where the cook Darya fed them strawberry jam by the spoonful and commiserated with them at their bad luck in having to be educated at all.
‘Too much jam is bad for them,’ I told her in my broken Russian.
‘Ah, nothing can harm the innocent!’ came the airy reply, translated for me by Liza in a butter-wouldn’t-melt voice.
They had had a succession of governesses, and neither their father nor anyone else would say no to them; they were universally pitied, by servants and family alike.
‘We’re poor, neglected children,’ Dima would say with a serene look.
‘Yes, tragic children,’ Liza chimed in. ‘Growing up without a mother’s love!’
During my first week I devised a routine: lessons in the morning, a walk in the afternoon and an evening period for reading and learning poetry. The lessons passed off adequately, when I could persuade them to sit down and concentrate, but the real success was the afternoon walk, without which I suspect I would have soon gone the way of their previous governesses. My governess acquaintances at the Anglican church in Moscow, St Andrew’s, where I spent my Sundays, were disapproving of the idea.
‘I do not advise it, Miss Freely,’ Miss Clegg warned me. ‘Besides the dirt, it is quite dangerous, you know. The Russian people are an unpredictable lot. Take the children out for a drive, by all means, and a walk in the park, but on foot – no. You’re not in Truro now!’
Dirty the streets often were, particularly in spring and autumn, but I had always loved walking, and saw no reason to stop in Moscow. Most Russian children, it seemed to me, were brought up in an absurdly cosseted atmosphere, ignorant of the world outside their immediate household. Talking to the servants was disapproved of, even in liberal households such as the Kobelevs’, and even when they had little playmates among the servants’ children, they were allowed to lord it over them in an unattractive way. As long as I was their teacher, I was determined that Liza and Dima would have a very different education.
Their nurse, Nyanya, who was against any kind of change, was horrified. ‘Oh, she’s a cruel one,’ she wailed, ‘dragging the poor little crumbs out around the city! They’ll come home like stones, they will, it’s their poor kidneys that will suffer!’
The children themselves rebutted her. ‘Oh Nyanya,’ they cried impatiently, ‘don’t fuss! It’s warm outside! We like going with Miss Gerty.’
It had not always been so. On one early outing both of them lay down on the pavement. Telling them that English children of their age could walk several miles without complaint did not, unfortunately, rouse them to patriotic competition. Several peasants stopped and watched, full of outraged sympathy for the little children so mistreated by the foreign Miss . At last I turned to one of them, a fine figure of a man with dramatic moustaches and beard.
‘Please, carry them,’ I stammered.
He berated me as he hoisted them up, one on each shoulder, and Liza translated his remarks with relish. ‘He’s saying you are vicious woman, and you have destroyed our dear little legs with too long walking.’
‘Tell him that your dear little legs still seem to work very well when you are playing on the slides.’
‘He says all foreigners are same – come to Russia to steal our national treasure.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’
We continued on our walk, Liza and Dima waving triumphantly as though they were at the head of a victory procession, and attracting the delighted attention of a crowd of street urchins. When the peasant set them down at Smolensk market, they skipped a good half-mile home without noticing.
Moscow is a city that insinuates itself cunningly into one’s affections. At first it fascinated and slightly repelled me, as some vast medieval fair might. I was still ignorant of politics, yet as a Chapel girl I couldn’t help but be shocked by the contrast between the
‘Too much jam is bad for them,’ I told her in my broken Russian.
‘Ah, nothing can harm the innocent!’ came the airy reply, translated for me by Liza in a butter-wouldn’t-melt voice.
They had had a succession of governesses, and neither their father nor anyone else would say no to them; they were universally pitied, by servants and family alike.
‘We’re poor, neglected children,’ Dima would say with a serene look.
‘Yes, tragic children,’ Liza chimed in. ‘Growing up without a mother’s love!’
During my first week I devised a routine: lessons in the morning, a walk in the afternoon and an evening period for reading and learning poetry. The lessons passed off adequately, when I could persuade them to sit down and concentrate, but the real success was the afternoon walk, without which I suspect I would have soon gone the way of their previous governesses. My governess acquaintances at the Anglican church in Moscow, St Andrew’s, where I spent my Sundays, were disapproving of the idea.
‘I do not advise it, Miss Freely,’ Miss Clegg warned me. ‘Besides the dirt, it is quite dangerous, you know. The Russian people are an unpredictable lot. Take the children out for a drive, by all means, and a walk in the park, but on foot – no. You’re not in Truro now!’
Dirty the streets often were, particularly in spring and autumn, but I had always loved walking, and saw no reason to stop in Moscow. Most Russian children, it seemed to me, were brought up in an absurdly cosseted atmosphere, ignorant of the world outside their immediate household. Talking to the servants was disapproved of, even in liberal households such as the Kobelevs’, and even when they had little playmates among the servants’ children, they were allowed to lord it over them in an unattractive way. As long as I was their teacher, I was determined that Liza and Dima would have a very different education.
Their nurse, Nyanya, who was against any kind of change, was horrified. ‘Oh, she’s a cruel one,’ she wailed, ‘dragging the poor little crumbs out around the city! They’ll come home like stones, they will, it’s their poor kidneys that will suffer!’
The children themselves rebutted her. ‘Oh Nyanya,’ they cried impatiently, ‘don’t fuss! It’s warm outside! We like going with Miss Gerty.’
It had not always been so. On one early outing both of them lay down on the pavement. Telling them that English children of their age could walk several miles without complaint did not, unfortunately, rouse them to patriotic competition. Several peasants stopped and watched, full of outraged sympathy for the little children so mistreated by the foreign Miss . At last I turned to one of them, a fine figure of a man with dramatic moustaches and beard.
‘Please, carry them,’ I stammered.
He berated me as he hoisted them up, one on each shoulder, and Liza translated his remarks with relish. ‘He’s saying you are vicious woman, and you have destroyed our dear little legs with too long walking.’
‘Tell him that your dear little legs still seem to work very well when you are playing on the slides.’
‘He says all foreigners are same – come to Russia to steal our national treasure.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’
We continued on our walk, Liza and Dima waving triumphantly as though they were at the head of a victory procession, and attracting the delighted attention of a crowd of street urchins. When the peasant set them down at Smolensk market, they skipped a good half-mile home without noticing.
Moscow is a city that insinuates itself cunningly into one’s affections. At first it fascinated and slightly repelled me, as some vast medieval fair might. I was still ignorant of politics, yet as a Chapel girl I couldn’t help but be shocked by the contrast between the