The House by the Dvina (21 page)

In the early evening we said our goodbyes and set off on the return journey. The night was clear and frosty. Our sweet mare, Smirnukha, so named on account of her peaceful and obedient nature, ran cheerfully past the familiar landmarks. As we came down towards the river she suddenly became nervous and shot through the gates. Mikhailo drew up sharply beside the back entrance and, dropping us, went to the gates. “I think, Barynya,”

he said, locking the gates, “there are wolves about and Smirnukha can smell them.”

We went through the back entrance into the hall where we removed our heavy shubas. In the dining-room we found a cheerful gathering round the table.

The samovar was singing its welcoming song. Babushka went into the ballroom to pull some nuts and sweets from the Christmas tree. The candles werenТt lit. The hanging ornaments glimmered dimly in the moonlight pouring from the windows. I heard her calling me to come and join her. She was standing beside the window. “Come, Jenichka, and see this,” she beckoned me. Looking down directly below our windows, which faced the river front, I saw walking in single file what I took to be six or eight dogs. “Why are these dogs walking like that?” I asked. “Those are not dogs,” Babushka said. “Thoy are wolves and are hanging around because they can smell our sheep and horses.” We watched in silence as the wolves moved towards the gates, which unlike the gates on the street always remained locked. There they stood, uncertainly looking through the wrought iron and then, slowly turning away, disappeared down the steep incline to the river only to appear again on the moonlit surface, still in single file, walking past the waterhole in the ice and on towards the opposite shore.

This was the first time and only time I ever saw wolves in their natural state. I still remember the strangely sinister and almost uncanny sight of their slinky forms and stealthy approach to the gates.

During the first days of the year it became very cold and the frost hardened. We were approaching the festival of Epiphany, when the weather was often referred to as the “Frosts of Epiphany” and when the blessing of the waters in all the rivers in Russia took place. Some hardy souls were known to go into the waterholes in the ice and actually survive their immersion.

Through the week, young friends of the boys and Marga came to the house to take part in the traditional games which were supposed to foretell the future. One of them was to pour melted wax into cold water and try to guess what was prophesied by the shapes which formed. And then there was the game with mirrors. In some empty room, and not within hearing distance of any person, a mirror is placed on a table. A lighted candle is arranged on either side. Draping a white sheet over her shoulders and undoing her hair, a girl sits down in front of the mirror. Directly behind, on another table, is a second mirror. The room is in darkness. The mirrors reflect only the face and shoulders in the flickering lights. The candles, multiplied by the mirrors, form a strange gallery of lights that appears to have no ending. There she sits, not moving or turning her head until gradually some shadowy forms and faces begin to take shape.

I have heard this custom dismissed as an optical illusion, a reflection of a lively imagination or a form of self-hypnotism. I have also known the most incredulous people who swore that they not only had seen objects and faces but whole scenes presented before their eyes.

One of MargaТs friends went into MarinaТs room and followed all the instructions. In a little while she rushed out, deathly pale and frightened, refusing to discuss what she had seen or perhaps imagined.

I was not allowed to indulge in this game, but Marina and I found two saucers and covered the bottom of each with fine cinders and ashes.

Water-filled tumblers were placed in each saucer. A wedding ring had to be dropped into the glass. Babushka, who always wore two wedding rings, from her late and present husband, supplied us with them. We had to keep our eyes fixed on the centre of the ring. Although I stared hard and long into the golden circle I never saw anything except ashes. Marga for some strange reason was very nervous and could not sleep alone in a room. At times when she was in one of her frightened moods I would be awakened by her calling to me Ч “Are you there, Jeyna?” Ч or in a more ingratiating tone Ч “Are you sleeping, Jenichka?” This of course gave me a certain power over my aunt, ten years my senior. At times, being irritated at being disturbed or out of sheer devilment, I pretended that I was sleeping until moved by a sense of pity I would scold Marga as if she was a little child. “Of course I am here Ч where do you think I would be? And donТt you know that our Holy Mother of God is watching over us? Go to sleep and donТt bother me.” Poor Marga, comforted by the sound of my voice, would fall asleep. Well, little did I know that the day would come, a long way off as yet, when I also would be afraid.

One day, Sashenka informed me I had to work, and work hard, to make up for the precious hours I had idled away. It was necessary, before I could be accepted by the Mariyanskaya Gymnasium, to pass an examination in reading, writing, arithmetic and also acquire some knowledge of certain passages out of the Old and New Testament.

Having been given the responsibility of driving all this into my frivolous head, Sashenka didnТt spare me. Every day, after she arrived from her school, tuition commenced at two oТclock. There was no break until six oТclock, when dinner was served. Immediately it was over there were further instructions as to what I had to prepare for Sashenka the following morning. This went on every day, including Sunday.

There was a thankful break with the Shrove Carnival, or “Maslinitza”, as it is named Ч meaning “the butter time”. For a glorious week there were no lessons. Holy Russia became the land of pancakes, of swift horses pulling sledges of every type through town and countryside, of fancy dress balls and parties and of little children tobogganing in villages and backyards on homemade chutes.

Mikhailo made a small chute for me by packing the snow with his spade and pouring water over it. He then swept a path up to his lodge and poured water over it too. Soon the surface froze and became as smooth as glass. I spent hours climbing up the little steps and gliding down to the end of the runway. Masha, MikhailoТs wife, who was not well, sat beside her window watching me.

The following day I noticed a young boy and girl accompanied by a soldier standing at our gate looking on at my solitary sledging. Mikhailo beckoned to them. Volodya, a little senior to me, and his young sister, Vera, were the children of General Zaborchikoff and his wife Anastasia Ivanovna, who were our neighbours and lived on the top floor of a house facing the street. In this house all the servants were orderlies who cooked, washed, took care of the children and also served at the table. There was a much younger child called Shurick, a very attractive little boy bearing a strong resemblance to his lovely mother. The general, with clean-shaven head, as smooth as a billiard ball, was a plain, pale-faced man. His unsmiling countenance and proud bearing inspired fear not only in the children and the orderlies but also in his wife.

I was delighted with my new playmates. After the initial shyness, we spent a glorious time sliding down the chute on the toboggan or on our backs, jostling and rolling in the snowdrifts, shrieking and laughing until it began to darken and the soldier removed my new friends back to their home.

The following day they came back, but after spending some time on my homemade chute we saw other children passing our gate on their way to the river. We ran after them and joined the noisy, cheerful throng sledging down the incline to the river. This was a natural, wide, steep slope, where we could sledge not only down to the edge of the river but a good distance over it. A young, red-cheeked boy came over and asked me my name.

“Jenya,” I answered timidly. “My name is Tolya Ч Tolya Mammontov.” He introduced himself with the cool self-possession of an adult. “You are sledging the wrong way,” he went on, “sitting there like a baby with your feet sticking out. You wonТt get very far that way.” He then proceeded to tell me that the best way to sledge was to lie flat on my stomach using one leg as a rudder. I proceeded, nervously, to follow his instructions, but halfway down the hill veered to one side and landed in a deep snowdrift. Everyone laughed, but I didnТt take offence and was only too glad to be treated as one of the gang. It was a new and happy experience.

During the week, the Samoyeds and their strings of reindeer came driving into our yard. They brought their wares Ч hats, boots, shoes all made from reindeer skins. They were accompanied by a few snow-white Samoyed dogs, which I much admired, but was warned not to touch as they were not friendly towards strangers and were primarily used for guarding the vast reindeer herds.

The Samoyeds, their cheerful flat faces wreathed in smiles and talking in their quaint style, tried to persuade us to hire them for a run on their sledges even as far as their distant yurtas. Babushka was not keen. It would be bitterly cold on the river, she argued. The sledges were completely exposed and there was the danger of frostbite. In the end she agreed to compromise. We were allowed to go, but not any further than the outskirts of the town.

As the sledges could only hold one or two passengers at the most, two were engaged. Yura and I would travel on one sledge, Marina and Seryozha on the other.

Warmly clad, thick shawls pulled well over our faces, sitting close behind our driver, who held a long pole with which he directed the reindeer, our procession moved slowly through the gates. Each sledge was pulled by four reindeer and, as soon as we went on the river, they set off at great speed.

The sensation of being pulled by reindeer beggars description. The sledges are so light that one has the impression that the runners are flying above the snow. The Samoyed clicked his tongue and prodded his reindeer. I sat a little fearful and excited, clinging tightly to Yura. On and on we raced, the wind whistling past; houses, gardens, the golden domes of the churches appearing for a moment and vanishing away, until we reached the outskirts of the town where there was only a dreary plain, with only a few poor cottages scattered here and there. The snow on the river and the shore changed from gold to crimson and deep lilac. The reindeer turned in a wide circle and raced back towards the twinkling lights of the town and on into our courtyard.

Back in the warm kitchen, we found Babushka, wrapped in an apron, her face crimson from the heat of the range, frying pancakes. On a stool close to the range stood a large crock of buckwheat batter and, in another container, melted butter. A long row of small thick frying pans was strung across the range. Babushka worked deftly with exact timing, her hand speedily moving from one end of the pans to the other and back again. A small quantity of butter was poured in each pan. The batter followed and by the time the last one was filled it was time to turn over the first one and move on to the end and finally back to lift each finished pancake on to an ashet. She preferred to do this herself, repeating each operation over and over again until there was a great golden pile of wafer-thin pancakes, not heavy and greasy, but light and delicious. They were taken to the table to be eaten immediately in several layers. On the table was a bowl of sour cream, caviar, and a variety of other fillings as well as an assortment of jams prepared from wild berries.

Hundreds of these pancakes were eaten. The old honoured Russian custom was kept up throughout the whole week. Only a few other dishes were served to break the monotony. On the last day of “Maslinitza”, Babushka expressed a nostalgic wish to visit Maimaksa Ч the place where she was born and brought up and spent the first years of her married life. Hardly any of her friends and relatives were left there now, but Babushka wanted to meet again the widow of Pavel Mikhailovich, who had taken care of Babushka and her mother during their journey to St Petersburg for this historic interview with the Tsar. Because this was the Shrove Carnival, combined, perhaps, with some distant associations, Babushka ordered Mikhailo to harness a troika. Yura and I were to accompany her. The troika has been the inspiration for many songs, tales and paintings. The style of harnessing and the running of the three horses are unique. Only the centre horse runs between the shafts. It trots on two reins, holding its head high, gazing straight ahead. An arch, known as the “duga”, often decorated with silver and little bells, surmounts the head. On either side are the two other horses, fixed by a strap and a single rein. They gallop beside their leader with their heads turned outwards.

In the early afternoon, sitting close together inside the wide padded sledge, and tucked in by rugs, we set off. It was frosty and snowing gently, but the festive season had brought the people out and sledges of many types were racing up and down the broad fairway. A horse, harnessed to a small, elegant sledge, came racing towards us. Inside the sledge was a young man, his arm round the waist of a pretty girl muffled in furs. She laughed and waved as they passed us by and vanished towards the lights of the city. Then, further along the road, a troika full of young people singing, with someone playing a concertina, came alongside and for a short time we travelled abreast with all the bells jingling in unison.

We reached the part of the river where the great mass of Solombala divides the river, leaving the narrower stream hugging the shores of the mainland.

It had stopped snowing and the moon, clear and white, lit up the great expanse. “Now then,” Mikhailo called out and raised his knout. The horses immediately broke into a gallop and swept round the island. On our right were the orange lights of Solombala and on our left the dull shores of Maimaksa where lay all the structures of the timber mills. On these bleak shores the great wealth of the timber industry was founded. The troika raced on passing one mill after another until it climbed ashore and drove up to a single-storeyed house completely surrounded by trees. Climbing up the steps to the entrance, we were welcomed by a chorus of barking dogs and a young servant girl who opened the door and showed us in. Inside, all warmth and light, the house was full of young people and little children.