I was sixteen then. It happened in the summer of 1833.
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.