The House by the Dvina (3 page)

In the winter, when all the windows and French doors were sealed in double frames, the balcony became inaccessible. The snow lay thick up to the top of the railings and only the faint, lace-like tracks of the crows and sparrows marred the smooth white perfection. At the far end of the yard was the lodge. It was divided by a narrow passage into two separate houses, each containing two rooms. In one lived Mikhailo with his young wife Masha. The other half housed Vassily the gardener and a young boy named Yashka employed to run messages, deliver notes and perform endless tasks.

During the winter the hens were transferred to VassilyТs warm house from their summer quarters. Vassily cheerfully shared his two rooms with Yashka and the hens, periodically opening the cages. The Дhens ambled around his feet, clucking contentedly, as they pecked away at the wooden floor for some invisible insects. Straight ahead at the far end of the yard, curving to the right in a crescent, were the stables, the coach house and an old cow shed where were housed the Scottish black-faced ewes imported by my father. In Scotland, my father was strongly advised against this whim. The sheep in Scotland, they argued, were used to wandering in the hills nibbling the sweet, rich grass. My father was adamant. He was convinced they would become adjusted. He was right. The sheep not only became adjusted but thrived, multiplied and grew magnificent thick coats.

At first they timidly nibbled the grass on the drying lawn in front of the stables, but later, little by little, they ventured outside the gates and trotted down to the river exploring the banks. The banks of the Dvina in our parts were high, built up by great boulders to keep the ice floes and spring floods at bay. Between these boulders grew all kinds of succulent grasses and herbs. It was here the sheep found what must have been the nearest resemblance to their own natural habitat in Scotland. Soon they became a familiar sight to all passers-by.

Every evening they trotted back to their shed. During the long clear nights of the arctic summer when there was no darkness and the sun still shone, these sheep were aware it was evening and some deep instinct drove them back to the only shelter they knew. Through the dark winter months, while the sun made a brief appearance, fodder was thrown on to the snow and the sheep came out of their dark quarters. After they were fed, they would enjoy short excursions down to the river while there was still a little daylight. One day when Vassily was sweeping away the snow from the path beside the gate his ears were suddenly assailed by the shrill sound of terrified bleating. He was horrified to see the whole flock rushing back from the river and past him through the gates, followed closely by a large dog. Mikhailo and Vassily were peasants. They recognised at once that this animal was not a dog but a wolf driven by hunger from the woods across the river. For a short time the wolf was trapped in the yard, his retreat cut off by Mikhailo and Vassily, with Yashka joining in the hunt holding a long poker. The young servant girls ran out of the kitchen waving towels. They were accompanied by the hysterical barking of Scotka and Borseek running behind them at a safe distance. The whole cavalcade in wild excitement, stumbling and falling in the snow, advanced upon the wolf hoping to chase him into the woodshed through the wide-open doors. The wolf, by now, was as terrified as any sheep. Like all creatures cornered he suddenly lunged at his tormentors. Instinctively everyone leaped aside.

The two little dogs, their tails between their legs, streaked back to the kitchen. The girls screamed in terror. In that split second the wolf darted through, out the gates and away back to the safety of the river and the woods beyond.

The years are rushing past faster and faster as I grow older. I must hurry for perhaps there is not much time left. There is the consolation that like most old people I can remember with greater clarity the people I knew and the events that took place during my young impressionable years than what happened years later. I can see the house quite clearly in all the seasons of the year. In the summer the rooms appearing flooded in sunlight. I can almost hear the sounds of the river coming through the open windows and smell again the pungent freshness of the great timber rafts slowly floating down to the sawmills. The voices of the women rinsing their washing at the edge of the pier, the shrill laughter of the children bathing or sitting naked on the boulders drying themselves in the sun, all echo back over the years.

In the winter, as soon as the second frames were placed in the windows, shutting out all sound and the terrible cold, the house became warm and intimate. Soft pools of light on the tables, the peaceful flickering of the lampadas lighting up the sacred faces on the ikon, the sweet humming of the samovar created an atmosphere drawing everyone into a closer circle. The fragrance of birch and pine pervaded all the rooms as the logs burned and crackled inside the great stoves.

Three main rooms ran the whole length of the house fronting the river.

They were given an impression of even greater spaciousness by the wide open archways in each connecting wall. These rooms were rarely used, with the exception of the end room in the south-west corner of the house. In this pleasant room, where the comfortable chairs were upholstered in a soft shade of reseda green with matching curtains, my grandmother sometimes entertained her friends. It was essentially a womanТs room with the feminine atmosphere of flowers, photographs and ornaments on small tables.

The ballroom at the other end was a long impressive room. Suspended from the centre of the ceiling was a bronze and crystal chandelier. Matching candelabras jutted out from the wall. Light gilt chairs lined the walls and a grand piano stood in the corner. Between the windows and the French doors leading out into the balcony were long mirrors in gilt frames stretching up to the ceiling. At the base of each mirror were wrought bronze baskets containing plants and flowers which were reflected in the mirror. Between the ballroom and the end room was the “gosteennaya” Ч the guest-room or drawing-room. The crimson velvet upholstered chairs and sofa, polished mahogany tables displaying family albums, bronze ornamental clocks under glass covers, the porcelain and bric-a-brac in corner cabinets all reflected the heavy fashion of the Victorian period. There were paintings on the walls. One depicted Mary Queen of Scots walking down a flight of steps on her way to her execution.

Masses of flowers and plants grew on all window sills. My grandmother, whose great hobby and passion were her garden and flowers, grew rare, exotic plants never seen anywhere else in our parts. Oleanders and passion flowers, sweet-smelling lemon trees, fuchsias and pelargoniums, rare cacti and orchids all came in their seasons even in the dead of winter and nodded their lovely heads to the still white landscape outside.

The golden honey of parquet flooring covered the rooms of the entire house, but in these three rooms the workmanship was extremely fine.

Hardwood in many shades formed a design that was unusual and beautiful.

Two young men dressed in high-necked, black cotton shirts and trousers, came to polish these floors. After removing their boots, each slipped a thick sock over one foot. On the other was a special short boot fitted with a brush, firmly strapped round the ankle. Crossing one arm behind his back each man skated over the floor, the leg with the attached brush swinging back and fore in a wide sweep while the other dragged behind twisting and hopping. The free arm moved like a pendulum swinging up and down. Their damp shirts clung to their backs, but they continued skating up and down the room, only stopping to change the boot to the other foot or drink a glass of kvas Ч the cool beverage brewed from black bread and raisins, drunk all over Russia. This strange, rhythmic hopping and twisting continued from room to room until the floors shone with a golden brilliance. The heart of the house was the dining-room, lying between the two wings. The dining-table ran the length of the room. Every night at six oТclock some ten or twelve people sat down to dinner. In the corner of the wall was a lifesize ikon of St Nicholas. A small table stood in front with an ancient bible on it. Close to the ikon was a row of small candles lighting up the face of the saint. This ikon, black and almost indiscernible, had been in the family for over two centuries. It had been found floating down a river during the religious persecution of the “Old Believers”. My great-grandmother from Kaluga brought it to Archangel.

According to the old Russian custom everyone paused in front of the ikon to cross themselves before sitting down at the table. I followed the others hurriedly crossing myself, afraid to look directly into these dark unfathomable eyes. This ancient ikon of St Nicholas was alleged to have some strange miraculous power. Babushka was fond of recalling how her brother Dmitri, a giant of a man, had once blasphemed in the presence of the ikon, referring to it as a piece of black useless wood only fit to burn inside a stove. When he went back to his home he found his infant son stricken with diphtheria. He had rushed back and, sweeping everyone aside, prostrated himself in front of the ikon, screaming his repentance and beseeching St Nicholas to save his child. The baby recovered. Uncle Mitya was a wild and reckless man, not very religious and not very likeable, but I can still see him when he called at the house, standing looking with reverent intentness at the ikon as he crossed himself with a wide sweeping gesture.

In the corner of the dining-room stood a round serving table. After dinner, when the tables were cleared, a plush cover was placed over this table. The centre hanging lamp was lowered, casting a pool of soft light.

One by one everybody deviated to it. Babushka had a passion for nibbling pine kernels with the lightning speed of a squirrel. This was a practice usually of peasants and the lower strata of society, but Babushka also had some peasant blood flowing through her veins. She would place a big bowl of these nuts on the table and everyone gathered round, cracking the small brown kernels while they talked and had these endless discussions.

Best of all was when Seryozha read to us. Seryozha, my elder step-uncle, still at school, had the great gift of reading in a soft expressive voice.

The Russian language, always infinitely rich and pliable, flowed straight from his heart, falling and rising in sorrow or joy. He held his listeners in rapt attention until the last word faded away. No one spoke. Babushka, her hands pressed into her cheeks, looked down intently at the table, and Marga, my young step-aunt, gazed straight ahead somewhere beyond. It was at this table in the house where I was to spend my early impressionable years surrounded by all that was Russian, customs, religion, the people who came and went and talked in their own inimitable Russian style, all that and more, that I, although of Scottish-Russian parentage, began to absorb and develop that strange elusive substance often referred to as the “Russkaya dusha” or “Russian soul”. It has stayed with me always, overshadowing the Scottish side of my being.

Quietly flowed our provincial life these days in this backwater. No one at all appeared to be aware of the distant rumble of the approaching storm.

If they were, they never said so.

In 1903, when my father, Gherman Aleksandrovich Scholts was 23, it was decided that he should go abroad. After three years at the University of Riga, he felt ready to take his late fatherТs place in the family timber business. His guardian Ч Uncle Adolf Ч and his mother thought differently.

He would get some experience abroad first. Dundee was chosen because firms there traded with Archangel in flax and timber, and there were relatives there whom my grandmother imagined might keep an eye on her, at times, irresponsible son.

On his first day in Dundee, Gherman was standing at the window of his hotel room Ч he used to recall that the clean streets, solid stone buildings and tidy pedestrians gave him a lasting impression of order and stability. People were strolling in the warm sun. Horse-drawn vehicles of all kinds trundled up and down the cobbled street. As he stood absorbed, he saw a young woman in a lilac suit and a white flowered hat on the opposite side of the street, walking with her fox terrier. The dog stopped, attracted by a lamp-post. Gherman found himself willing the girl to look up at him. She did so, and he saw a look of faint surprise on her face. For a moment their eyes met. Then, turning her head abruptly and giving the lead an impatient tug, she went on her way.

Gherman found lodgings in Broughty Ferry and was taken on for two years by a firm of flax merchants. Having a natural flair for languages, he was soon talking English quite fluently, and even adopting local idioms. He travelled daily into Dundee by train and was soon accepted in their own special circle by the group of young men with whom he used to share a compartment. One day, his cousin Bertram took him to a charity dance in Broughty Ferry. It was the interval when they arrived. Young men were escorting their partners back to their places. Gherman appeared to be gazing at someone at the opposite end of the hall. “Tell me,” he asked, “who is that girl beside the one in blue?” “That,” Bertram explained, “is Nelly Cameron, the local beauty. The one in blue is her sister Agnes, and the two young men are their brothers. IТm acquainted with the family. The parents are known to be extremely strict and the brothers can be difficult. I suspect,” he concluded in a bantering tone, “you would like to meet Nelly Ч if so, I can introduce you.”

They sauntered casually across the floor. Gherman was introduced to the two young women, their elder brother Stephen, and Henry, twin brother to Agnes.

Nelly did not belie BertramТs description. Slim, of medium height, a flawless complexion accompanied by the classical beauty of finely chiselled features, blue eyes and dark hair coiled high in smooth perfection, she appeared to stand out above all others. Agnes, a plainer version of her sister, kept up a cheerful flow of small talk until the interval was over and the strains of a Viennese waltz came floating over the room. Couples were taking to the floor. Gherman crossed over to Nelly and bowed. A long time after, when my mother was quite old, hearing the melodies of these old-fashioned waltzes on the radio, she said to me, “No one could waltz like your father. He had a style of his own. He took long gliding steps and swung you round and round until you felt as if you were floating, your feet hardly touching the ground.”