HeisoneoftheEnglishnovelistswhoseworksIreadforthefirsttimeinEnglish。WithmenofEuropeanreputation，withDickensandWalterScottandThackeray，itwasotherwise。MyfirstintroductiontoEnglishimaginativeliteraturewas\"NicholasNickleby。\"ItisextraordinaryhowwellMrs。NicklebycouldchatterdisconnectedlyinPolishandthesinisterRalphrageinthatlanguage。AstotheCrummlesfamilyandthefamilyofthelearnedSqueersitseemedasnaturaltothemastheirnativespeech。Itwas，Ihavenodoubt，anexcellenttranslation。Thismusthavebeenintheyear’70。ButIreallybelievethatIamwrong。ThatbookwasnotmyfirstintroductiontoEnglishliterature。Myfirstacquaintancewas（orwere）the\"TwoGentlemenofVerona，\"andthatintheveryMS。ofmyfather’stranslation。ItwasduringourexileinRussia，anditmusthavebeenlessthanayearaftermymother’sdeath，becauseIremembermyselfintheblackblousewithawhiteborderofmyheavymourning。Wewerelivingtogether，quitealone，inasmallhouseontheoutskirtsofthetownofT——。Thatafternoon，insteadofgoingouttoplayinthelargeyardwhichwesharedwithourlandlord，Ihadlingeredintheroominwhichmyfathergenerallywrote。WhatemboldenedmetoclamberintohischairI
amsureIdon’tknow，butacoupleofhoursafterwardshediscoveredmekneelinginitwithmyelbowsonthetableandmyheadheldinbothhandsovertheMS。ofloosepages。Iwasgreatlyconfused，expectingtogetintotrouble。Hestoodinthedoorwaylookingatmewithsomesurprise，buttheonlythinghesaidafteramomentofsilencewas：
\"Readthepagealoud。\"
Luckilythepagelyingbeforemewasnotoverblottedwitherasuresandcorrections，andmyfather’shandwritingwasotherwiseextremelylegible。WhenIgottotheendhenoddedandIflewoutofdoorsthinkingmyselfluckytohaveescapedreproofforthatpieceofimpulsiveaudacity。Ihavetriedtodiscoversincethereasonofthismildness，andIimaginethatallunknowntomyselfIhadearned，inmyfather’smind，therighttosomelatitudeinmyrelationswithhiswriting-table。Itwasonlyamonthbefore，orperhapsitwasonlyaweekbefore，thatIhadreadtohimaloudfrombeginningtoend，andtohisperfectsatisfaction，ashelayonhisbed，notbeingverywellatthetime，theproofsofhistranslationofVictorHugo’s\"ToilersoftheSea。\"Suchwasmytitletoconsideration，Ibelieve，andalsomyfirstintroductiontotheseainliterature。IfIdonotrememberwhere，howandwhenIlearnedtoread，Iamnotlikelytoforgettheprocessofbeingtrainedintheartofreadingaloud。Mypoorfather，anadmirablereaderhimself，wasthemostexactingofmasters。IreflectproudlythatImusthavereadthatpageof\"TwoGentlemenofVerona\"tolerablywellattheageofeight。ThenexttimeImetthemwasina5s。one-volumeeditionofthedramaticworksofWilliamShakespeare，readinFalmouth，atoddmomentsoftheday，tothenoisyaccompanimentofcaulkers’malletsdrivingoakumintothedeck-seamsofashipindrydock。Wehadrunin，inasinkingconditionandwiththecrewrefusingdutyafteramonthofwearybattlingwiththegalesoftheNorthAtlantic。Booksareanintegralpartofone’slifeandmyShakespeareanassociationsarewiththatfirstyearofourbereavement，thelastIspentwithmyfatherinexile（hesentmeawaytoPolandtomymother’sbrotherdirectlyhecouldbracehimselfupfortheseparation），andwiththeyearofhardgales，theyearinwhichIcamenearesttodeathatsea，firstbywaterandthenbyfire。
ThosethingsIremember，butwhatIwasreadingthedaybeforemywritinglifebeganIhaveforgotten。IhaveonlyavaguenotionthatitmighthavebeenoneofTrollope’spoliticalnovels。AndIremember，too，thecharacteroftheday。Itwasanautumndaywithanopalineatmosphere，aveiled，semi-opaque，lustrousday，withfierypointsandflashesofredsunlightontheroofsandwindowsopposite，whilethetreesofthesquarewithalltheirleavesgonewereliketracingsofindianinkonasheetoftissuepaper。ItwasoneofthoseLondondaysthathavethecharmofmysteriousamenity，offascinatingsoftness。TheeffectofopalinemistwasoftenrepeatedatBessboroughGardensonaccountofthenearnesstotheriver。