The House by the Dvina (27 page)

Preparations on the day of the ball began at daybreak. Flowers forced in the hothouse were put below each long mirror in the ballroom. Marga herself supervised the setting of the table. With anxious concentration, she kept arranging and rearranging all the place cards. No one was allowed to interfere in any way. This was her ball and, with the exception of Yura and Seryozha, the family were to remain in the background. Yura, being more self-assured than Seryozha, was chosen to be the Master of Ceremonies.

In the early evening an old lady, Clara Antonovna, arrived. She always played the piano at all our parties. On this occasion she was accompanied by a violinist and cellist.

One by one the guests came. The girls in MargaТs class, young and fresh in their evening gowns, the boys from the senior form of the gymnasium, others no longer schoolboys, and, from the local garrison, a sprinkling of officers, young and debonair in their smart uniforms.

When the dancing started, I hid behind the curtains hanging over the double doors leading from the hall into the ballroom. From there I had a clear view of the dancers. They were doing the figuredance. Yura, his voice clear and resonant, was calling out the commands.

The dancers formed pairs, gliding hand in hand round the ballroom and on through the arch into the drawing-room and corner-room beyond, turning and moving back into the ballroom to form a great circle and finally breaking into pairs to waltz until the music died away.

I stood watching, wishing I was old enough to be dancing to the haunting music with them all. Now, they were dancing the pas dТEspagne, that fashionable and lively dance we were being taught at school. Marga, in a cloud of white chiffon, flashed by with an officer holding her hand and smiling down at her. I had never before seen our Marga look so beautiful.

Kapochka crossed the hall and came up to me. “What are you doing here?”

she asked. “Come.” She led me away to my bed and tucked me in. For a long time sleep eluded me. I lay listening to the strains of the Viennese waltzes, the voices and the laughing in the dining-room and somehow felt strangely sad. Early in March, my suspicions about Aunt Shura proved to be correct. A baby son made his appearance and was named Evgeny. Jenchik, as he became known, grew to be a flaxen-haired, delightful child. His christening which took place in April was attended by all the family. As Uncle SanyaТs house was only some fifteen minutesТ walk everyone walked there with the exception of Babushka, Kapochka and I, who went by sledge.

Yura was given the honour of being godfather. We all gathered round the font while Aunt Shura, according to the custom, retreated to her bedroom.

During the immersion little Jenchik, not unnaturally, protested loudly, but that was considered to be a good omen as it went to prove the child had strong lungs.

After the service everyone congregated in the dining-room to a plentiful supply of food and drink. Halfway through the speeches and toasts, our young godfather rose and begged to be excused. It was necessary for him to return to the house, he explained, as an important essay had to be written for the following morning. The party continued, but a little later, Babushka suddenly announced that she also had to go back. She left on her sledge accompanied by Kapochka. When Marga decided that we should wend our way home, Father remained to continue the celebrations along with Uncle SanyaТs cronies. At the house we found Babushka in her bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, tears streaming down her face. At her feet, on his knees was Yura, beseeching Babushka to forgive him. Kapochka was gently patting BabushkaТs face with a damp towel. Behind them, Dedushka was preparing a dose of Valerian to tranquillise BabushkaТs nerves. He looked serious but remained silent. Sashenka, on the other hand, kept running out and in, muttering “Bezobraziye, bezobraziye … Disgraceful, disgraceful.” It transpired that Babushka, on returning home, had found Marusya and Yura lying together in YuraТs bed. She promptly dragged Marusya out, chased her downstairs and then ran into her own room, where she burst into tears.

I was bewildered. Certainly it was wrong for Marusya to go sleeping in another personТs bedroom Ч and in the afternoon too. Babushka had reason to be angry, but why the fuss? What else did she discover? I could only think of one thing. “Babushka,” I said, stroking her tear-stained cheeks, “why are you going on so? If Marusya has got lice, all you have to do is to buy a little bottle of vodka and then all will be well.” “A little bottle of vodka,” Babushka repeated slowly, looking puzzled. “Oh, you dear innocent child,” she cried, starting to weep again. Marusya, timidly, appeared in the doorway. “Barynya,” she said, “please let me have my passport Ч I must have it.” The very sight of Marusya infuriated Babushka.

She rushed to her dressing-table, pulled out the drawer, took the passport and, snatching the wet towel, made for Marusya. Marusya fled to the back stair and down to the kitchen. “Shameless wretch,” Babushka called after her, throwing the passport and the towel. That was the end of Marusya Ч

named “Marietta”. After gathering her few belongings, she vanished like the snows in spring and was never seen again.

Marusya was replaced by a young girl named Glasha. Glasha was small and quick. Everything about her was fresh and tidy. The flaxen hair, braided neatly round her head, her cheerful face, the ready smile when spoken to, won everybody over. She arrived in the midst of the Easter preparations, in which she energetically joined, working with efficiency and speed the whole day through.

That Easter I was determined to attend the Easter midnight service, and refused to go to bed. Shortly before midnight the whole family set off for our Church of the Assumption. The night was warm. Already there was a touch of spring Ч the smell of melting snows. Although the river had not moved yet, the murmuring of the little streams running below the wooden pavements could be heard quite clearly.

The church was packed with worshippers. Spread on a table, waiting to be blessed, was all the Easter fare Ч the plates of coloured eggs, white pyramids of Easter cheeses, decorated kulichies.

Just before midnight a procession, led by the priest and choir, left the church. At midnight, as if from a distance, came the sound of singing. It grew louder, rising, spreading and then entered the church, triumphantly proclaiming, “Christ has risen Ч Christ has risen from the dead.” A great light, from all the blazing candles, flooded the church.

I see it all again. The crowded church, the radiance on the faces of the people standing with their lighted candles, our gentle priest in his white vestment facing his flock, repeating in ringing tones, “Christ has risen”, and each time the whole congregation, young and old, responding in one voice, “Truly He has risen.”

Throughout old Russia, across the length and breadth of this great land, in every village and great city, in humble and rich churches, at that very moment, people were saying the same immortal words, embracing each other Ч

singing. We walked home together, carrying our lighted candles. Everywhere Ч walking towards us or following behind, was this mass of moving lights.

A young boy came up to me. “Little girl, may I have a light?” he asked.

“Mine has gone out.” I relit his candle. “Christ has risen,” he said and shyly kissed my cheeks. “Truly He has risen,” I rejoined Ч and we both continued on our ways. The following day I joined all the children in the ringing of the church bells. My playmates, Volodya and Vera, were there as well.

Yet, that Easter day was not the same as that of the previous year. I had secretly hoped that I might awake on Easter morning and find again my brother sitting on my bed Ч but that was not to be.

The trouble was that I couldnТt write in English and Mother, although she spoke quite well in Russian, could not follow the written word. At times my father wrote little notes in English, which I laboriously copied, but they were my fatherТs words and not what I might have written. In this way slowly the gulf widened as the days and months went by.

In the early summer, it was noticed that Mikhailo was courting Glasha.

They were often seen in the evenings strolling together on the river front or in the garden. Mikhailo never drank now and his appearance had improved. One day they approached Babushka and told her that they were intending to get married. Babushka was pleased. It was arranged that Glasha would settle with Mikhailo in the lodge, but at the same time continue with her duties in the house.

Glasha and Mikhailo were married in our local church. GlashaТs dress was simple Ч she wore a veil and a wreath of small white flowers, made by Babushka. The wedding celebration took place in the flat once occupied by Uncle Sanya. A long table, covered with a white linen cloth, was laden with food and drink. Everybody helped to make the wedding a success as both Glasha and Mikhailo were orphans. Before sitting down at the table, the newly-weds went down on their knees and Babushka, who took the part of the mother, blessed them with an ikon. Father, who was to perform the traditional ceremony of welcome with the bread and salt, stepped forward, but, as he raised the bread with the small salt cellar sitting on top, his arm trembled Ч the salt cellar rolled on to the floor, shattered in smithereens and scattered the salt. Everyone gasped Ч there is no more unlucky omen than this. Glasha covered her face and wept. Mikhailo was aghast. Father was equally distressed. A second salt cellar was brought and the ceremony repeated, this time without any mishap. But somehow it was not the same.

There was silence round the table until someone fortunately remembered the traditional call of “GorТko, GorТko” Ч “Bitter, Bitter.” The party livened up and as the night wore on the unlucky incident was pushed into the background. An accordion appeared, one of the guests began to sing a folksong, others joined in and later there was dancing. And when the last of the guests had departed, Glasha and Mikhailo walked across the courtyard to the lodge and began their married life.

1914

The days of that sunny summer went by very quickly. I, with my playmates, Vera and Volodya, spent hours swimming and splashing in the river, sitting on the warm boulders, drying ourselves, having long discussions and going once again into the water. Sometimes we played in the garden or went fishing in the pond. The pond abounded with two kinds of fish Ч rather repulsive looking carp and little nameless specimens. We fished with rods we made ourselves from branches, string, cork and hooks. The carp were impossible to catch, but the smaller fish eagerly snapped up the dangling worms. On account of their unpleasant taste none of the fish was edible, but we usually had an interested audience of cats who would appear from nowhere and readily devour the discarded victims.

In the middle of July Dedushka decided to take a trip to the famous Solovetsky Monastery on the White Sea. He took with him Marga and Seryozha. As at this time of the year the monastery was visited by crowds of tourists and pilgrims, Babushka thought she would prefer to go to a quiet village on the other side of the river where YuraТs wet nurse lived.

Yura, Marina and I were to accompany her, along with Father, who decided at the last minute to join us. We took the ferry to Bakaritza and went on to Issakagorka to spend the first night with Tanya. Tanya lived in a simple wooden house near the station. Attached to it was a shed housing a horse and cow and, above, a hayloft. A few hens, contentedly scratching for worms, ambled about in the yard, and in front of the house was a tiny garden where Tanya grew some vegetables and flowers. Tanya welcomed our invasion. She had baked the traditional fish pie, a large cheese cake, and produced a bowl of crimson berries known as “polyeneeka”, which she served with cream. The berry itself is like a raspberry, but there the resemblance stops. No other berry can be compared for flavour or scent to the polyeneeka. TanyaТs eldest boy, Mitya, had gathered them and offered to take us to his secret place. As gathering berries and mushrooms is one of the greatest pleasures I have known, I eagerly went off with TanyaТs children to this mysterious place. After walking along the railway line for the best part of a mile, we climbed the steep embankment at the top of which was a small clearing, broken by mounds and groups of slender birches. The mounds were covered by these crimson berries. We began to gather them.

One of the mounds, covered by a profusion of the berries, appeared to have a deep fissure from which protruded a wooden board. Curious, we knelt to examine the opening and immediately leapt to our feet. The board was part of an open coffin and inside was the black mass of a decaying corpse.

After that shattering experience we lost all desire to continue gathering the luscious berries and returned home.

It transpired that the mounds were the graves of Chinamen who had been employed on the railway the year before and had contracted some mysterious disease Ч suspected to be cholera. The thought that these delicious berries were nourished by the dead bodies of Chinamen cancelled any wish that I might have had to go back to that strange place.

That night we children slept in the hayloft. Tanya had spread a sheet and pillows over the hay. I enjoyed the novelty of sleeping in the loft, the company of my young relatives, smelling the scented hay and hearing the gentle stirring of the animals in the shed below us.

The following morning, our little group set off for the long trek to the village lying some seven miles beyond the Issakagorka station. The day promised to be kind, with the sun shining from a cloudless sky.

Soon after leaving TanyaТs house we came to a peaty moorland stretching far into the distance. The ground, dotted by clumps of heather, cranberry bushes and mossy humps made the going uneven. Yura and Marina, taking long firm steps, were ahead. I, hopping from hump to hump, my hat dangling from my wrist, was following. In the rear were Babushka and Father. Turning round, I saw my father sitting on a hump with Babushka standing over him.

I hurried back to them. I heard my father say, “ItТs impossible for me to go on further Ч my legs canТt carry me.” His face, bathed in sweat, was deathly white. I remember clearly being overcome by some nameless fear. It was as if the skies darkened and the brightness of the morning vanished.