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RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD
3
your papa’s name, all you have to do is to think, ’A
hook \kriuk] hangs on Krukovsky’s gate,’ and you
will immediately remember it."
And thus, shameful as it is for me to confess it,
this wretched chanter’s pun imprinted itself on my
memory, and constituted an era in my existence;
from it I date my chronology, the first invasion
upon me of a distinct idea as to who I was, and what
was my position in the world.
As I reflect upon the matter now, I think I must
have been two or three years old, and that this scene
took place in Moscow, where I was born. My father
served in the artillery, and we were often compelled to
move about from town to town, accompanying him in
accordance with the requirements of his military duties.
After this first scene, which is distinctly preserved
in my memory, comes another long gap, against whose
gray, misty background divers little wayside scenes
detach themselves, only in the shape of bright,
scattered spots: picking up pebbles on the highway,
bivouacs at posting-stations, my sister’s doll which I
threw out of the carriage window — a series of
detached, but tolerably clear pictures.
My coherent recollections begin with me only at
the age of five years, and when we lived in Kaluga.
There were three of us children then: my sister
Aniuta was six years older than I, and my brother
Fedya was three years younger.
Our nursery presents itself before my eyes. A
spacious, but low-ceiled room. We could easily touch
the ceiling with our hands, by standing on a chair.
All three of us slept in the nursery. There was some
talk of sending Aniuta to sleep in the room of her
governess, a Frenchwoman; but she did not wish to
do it, and preferred to stay with us.
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