In chronological terms this is the middle part of Aksakov's autobiographical trilogy, although he apparently wrote it last, filling in the gap between the periods he had already covered in 'A Russian Gentleman' and 'A Russian Schoolboy'.
This was my favourite of the three, although all three are a truly wonderful evocation of life in old Russia and the realities of life on the small, often remote country estates with their serfs and peasants. Aksakov's powers of recall are remarkable, as is his ability to convey his childhood years in the way he actually experienced them through a child's consciousness, yet at the same time to write reflectively with the wisdom and insight of his later life (he did not write the works until much later in life).
Life on the Russian steppe around 1800, in the middle of nowhere, with long, snowbound winters and where nothing much changed from year to year, might not seem the stuff of exciting literature, but it's through his own childish but changing perceptions that it becomes fascinating as he reacts, with the extreme emotions of a child, to both the beauties and harshness of life and the environment around him, to new activities he becomes exposed to, especially fishing and shooting, and to the constant to and fro of the intrigues and relationships between the different family members, friends, servants, serfs and so on. Reading the book you get a very real sense of what it must have been like to be there and live this life of relative privilege, but nevertheless always aware of the system of serfdom and landholding, of the needs of the land and the seasons.
A particularly interesting aspect is the very real sense you get of the rigours and complications of travelling in Russia at this time, journeys of many days across the steppe either in summer or winter, and the particular difficulties of crossing the great rivers, which Aksakov had a lifelong fear of following a horrific crossing of the Volga which he recounts in the book.
So, old Russia really comes alive in this book. Best of all, it is laced throughout with a marvellous, barely perceptible dry humour, because in truth Aksakov as a child was obviously a spoilt brat and a mummy's boy, and the fact that he acknowledges this in the way he recounts incidents and events is one the most endearing aspects of his writing. And the 1915 translation by James Duff reads really beautifully.