The Russian Century: A Hundred Years of Russian Lives

Listening in on the conversations of elders was one of my greatest pleasures. I would have given a great deal to be present at the lessons of my older sisters. But I was gently shooed away because no one believed that I could diligently sit though the lessons without interrupting. Then I resorted to a trick. Long before the lessons would begin, I would penetrate the revered room whose secrets were kept from me, hide under the long and broad table and sit there for hours, not ever coughing, sneezing, or budging. It turned out that I had a rare memory, something akin to perfect pitch in music. Soon, I, unable to read, would memorize almost everything that was taught to my older siblings, especially poetry, so that I was able to correct and prompt my sisters whenever they stumbled. Once, filled to overflowing with all this content, I could not control my excitement and openly entered the competition with my sisters when they were forced to show off their learning at a family gathering. My success was the greatest, but the general consternation was even greater: where did an illiterate child get all this, to the point of memorizing long poems by Pushkin? I could not provide a satisfactory answer. Then they began noticing that I would disappear during lessons and, guessing correctly, extracted me from underneath the table with great triumph and laughter. At that point, I was permitted to attend lessons, but silently and with decorum. After that my zeal cooled considerably. The forbidden fruit had been sweeter.

I grew up largely as an unsupervised, enterprising Huckleberry Finn. A boat, a pair of oars, and several fishing poles were my charter to freedom. I would

Viktor Chernov, Idylls on the Volga

7

stop by the kitchen for an old pot, a hunk of bread, two or three onions, as many potatoes as possible, and, most important but easily forgotten, a small packet of salt. I would catch all the fish I wanted, giving myself over to the task with a rare fanaticism and, at times, imagining that I had no equal in it. My chowder would cook up rich and thick; the fire would crackle merrily under the pot, and the potatoes baked in its embers were the sweetest of all victuals.

But if the fish were really biting, I would forget all about eating, and bring home all my plain ingredients. My vanity consisted in catching large fish in places where everyone was satisfied with small fry. I had become thoroughly knowledgeable in the ways of all the local fish and knew from the motion of the bobber whether I was dealing with a greedy perch, a slow tench, a lazy and imposing bream, or a powerful and persistent carp. In order to get to my beloved spots in time for the best fishing, I would leave long before the rising of the sun. Once there, hidden in the cattails and bulrushes, I would witness nature—untouched by humans and trusting—perform its mystery of awakening. Light as a ballerina, barely touching the lily pads, a snipe would race by. Once, having been clever enough to catch it, I discovered its secret: it was almost bodiless, almost pure down and feathers. Then a cautious duck would swim out followed by its scurrying young brood. On shore, they would be ravenously watched by a slim and graceful polecat. Sometimes, it would frolic in the sun. I have yet to see anything as delightful as its grace and lightness, its joyous rushes, leaps and rolls. But one had to lay in wait patiently for such a scene and I knew few people who managed to do so. Twisting in all directions, a water snake would swim by; a curious turtle would raise its head above the water. Close to the shore, a female hedgehog would prowl for mice and snakes, followed by her litter of young, whose needles were soft and not yet steel-gray, but brownish-green. Angling teaches a person two things—the discipline of endless patience and a profound sense of living nature.

From the beginning, the city to me was stifling, crowded and unpleasant, and the family home was largely alien for reasons I will explain later. I consciously fled both. What joy it was to steal away from the walls of the dull inhospitable house; to climb into a large boat at twilight, reach mid-stream and give oneself over to the will of the mighty current, imagining that we were being carried above buried palaces and tombs of Khazar lords, full of mysteries and uncountable riches which had been concealed by a shift in the river’s channel. And on a night when the moon was full, what could be better than to be enchanted by the moon’s sorcery as it lay down across the waters, a shimmering silver road barely trembling and wavering at its edges. And what an unimagined sense of vigor would flow into my heart as the big four-cornered sail billowed tautly in the wind and the boat would race against the current driving trees, fields, houses, and belfries backward.

8

Chapter One