The House by the Dvina (18 page)

FatherТs sailing date drew near. One morning, Sasha, her face swollen and tear stained, came to Mother. “Barynya,” she said, “dear kind Barynya, please let me return with the barin back to Archangel. I cannot stand this beautiful country any longer. It is not for me. As God is my witness, it is breaking my heart Ч please, sweet Barynya, let me go back.” What could poor Mother do but agree? A fortnight later Sasha sailed with Father. She was last seen cheerfully running up the gangway carrying in one hand a bundle, much larger than the one she brought to Scotland, and in the other the hatbox with the precious hat she was never to wear. On the day my brother was born, I, protesting loudly, was removed by my granny to the Grassy Beach. Of that of course there is no recollection, but there is, however, a vivid picture, when I was later led into the bedroom, of my mother sitting up in bed, propped up by pillows and beside her an ancient rocking cradle. Inside, under the wooden hood, was a small, red-faced creature wrapped in a white shawl. “This is your little brother,” I was told.

A telegram was despatched to Archangel proclaiming the news that at last a grandson had arrived in the family. My brother was named Gherman after our father. When he was six weeks old he was christened in the parish church of St StephenТs where my parents had.been married. In this way he was spared the ritual of the immersion, but still had to undergo the anointing ceremony later in Russia.

We sailed from Hull in early December. As there was now no Sasha to assist Mother, Granny decided to accompany us as far as Finland where we were to be met by Father. We hoped to arrive in Archangel in time for Christmas.

The crossing was very stormy. Both Mother and I being hopeless sailors were now badly affected by the ceaseless tossing and pitching. Below me, Mother lay prostrate trying to nurse my seven-weeks-old brother who in turn became very ill and never ceased crying. The only person not affected in any way was my granny. I can still see the small sturdy figure jumping off her bunk and being thrown against wall and furniture in her rush over to Mother or myself, changing and soothing the baby, trying to amuse her peevish granddaughter, and attending to all our endless needs. It is only now after many years that I have come to realise how selfless was her decision to take on a journey during the worst time of the year solely for the purpose of helping Mother. The snow-clad shores of Finland brought relief. Father was waiting on the landing stage. After a respite of a few days with Aunt Olga we continued our journey to Archangel while Granny returned on the same ship to Scotland.

Archangel was in the grip of an intense frost when we eventually arrived.

Babushka, awaiting us at Issakagorka Station, had arrived in a “vozok” Ч

the box-like cab fixed on low runners, lined in thick felt and with twohermetically sealed small windows. Wrapped in blankets and shawls we clambered in.

On arrival, Mother carried the baby to BabushkaТs bedroom and, unwrapping all the numerous shawls, laid him on top of the bed. Those who may have been expecting to see a good-looking, sturdy child were disappointed. My little brother had been ill and had undergone an exhausting journey. His small face was white and drawn and he neither smiled nor displayed any interest but lay listlessly looking up at the curious faces around him.

Someone in the background had picked me up and was heard to pass the tactless comment, “Our one is better.” Mother was deeply hurt. Picking up the baby and holding him to her breast she bitterly rejoined, “He is beautiful to me,” and stormed out of the bedroom.

We spent some days with Babushka and then moved back to our own home. In a few weeks my brother blossomed into a very attractive blue-eyed, golden-haired child, but somehow from the day of our arrival I was referred to as “Ours”, and he as “Theirs”, and that is the way it always remained.

For the next few years we shuttled to and fro between Russia and Scotland, either round the coast of Norway or through Finland and St Petersburg, but after my fifth birthday there was a break of some nine years and Scotland became a distant memory. Only the best was remembered. It never rained in Scotland and there were always roses in the garden, apples on the trees and blackbirds hopping around the lawn. The grass on the Grassy Beach was lush and very green, the waters were warm when we went bathing. On Sundays my cousins and their parents came to lunch. Bertie and May, my Uncle AndrewТs children, were a bit older than us, but Uncle StephenТs chubby little daughter, Helen, was closer to my own age and I enjoyed playing with her. These were happy gatherings and, looking back, I am inclined to think that my grandparents were rather tolerant with all their grandchildren.

On a hot summer day tea was served in the garden. There were hot, home-baked scones and cream cookies. Jocky was brought out of the kitchen and sat in his cage beside us. Jocky loved the sun and showed his appreciation by stretching out his wings, dancing on one foot and chattering more than usual. There is one bright scene that seems to stand out, of my brother and I still in our nightgowns, sitting on the lawn one early morning in May and our pretty mother, all in white, gathering the dew on a little sponge and laughingly wiping our faces. “It will make you pretty,” she said. Later, still sitting on the lawn, we supped porridge and cream out of little bowls. In the summer of 1911, my father had to attend to some business in Germany. During our stay, in Hamburg, we lived in a rented furnished house and not long after our arrival my parents decided to take us to the famous zoological gardens.

The day was hot and sultry, and on our return journey we were caught in a heavy thunderstorm. Drenched and miserable, we eventually arrived at our house. As I had been dressed in a light cotton dress, I succeeded in catching a severe chill followed by pleurisy and became very ill.

A telegram had been sent to Russia. Babushka allowed me to see it many years later. It contained only three words. “Jenya is sinking.” Jenya, however, did not sink, although our stay in Hamburg had to be extended for a longer period than originally intended. When I recovered sufficiently to travel, we returned to St Petersburg. My parents were to remain there for some time. I was sent to Archangel under the care of our friend Petya Emelyanoff.

1912

They were all there waiting for me, that day in 1912 when I arrived Ч my two young step-uncles in their black, high-necked uniforms of the Lomonosov Gymnasium, Yura of tawny hair and laughing eyes, Seryozha his elder brother, shy and sensitive, Marga with the round Russian face, large eyes and high arched eyebrows that seem to convey a faintly surprised and somewhat proud expression. Aunt Peeka threw her arms around me and I was enveloped in a powerful smell of tobacco. Aunt Peeka was an inveterate smoker and always carried her cigarettes and matches in a little crochet bag slung over her wrist. Uncle Sanya, my fatherТs brother, tall and fair haired, was also there. He had come up from his quarters to greet his brotherТs child and, bending over, kissed me with warm affection on each cheek. And there was Sashenka. Young as I was, I sensed that something was odd about this woman in her strange, mannish clothes and was relieved when she didnТt kiss me, but instead firmly shook hands with me. “You and I, Jenichka,” she said, looking earnestly into my face, “will have to work very hard together.” She was referring, of course, to my entrance examination for the gymnasium for which she was commissioned to tutor me.

In the midst of all the hugging and kissing, Dedushka, a giant of a man, arrived from the hospital. He threw me high and kissed me as he caught me and I can remember the touch of his cold cheeks and damp beard, the fresh smell of snow and frost that he brought in with him.

Babushka removed me to her bedroom. For two days and nights I had worn and slept in my sailorТs suit and was now grubby and untidy. MotherТs strict instructions were, that as soon as I arrived I was to wear the dress laid out on top of my case. I emerged washed and changed into this special dress presented to me by my Scottish granny. It was the style of the Scottish fishergirFs dress much in fashion for small girls during that time. It consisted of a full tucked skirt in navy-blue serge, caught up at one side to display a blue and white striped underskirt. A fitting jersey was worn with it and a small fringed shawl, crossing over in front, completed the outfit.

We all sat down to lunch. The day was Sunday and the reason I remember it was so was because on Sundays all food was baked in the great oven in the kitchen. Sunday was baking day and the day when only white flour was used, unlike Fridays when the black rye bread was baked and made to last the whole week.

Later, everybody moved into the ballroom. My mother, during our sojourn in Scotland, had taught me to sing to her accompaniment some of the popular songs heard in music halls and pantomimes. Father, full of paternal pride, had boasted in his letters to Babushka about my ability to pick up with speed the melodies and words.

On the scene that followed, I look back with shame as I have an innate dislike of any form of exhibitionism in children. I was asked to sing, and although there was no Mama to accompany my singing, I did not require a second bidding and with perfect nonchalance and style stood in the middle of the floor and presented all the songs I knew Ч Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do followed by Yip I Addy, I Aye I Aye and Once there lived side by side two little maids. All this was accompanied by suitable gestures, the stamping of feet, the waving of the hand and a variety of expressions that suited the words and feelings. I was warmly applauded. My repertoire was rather limited, but encouraged by an enthusiastic reception I continued to improvise, inventing words as I went along, secure in the knowledge that they would not be understood, until Babushka decided that enough was enough.

For the first few days I was tremendously spoilt and all my antics were suffered with loving patience, but fortunately for myself the novelty of having me there gradually wore off and I became accepted as the youngest member of the clan, to be teased by Yura, tolerated by Seryozha and, depending on MargaТs mood, either petted or brushed aside.

I shared MargaТs bedroom. My small bed stood against the opposite wall from hers. The curtains were never drawn across the windows so that it was possible to watch the stars shimmering against the sapphire curtain of the sky. Hanging in the far corner was a large ikon of Mary and the infant Jesus. The holy light of the lampadas in front of it burned night and day and gave me a kind of peaceful consolation.

It was BabushkaТs custom to brush my hair at night. On her dressing-table stood a photograph of my mother sitting between my brother and me. One night when Babushka was brushing my hair, my eyes alighted on the photograph. I suddenly burst into tears. The next night the photograph had vanished.

Dinner was always served at six. When it was over Babushka usually prepared me for bed. Being too young, I was not allowed to sit up and join the family at the evening tea table. At times I lay awake listening to the voices coming through from the dining-room. I could also hear the reassuring clicking sound of the watchmanТs rattle breaking the frozen stillness of the night. Night watchmen were employed to walk up and down the streets. The watchman who walked on Olonetskaya Street was a very old man. Close to our house on the corner of the street was a small stone hut, known as a “Budka”, where the watchman sheltered if the weather proved to be too severe. At the same time he was never alone, as he was always accompanied by Scotka. Every night the old man was in the habit of calling at our house for a glass of tea before setting off on his round. I can see him sitting at the kitchen table, in his worn patched coat, thick felt boots and a shabby, moth-eaten shapka on his white head. At his feet patiently waiting is Scotka. After warming himself the old man slowly rises to his feet Ч “Nu vot poidyom Scotka” … “Now let us go, Scotka.”

Scotka follows. Through the whole of the night in all kinds of weather, intense frost and snows, the old Russian peasant and his Scottish friend walk up and down the lonely street. When they reach the house the watchman clicks the rattle and it tells us that all is well and safe. In the early morning they are back in the kitchen. The old man drinks a hot glass of tea and eats a slice of black bread, rests for a while in the warm kitchen and then departs for his home, wherever it might be. As for Scotka, a mass of white needles and dangling icicles, he immediately vanishes into the warm tunnel below the pechka, settles down beside the irons and sticks and remains there while the melting snow and ice form little pools around him.

He emerges later, rested and hungry, and after a good meal is all set to take to the road once again. Although at the beginning of my stay there were no playmates, I was never lonely. Something went on every day in the house and there was also this constant coming and going of friends and relatives. The gates leading into the courtyard from the street were close to the kitchen entrance. There were no bells or knockers on the door so that visitors usually walked through the kitchen and up the stairs into the back hall. The front entrance was only used on special occasions, by strangers and rare visitors; when the front bell rang and the maid hurried to open the door we would all be overcome by curiosity, and Babushka, peeping through the dining-room door, would also wonder who it could be.

Of BabushkaТs immediate family there were left only three brothers and one sister. Aunt Peeka I have already described. She and Babushka were very attached to each other and could often be seen sitting together at the round table in the nursery having long conversations, while Babushka, surrounded by little boxes, paints and brushes, would be engaged in her favourite hobby of creating artificial flowers and Aunt Peeka would sit idly puffing away at one cigarette after another.

Their three brothers were completely diverse in appearance and character; their lifestyles, especially when I tried to compare them with that of my sedate uncles in Scotland, could only be described as rather unusual.