Poor People by Fyodor Dostoevsky — Read

i

I was only fourteen years old when my father died. My childhood was the happiest time of my life. It began not here, but far away, in the provinces, in the back of beyond. My father was steward on the huge estate of Prince P. in the province of T. We lived in one of the Prince's villages, and we lived peacefully, quietly, happily. I was such a lively little girl; all I ever used to do was run around the fields, the copses, the garden, and nobody even bothered about me. Father was constantly occupied with his work, mother was busy with her housekeeping; nobody gave me any lessons, and I was glad of it too. I used to run off first thing in the morning either to the pond, or to the copse, or to the haymaking, or to the reapers – and it didn't matter that the sun was burning, that you didn't know yourself where you'd run to from the village, you'd get all scratched on bushes, tear your dress – you'd be scolded at home afterwards, but that was nothing to me.