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Authors: Iris Murdoch
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people?”
“Yes.” It was odd to say it like that. His parents had been rich people, very rich by any standards of today. But there had been a naturalness about their wealth which made it strange even to mention it.
“So you grew up in a grand house with servants and all that?”
“Till six, yes. We had two houses, one in St Petersburg and one in the country.”
He remembered it all so very clearly. His Russian memories came in brilliant colour. All his other memories were monochrome. He could see the pink front of the big house by the Moika, with the fat curves of the stucco decorations, painted cream, dusty in the summer, crowned with snow in the winter. And the tall uncut grass at their country house, reddish with its flowers, almost concealing the long low wooden facade from the gaze of the hidden child. He hides in the grass while his mother calls him from the verandah. He sees through the rosy plumes of the grass her white spotted dress and the fringes of her slowly turning parasol.
“You do speak such beautiful English.”
“I learnt it at home as a small child. We all spoke English. I could speak it fluently before I left Russia.”
“Were you happy as a child?”
“Happy? In paradise.” It was true. He had been conceived and born in happiness, he had come to consciousness deep in a happy sea. He loved his parents. He loved his sister. He loved the servants. And everybody loved him and spoiled him. He was a little king. In the country he had his own pony and groom. In St Petersburg he had his own special sledge, with its horse Niko, and a servant, Fyodor, who always drove him when he went to see his friends. His boot crushes through the crisp sparkly surface of the snow and he climbs in. The brass fitments shine dazzling in the sun as if little lights had been placed here and there upon the sledge. The big fur rug is adjusted so that only his nose and eyes appear underneath his fur hat. The black leather belt which Fyodor is fixing is soft and smells of a special polish which is bought at the English shop on the Nevsky Prospect. The horse strains for a moment. Then there is effortless movement. The sledge skims, it flies. There is a faint singing. Faster, faster, dear Fyodor. The sun shines upon the snow of the road, creased and lined with the marks of other sledges. The sun shines upon the gilded dome of St Isaac’s and upon the slim finger of the Admiralty spire.
“How lucky you are to have happy memories. That at least they can never take from you.”
“They—yes.” They had taken almost everything else. But it was true that those six golden years remained an endless source of light. Their radiance did not pain him by any contrast. Rather he gratefully received a warmth from them even now. It was as if he had woven the duller, darker stuff of his life round and round that dear early time, like a sombre egg containing in its centre some glittering surprise, a jewel made by Fabergé.
“But what happened then, when you were six?”
“The Revolution happened. My parents fled to Riga with my sister and myself.”
“And you left everything behind?”
“Everything except some jewels. But they were worth a lot of money. We weren’t really poor in Riga, not at first anyway.” The memories are darkened now. Grown-ups whisper anxiously and fall silent when children approach. A round-eyed bewildered child gazes at a grey sea.
“You must feel very bitter against those people who drove you out.”
“I suppose we could have stayed. Well, it would have been difficult. No, I don’t feel bitter. Things were so dreadful before. Some people so rich and other people so poor. I expect it had to happen.” It was true that he did not feel bitter. There was a kind of cosmic justice in the ending of his happy world. Yet something was unjust, or perhaps simply unutterably sad. He loved his country so much.
“Where is
“Yes.” It was odd to say it like that. His parents had been rich people, very rich by any standards of today. But there had been a naturalness about their wealth which made it strange even to mention it.
“So you grew up in a grand house with servants and all that?”
“Till six, yes. We had two houses, one in St Petersburg and one in the country.”
He remembered it all so very clearly. His Russian memories came in brilliant colour. All his other memories were monochrome. He could see the pink front of the big house by the Moika, with the fat curves of the stucco decorations, painted cream, dusty in the summer, crowned with snow in the winter. And the tall uncut grass at their country house, reddish with its flowers, almost concealing the long low wooden facade from the gaze of the hidden child. He hides in the grass while his mother calls him from the verandah. He sees through the rosy plumes of the grass her white spotted dress and the fringes of her slowly turning parasol.
“You do speak such beautiful English.”
“I learnt it at home as a small child. We all spoke English. I could speak it fluently before I left Russia.”
“Were you happy as a child?”
“Happy? In paradise.” It was true. He had been conceived and born in happiness, he had come to consciousness deep in a happy sea. He loved his parents. He loved his sister. He loved the servants. And everybody loved him and spoiled him. He was a little king. In the country he had his own pony and groom. In St Petersburg he had his own special sledge, with its horse Niko, and a servant, Fyodor, who always drove him when he went to see his friends. His boot crushes through the crisp sparkly surface of the snow and he climbs in. The brass fitments shine dazzling in the sun as if little lights had been placed here and there upon the sledge. The big fur rug is adjusted so that only his nose and eyes appear underneath his fur hat. The black leather belt which Fyodor is fixing is soft and smells of a special polish which is bought at the English shop on the Nevsky Prospect. The horse strains for a moment. Then there is effortless movement. The sledge skims, it flies. There is a faint singing. Faster, faster, dear Fyodor. The sun shines upon the snow of the road, creased and lined with the marks of other sledges. The sun shines upon the gilded dome of St Isaac’s and upon the slim finger of the Admiralty spire.
“How lucky you are to have happy memories. That at least they can never take from you.”
“They—yes.” They had taken almost everything else. But it was true that those six golden years remained an endless source of light. Their radiance did not pain him by any contrast. Rather he gratefully received a warmth from them even now. It was as if he had woven the duller, darker stuff of his life round and round that dear early time, like a sombre egg containing in its centre some glittering surprise, a jewel made by Fabergé.
“But what happened then, when you were six?”
“The Revolution happened. My parents fled to Riga with my sister and myself.”
“And you left everything behind?”
“Everything except some jewels. But they were worth a lot of money. We weren’t really poor in Riga, not at first anyway.” The memories are darkened now. Grown-ups whisper anxiously and fall silent when children approach. A round-eyed bewildered child gazes at a grey sea.
“You must feel very bitter against those people who drove you out.”
“I suppose we could have stayed. Well, it would have been difficult. No, I don’t feel bitter. Things were so dreadful before. Some people so rich and other people so poor. I expect it had to happen.” It was true that he did not feel bitter. There was a kind of cosmic justice in the ending of his happy world. Yet something was unjust, or perhaps simply unutterably sad. He loved his country so much.
“Where is
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