The House by the Dvina (16 page)

Two rowing boats were hired. Grandma and Babushka stepped gingerly into one, accompanied by three boatmen. Gherman followed in the second and the two boats pulled away from the shore. A bitter wind cut into their faces Ч

more bitter than Grandma had ever known. She had long since discarded her little hat with the jaunty feather and, like Babushka, had tied a thick woollen shawl over her head.

The going was hazardous. To keep moving, the men were forced to break the ice and push it aside. On the opposite bank, standing close to the edge, were Nelly, Dedushka, Uncle Sanya and others, all watching anxiously the slow progress of the boats. A critical part of the journey arrived. A wide sheet of ice, preventing all further movement, lay in front of them. On the other side of this floe, a short distance from the shore, was a clear strip of water. A boat from the shore moved up to the edge of the ice and waited.

To reach this point, the passengers had to leave their boats and run across the ice. Inching close to the floe, the boatmen stopped rowing.

Babushka and Grandma stood up, bracing themselves to jump on to the ice.

In that moment Babushka panicked. In her own words to me years later, she recalled their harrowing experience. “You see, Jenya,” she explained, “I did not know how strong was the ice, nor did anyone else for that matter.

Terrible accidents had happened in the past and the thought of being trapped under the broken ice terrified me. But even as I stood, unable to move, what did I see but your Scottish granny jump out of the boat and dash over the ice? I still remember her little feet, in black boots, skimming across and the way she leaped into the other boat and just sat there laughing. As for me Ч I had to be dragged along with my feet trailing on the ice. Then came your father running to join us. The men rowed us safely ashore and we were all reunited, kissing and hugging each other.”

All this was a long way off from the ballet, the opera and all the wonderful sights my Granny had been promised, but at the same time all these adventures became a highlight of her life, which she was fond of describing in detail to her grandchildren.

Having eventually reached her destination, Grandma thankfully settled down in her daughterТs home. Everything had turned out to be different from what had been planned, but she philosophically reasoned she was never meant to see the bright lights of St Petersburg and Moscow Ч she was here to be with her daughter. By now the winter was closing in. The frost increased and the days shortened. The river was giving up her unequal struggle against the frost. For a few days the dark line of the swift current in midstream continued to defy the encroaching ice, but in the end surrendered. The Dvina became a mighty highway that stretched for hundreds of miles back to the south.

The first to appear on the river were the small northern horses hurrying from the opposite shore pulling the flat sledges of the peasants laden with fresh provisions for the market. They were followed by different types of sledges travelling in all directions. To GrannyТs great relief all her baggage arrived safely. Christmas was approaching and she had brought gifts to all she could remember.

There was much entertaining and a constant coming and going between the two houses. Although having totally different natures the two grandmothers became very friendly and remained so throughout the years. Babushka was an extrovert who liked to confide in Grandma and give an uninhibited expression of her thoughts and feelings. Grandma was a sympathetic listener, but kept her counsel and divulged very little about herself or her family. Secretiveness and reticence in any form were alien to Babushka as they were to most Russians, the exception being if they were afraid, or guilty of some ulterior motive. Babushka openly discussed money matters from the price of food to the dress she had ordered for the christening of her future grandchild. She likewise frankly admired GrandmaТs clothes and with the same childlike frankness enquired what they cost. Grandma sidestepped such questions. She also admired BabushkaТs furs and jewellery, but passed no comment, and as for asking what Babushka might have paid for some article Ч that was simply not done and completely out with her Scottish character. On 26 November in the old Gregorian calendar, which was thirteen days behind Europe in those days, Nelly decided to throw a party in return for all the hospitality extended to her mother. As the child was not expected for another fortnight, she reasoned it would be more convenient to hold the party before the event rather than later. In all some fifteen people came. The dinner, consisting of Scottish and Russian dishes, was a great success and later all adjourned to the drawing-room.

Among the guests was my fatherТs cousin Adya who had been one of the sponsors at my parentsТ wedding in London. He was a gay and popular young man, reputed to be one of the best dancers in the town. In those days there was a fashionable dance known as the “Cakewalk” and as the party continued swinging along with the usual gay abandon, Adya was asked to give an exhibition of the dance. After a little persuasion he donned a top-hat, took a walking stick and prepared to dance. Nelly sat down to play the accompaniment. This exhibition, presented with fine expertise, lightness and style, delighted the guests and in the end received prolonged applause and demands for an encore. Nelly went back to the piano and Adya resumed his dancing.

At this inopportune moment my mother was unexpectedly overtaken by the first pangs of childbirth. The party came to an abrupt end, the guests scattered and Nelly retreated to her bedroom.

The following afternoon of Sunday 27 November, old style, I saw the light of day, in a world fated to be torn asunder by wars and revolutions. I was BabushkaТs eighth granddaughter, but any twinges of disappointment that had been felt at the arrival of yet another girl were brushed aside.

The Russians and the Scots have one trait in common Ч both are given to similar superstitions. It is considered unlucky by some people to prepare too lavishly for the unborn child, for fear of tempting Providence. The perambulator from Scotland was already there, but the cot once used by my father did not arrive at the house until the day after my birth. A bath and other articles still had to be purchased. The following day, in spite of the cold, more intense than usual, the two grannies, sitting side by side in the sledge under piles of rugs, set off along the snowy road to buy the baby a bath. While they were happily engaged in choosing a bath and other articles, the priest called at the house to carry out the traditional ceremony of prayer and blessings and the sprinkling of holy water in all the corners of the room, and over the baby and the young mother.

Some time before I was born, Babushka had suggested that she herself should go across to one of the villages and fix up a healthy young mother to nurse the baby. She pointed out all the advantages of having a wet mother. Mother refused even to entertain such an idea. No strange woman was to suckle her child. So I was the first child in the family to be nursed by her own mother. Later Babushka was heard enthusiastically telling her friends that “Our Nellinka looked very beautiful nursing the child Ч so like the Madonna and the child in a holy painting.”

When I was a month old, my parents bundled me up in numerous shawls and took me over to the house in Olonetskaya Street. The Christmas celebrations always took place on Christmas Eve as it was BabushkaТs nameday, soon to become mine as well. This double event invariably brought a happy gathering of close friends and relatives, but for the first time for many years Nanny Shalovchikha was not present as she was now too frail to leave her room. Knowing how eager she was to see me, my parents took me down to her quarters.

In the early summer when she learned that there was going to be another baby in the family, her attitude to my mother changed from cold indifference to warm friendliness. She knitted little boots for the child, brought dried raspberries, strawberry leaves and herbs to my mother, assuring her that there was a beneficial virtue in them for pregnant women. Mother accepted the boots and quietly discarded the rest. As summer turned to autumn the old nanny became obsessed with the approaching birth.

“I must live to see this child,” she kept repeating to my father.

Nanny Shalovchikha was now approaching the end of her long life. She had outlived all her contemporaries and many of those whom she had nursed.

Although still in possession of her faculties there was the feeling that she had outlived her usefulness. She was wearied and spent long hours in bed, never leaving her peaceful room with its white walls, the ikon hanging in the corner, the comforting light of the lampada in front of it, and where she was surrounded by all her humble but reassuring reminders of distant times.

When my parents entered the room, they found her up and fully dressed, sitting in her chair. She was obviously expecting them. “Please give her to me,” she asked my mother. Mother complied and the old woman, who had seen the remnants of NapoleonТs Grand Army stumbling along the roads of Smolensk and who had known the bitterness of losing her only son in the Crimean war, now, in contemplative silence, sat cradling me in her arms.

More than a century was bridged between us. “Take her,” she said at last.

“I am content. You see,” she added, a proud little smile running across her lips, “I have now nursed four generations.” In the early spring Nanny Shalovchikha died and was buried beside her old friend and contemporary, my great-great- grandmother, Feodosiya from Kaluga.

On the morning of my christening a font arrived from the nearby Church of the Assumption and was placed in the ballroom of BabushkaТs home. As I was the first child of the eldest son, Babushka wanted to do things in style and invited all her friends and relatives. To accommodate them all, the table had to be stretched from the dining-room into the hall. Two godfathers had been chosen Ч my fatherТs uncle and a close friend. The two godmothers were my grandmothers. The Orthodox Church does not permit the parents to be present during the ritual of the christening and that especially applies to the mother. When all the guests crowded in the ballroom, Father discreetly remained in the background but Mother was confined to the nursery.

The priest and the deacon took their place beside the font. The two godfathers stood behind them awaiting the entrance of the godmothers. The double doors opened and Babushka, dressed in green velvet, the long train edged with sable, entered carrying the baby. Stepping beside her, Grandma looked equally elegant Ч her neat, small figure was encased in a well-cut gown fashioned from lilac silk and guipure lace. The two ladies joined the godfathers and the ritual of the christening commenced.

Lying in BabushkaТs arms, on top of a fine lawn sheet over a pink quilt, the child was peaceful. No one had bothered to explain to Grandma the details of an Orthodox christening. Somehow she vaguely imagined that there would be a gentle half-immersion of the small body and perhaps a sprinkling of the water over her head. The baby of course would love this.

Poor Grandma was totally unprepared for what was to follow.

The priest took the naked child. His voice, loud and clear, proclaimed the solemn words. “In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost I baptise you Evgeniya.” Placing his hand across the childТs face to prevent any intake of water he completely immersed the baby. Lifting her out, he released his hand and immediately a piercing shriek of furious indignation rent the air. It was cut short by the second immersion.

This part of the ritual is repeated three times. Grandma was completely stunned by the first immersion, and angered by the second. When she saw the priest preparing for the third, she was unable to contain herself any longer and, rushing up to him, grabbed his arm. “Do you wish to drown the child?” she cried. An astonished silence followed. The priest didnТt understand a single word, but no one before had interrupted this most holy rite. A hushed whisper ran through the crowded room. At this critical moment Babushka stepped forward and saved the situation. “Madame Cameron,”

she said firmly, “this is very holy and good and only one more. Please to come.” She led Grandma back to her place. GrandmaТs habitual self-control took over. She stood in stony silence until the end of the service. The baby was now handed over to one of the godfathers for the ritual of the anointing by holy oil. The priest drew the sign of the cross on the forehead, the breast, the palms of the small hands and on the soles of the feet. A gold cross and chain was slipped round the neck, to be worn for all time. Finally the baby was placed in GrandmaТs arms. Meanwhile, isolated in the nursery, Nelly was being torn between loyalty to her husbandТs church and agonising anxiety for her child. She had never heard such frenzied screaming of fear and rage. Helplessly wringing her hands, she was strongly tempted to run out of the nursery, but in the end steeled herself to endure her torment until the moment when Grandma ran into the room clutching the infant to her breast. “Take her, Nelly, take her,” she said, thrusting the child into NellyТs arms. “Never,” she went on bitterly, “in all my born days have I seen the like of such barbarity.

Little did I think that I would see the day when a grandchild of mine would be ducked head and all in that fancy font of theirs, not once, mind you, but three times over Ч and hear the helpless wee cratur screaming her head off. I can promise you now, my lass,” she concluded grimly, “that there will never again be another christening the like of this one for me.

Never, even if IТm spared for a hundred years.” She kept her word.

Sometime in February, Granny began to plan her return journey to Scotland.

GrandpaТs letters were showing signs of impatience with the lack of supervision over their daughters and the haphazard running of the house.

Granny was also possessed by a strange urge that overtakes most Scottish housewives with the advent of brighter sunshine and warmer weather. It is known as the “spring cleaning”, a time when a surge of unbounded energy and determination propels them to attack all corners of the house, furniture, carpets and curtains, to remove every speck of dirt and dust.