Sergei collected friends the way a child gathers shells at the beach: indiscriminately, delighting in their novelty, indifferent to their flaws. His social circle included everyone from respected novelists to barely literate rabble-rousers, though he knew better than to invite the most unsavory of his companions to my parents’. That summer, he brought along two men: a poet named Boris—who was either so aloof or so shy that he avoided eye contact even when spoken to directly—and a political writer named Alek. Alek was tall and self-contained, a person who always seemed to be listening but only spoke when he wanted to make a point. Though he was younger than Sergei, his seriousness made him appear older. Unlike Sergei, he showed no interest in children, which was a relief. Alek was the sort of man who intimidated me into silence.
“We’re an embarrassment,” Alek pronounced the first night, at dinner. “Compared to the rest of Europe, Russians are backward and superstitious—”
“Because we worship God while atheist Socialists take over everywhere else?” Papa objected. Any swipe at Mother Russia provoked him into a furious defense.
“I’m not talking about God.” Despite Papa’s indignation, Alek remained calm. “I’m talking about our people. We are oppressed by an archaic class structure that keeps us chained to the past. Like prisoners.”
The word felt like an attack, a sudden burst of flame. We all knew, from Sergei, that Alek had actually been a prisoner, serving a two-year sentence for writing antigovernment pamphlets.
Papa changed the subject by praising Russia’s railroads—“The envy of the world!”—as Alek smirked and asked whose labor had made them such a wonder. Vasily glanced at me across the table, his eyes wide: This is the best dinner we’ve had in years! Then Mama’s voice broke through the bickering.
“The one thing I can’t stand about revolutionaries is that they have no sense of humor. Really, Alek, must you all be so deadly serious? Don’t you ever enjoy yourself?”
In a stage whisper, Sergei told Alek, “My sister doesn’t tolerate political talk during the summer.”
Alek nodded sheepishly at Mama.
“My apologies, Madame Shulkina.”
Mama smiled brightly, and I felt the tension ease.
As if to reinforce Mama’s command, a carriage arrived the next day, overflowing with guests intent on enjoying themselves. Princess Nemerova—the second wife of an ancient, invalid nobleman—was doing her best to spend his fortune on self-described artists who all happened to be young and male and handsome. Two of her latest protégés accompanied her, both dancers named Piotr (quickly dubbed “Piotr the Blond and Piotr the Brown” by Mama). Mr. and Mrs. Volodnov were painters, she of landscapes and he of portraits, most notoriously a full-length study of his wife, naked, in the bath. Both cultivated an image of bohemian dishevelment: Mrs. Volodnova’s auburn hair was pinned haphazardly, so that locks cascaded down her neck, and Mr. Volodnov wore his paint-spattered tunics open at the chest. With their dramatic expressions and loud voices, it seemed like they were always performing for an audience, even if it was only each other.
I was old enough to know when adults were up to something, but too young to interpret their coded signals. Those weeks in the country were filled with strange interactions I wouldn’t understand until years later. People were always splitting into pairs or small groups, then regathering in new combinations, making it impossible to keep track of everything that was going on. I puzzled over each incident, but most remained inscrutable, like the jumble of colors in the abstract paintings Mama loved and Papa dismissed as an assault on his senses.
Mama, who’d lately discovered photography, spent hours posing one person or another by picturesque tree trunks and sunlit meadows. The Volodnovs set up easels behind the house and made a show of preparing their paints each morning, though they spent so much time socializing that they made little progress by the end of each day. Princess Nemerova coaxed Boris into reciting some of his poetry, while Piotr the Blond and Piotr the Brown sat beside her with the self-conscious poise of statues. If I was as rich as the princess, I thought, I might pay good-looking young men to follow me around, too.
During my wanderings around the estate, I often heard Mama’s voice.
“Alek! What was that story you told me earlier, about the tsarina?”
Or, “I’m sure Alek has something to say about that . . .”
Another time, teasing: “Oh, Alek, you are terrible!”
Mama often seemed to be making fun of Alek, widening her eyes in exaggerated astonishment at something he said, and then shaking her head. I never heard him flatter her or try to win her over, yet she clearly enjoyed his company. “I never know what you’re thinking,” she once told him. That, I suppose, was at the heart of his appeal, though I didn’t understand why at the time. To me, he seemed cold and vaguely threatening. And therefore, best avoided.
Often, Miss Fields would tear me away right as things got interesting. Papa would start in on Mama, asking how long the Volodnovs were going to stay, and Miss Fields would appear with a brisk “Time for your lesson.” Sergei and Alek would be reading a letter from a friend in Moscow, muttering over some scandal, and Miss Fields would come up behind me, demanding we pick wildflowers for a botany study. Miss Fields even suggested, once, that we walk to the village, an excursion I suspected Mama had encouraged to get me out of the way.
I knew the village where our estate laborers lived was close by, but I’d never had a reason to visit. In my mind, it was like New York or the moon: a place I knew existed but that had no connection to my daily life. Miss Fields and I walked ten minutes or so along a dirt path worn solid by generations of servants traipsing back and forth. Only the most generous definition of the word “village” could describe the settlement we eventually reached. Rows of wooden shacks lined a single, dung-spattered cart path. No building appeared to be larger than a single room, and chickens and pigs roamed in and out, alongside muddy children. Miss Fields looked from left to right, as if searching for some other, more appealing place. A group of sullen men were gathered in front of the largest dwelling, and the oldest of them pulled away and approached us.
“Do you need help, miss?”
I shook my head but couldn’t think of anything to say that would explain our presence. I spent an agonizing moment being stared at by both the man and Miss Fields, then dropped my head. Miss Fields nodded to the man and turned away, motioning for me to follow. Once we’d gotten out of earshot, Miss Fields exclaimed, “Well!”
I knew what that meant. “It was not what you were expecting.”
“No.”
“It’s different from English villages.”
“Yes.”
Miss Fields didn’t explain why, and I was too embarrassed to ask. She was clearly following one of her favorite precepts: If you haven’t got anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. I remembered an illustration in one of Miss Fields’s books, Emma, by Jane Austen. The engraving showed two characters walking in town; behind them were shops, carriages, and an oval of grass with grazing sheep. If that was what Miss Fields expected to see, it was no wonder she was disappointed. My face and body prickled with shame. Here, steps from my own house, was vivid proof that Alek was right: compared to England, Russia was poor and backward. But I wasn’t moved to pity on behalf of my family’s miserable tenants. I was angry because the village’s squalidness reflected badly on Papa.