked her and took one. It made my hands all sticky.

‘Quick, put it in your mouth!’ said a girl of about sixteen in a brown school uniform with cheerful, slanting eyes. ‘Stop thinking and eat it!’

The Frenchwoman, evidently her governess, said something to her in French in a stern voice. The schoolgirl made a face, and with that the governess launched into a long and angry tirade, the words flying out of her. The schoolgirl didn’t wait to hear the end, but got up and went out into the corridor.

‘Young people nowadays!’ said a short, fat old woman with a mouth like a bagel. Indeed, behind her hung a string bag full of bagels sprinkled with poppy seeds. ‘Oh, I just can’t bear these young people!’

‘Yes, yes!’ nodded the Frenchwoman. ‘Nothing but disobedience. Just fif and whims!’

I didn’t know what ‘fif’ meant, but guessed it was something bad because the old woman raised her eyes to the ceiling and let out such a loud sigh that even the Frenchwoman gave her a look. I wanted to look out, so I went into the corridor. The schoolgirl was already there, standing by an open window.

‘Ah, Vitya!’ she said to me. ‘Come here, we’ll look out together.’

‘I’m not Vitya,’ I said, blushing.

‘Never mind, come here.’

I climbed up onto the radiator and stuck my head out of the window. The train was crossing the Dnieper. I could see the Pechersk Monastery and Kiev off in the distance and the shallows of the Dnieper where it had deposited islands of sand alongside the foundations of the bridge.

‘Beastly old witch!’ said the girl. ‘Madame Demi-Femme! But you needn’t be afraid of her. She’s actually quite a nice old lady.’

This first trip on my own wore me out, mostly since I spent almost the whole time standing by the open window. But I was happy. For the first time I experienced the freedom of travel when one has nothing to think about and nothing to do but look through the window at the fields of rye, the woods, the small stations where the barefoot peasant women sold their milk, at the little streams, the signalmen, the station masters in their dusty red caps, the geese, and the village boys who’d run after the train shouting: ‘Uncle, toss me a kopeck!’

In those days it was a long, roundabout route to Bryansk – through Lvov and Navlya. The train didn’t get to Sinezërki until the third day. The train was in no hurry, it rested at each station for a good long while, puffing beside the water tower. The passengers would hop off and run to the buffet for hot water for their tea or to buy fresh strawberries and roast chicken from the peasant women. After that, everyone would settle down. Long after it was time to depart, a sleepy stillness reigned over the station, the hot sun burned, the clouds drifted, dragging behind them their dark blue shadows over the ground, the passengers dozed in the carriages, and still the train just stood there, motionless. The only sound was that of the engine, sighing and dripping hot oily water onto the sand. At last the fat chief conductor in his canvas jacket came out of the station, stroked his moustache, brought a whistle to his lips, and let out a long, loud blast. The engine made no reply, and just kept on sighing. Then the conductor strolled lazily over to the engine and blew once more. Still, the engine did not reply. Only after the third or fourth blast did it finally emit a short, dissatisfied hoot and slowly begin to move.

I leaned out of the window because I knew that just beyond the signal box there would be a slope covered with clover and bluebells and then a pine forest. Whenever we entered a forest, the clatter of the wheels grew much louder and was caught up by an echo, just as if blacksmiths had begun to pound with their hammers throughout the whole forest. I was seeing central Russia for the first time. I liked it better than Ukraine. It was wilder, more expansive, more deserted. I liked its forests, its overgrown roads, the language of the peasants.

The old woman slept the whole time. The French governess had calmed down and was crocheting lace, while the girl sang and leaned out of the window, skilfully tearing leaves from the trees as they flew past. Every couple of hours she’d get out her basket of provisions, eat for a good long while, and force me to join her. We ate hard-boiled eggs, grilled chicken and rice pirozhki, and drank tea.

Then we’d hang out of the window again and become light-headed from the scent of the flowering buckwheat. The shadow of the train stumbled over the fields, and the orange light of the setting sun flooded the carriage such that in our compartment, consumed by a fiery haze, we couldn’t make out a thing.

The train arrived at Sinezërki at dusk. The conductor carried my suitcase out to the platform. I was expecting either Uncle Kolya or Aunt Marusya to meet me. But there was no one on the platform. I could see the women in my compartment begin to worry. The train stopped at Sinezërki only for a minute. Then it was gone, and I remained there with my suitcase. I was certain that Uncle Kolya was just running late and would arrive at any moment. A bearded peasant in a jacket and a black peaked cap, with a whip stuck in the top of his boot, hobbled up to me. He smelled of horse sweat and hay.

‘You wouldn’t be Kostik, would you?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been waiting for you. Your uncle, the Captain, ordered me to meet you and bring you back safe and sound. Give me your little bag there, let’s go.’

This was the final test my father had prepared for me. In his letter he’d written to Uncle Kolya that no one from the family should be there to meet me at Sinezërki. Still muttering something about my uncle, the driver – his name was Nikita – settled me on the cart’s soft hay, which was covered by a thick canvas, untied the horses’ oat-filled nosebags, climbed on, and off we went. At first we drove for a long time through darkening fields, then the road wound upward through the woods. Sometimes the cart rattled over a wooden bridge, black swamp water glistening below. The air was damp and smelled of sedge. A lifeless purple moon rose over the woods and the stunted thickets, a bittern called. Nikita said: ‘It’s a wild, wooded country around here – not many folks about. Lots of bark and water. No place smells better in all of Orël province.’

We drove into a pine wood and then descended a steep hill to a river. The pines blotted out the moon and it grew dark. Voices could be heard on the road. I began to feel a little scared.

‘Is that you, Nikita?’ my uncle’s familiar voice called from the darkness.

‘Whoa-oa!’ Nikita yelled with a note of desperation as he struggled to rein in the horses. ‘Of course it’s us. Whoa! May the Devil take you all!’

Someone grabbed me and then lifted me out of the cart. In the faint afterglow I caught sight of the laughing eyes and white teeth of Uncle Kolya. He kissed me and then quickly handed me over to Aunt Marusya. She snuggled me like a baby, chuckling with a deep laugh, and gave off the aroma of vanilla – she must have come straight from baking something sweet. We climbed back into the cart and set off, Nikita walking beside us. We crossed an old black bridge over a deep, clear river full of reeds, and then a second bridge. A fish splashed loudly underneath it. The cart bumped up against a stone gatepost and finally we drove into an old park that was so dark it seemed the tops of the tall trees were lost amid the stars. In the very depths of the park, under a canopy of pitch-black lime trees, the cart came to a halt alongside a small wooden house whose windows were all alight. Two dogs, one white, the other black – Mordan and Chetvertak – began barking and jumped up trying to lick my face.

I spent the entire summer at the old estate of Rëvny amid the dense Bryansk forests, the rivers and the gentle peasants of Orël province, in that ancient park that was so vast no one knew where it ended and the forest began. This was to be the last summer of my true childhood.

School started in the autumn, and then our family fell apart. I wound up alone. Before leaving school, I was already earning my own living and felt like a true grown-up. Ever since that summer I have been attached to central Russia with all my heart. I know of no other land that possesses such enormous lyrical power and such touching scenic beauty – with all its melancholy, peace and expansiveness. It’s difficult to measure the depth of this love. Everyone experiences it for themselves. You love every blade of grass, sparkling with dew or warmed by the sun, every cup of water drawn from a forest well, every sapling bent over a lake, its leaves somehow trembling in the calm air, every crow of the cock, and every cloud floating high across the pale sky. And if at times I wish to live to be one hundred and twenty, as old Nechipor had once predicted, then it’s only because one lifetime is not enough to experience all the beauty and healing power of the Russian land.

My childhood was ending. It’s so sad that we only begin to understand all the wonder of childhood as we’re becoming adults. In childhood everything was different. We looked upon the world with clear light eyes, and everything appeared brighter. The sun was brighter, the fields were more fragrant, the thunder was louder, the rains were heavier, the grass was taller. And our hearts were bigger, our grief was bitterer, and a thousand-fold more mysterious was the land, our native land – the most magnificent gift of our lives. We need to tend to it, to care for and to protect it with all the strength we possess.