The House by the Dvina (26 page)

Our teachers were a group of women about whom we knew very little and they in turn made no attempt to know any of us personally. They were there to instruct us, broaden our minds and inspire us with an inner strength to face up to the world, they therefore commanded our respect. On meeting any of the teachers in the corridors or rooms, the pupil had to drop a quick curtsy in front of them, but when meeting Nataliya Pavlovna, who on occasions stopped to say a few words, we sank in a curtsy, known as the “reverence”, when the right leg went back and the left was drawn up to it in a slow motion.

Some of our teachers were able to inspire us to give of our best. Others lacked imagination. There was, for instance, Mariya Arkadievna, our sewing mistress. Why was it, in a land where the most beautiful embroidery and handwork was done, each one of us had to labour over a long winter term sewing a pair of coarse cotton knickers meant for giants, doing minute stitches, herring-bone, and buttonholes? I gave up halfway through the term and used the knickers for polishing the brass lid of my inkwell instead. At the end of the term I had the brightest inkwell of them all, and a minus three for sewing. Mariya Arkadievna displayed my ink-stained knickers to the class and sorrowfully told me, “Scholts Ч you will never be a seamstress.” I have to add modestly Ч in my defence Ч that she was completely mistaken.

The teacher who stood head and shoulders above them all was Mariya Osipovna, who taught us Russian grammar, literature and history. Plain, serious, her greying hair pulled back into a small bun, she was a gifted teacher. From the moment she stepped into the classroom, she held the attention of every one of us, even the dullest and laziest. She was endlessly patient and, when explaining the difficult rules of the Russian grammar, never used unnecessary words, so that everything she said was made quite clear. But it was in her lectures on literature that she excelled herself. We listened spellbound as she opened the door to a world of books. All our classics, the poetry and prose of Pushkin, Lermontov, Turgenev and others. We learned the translations of the English, American, French and German classics. In Russia literature always held an important place and nowhere more than in our provincial city of dark days and long winter nights. Mariya Osipovna has long since gone with all the others, but if it were possible for us to meet again, I should like to thank her for all that she had taught me I and to add that I believe it is through her that I have never forgotten my beloved language. There was a tradition in the gymnasium to have in every class a “dame de la classe”, as the class mistress was known. These normally pleasant ladies usually joined the preparatory class and remained with it throughout the school life of the pupil. It was therefore natural for the class mistress, after shepherding her flock from year to year, to form an attachment to her girls and to be closer to them than any of the teachers. In the end, no doubt, there was a void and sadness when they went out of her life and she was left to start all over again Ч provided her age and circumstances allowed it.

Our class mistress, Lydiya Nikolaevna, appeared to differ from the others.

At no time did she ever display the smallest glimmer of affection or any attachment to her class. Lydiya Nikolaevna was there to do her duty. She did it with efficiency and the exactitude that was demanded. She did no more. Even the punishment of ordering the pupil to stay behind was done with just a calm detachment and not a trace of any anger. During the last month of the year the frosts hardened and the days grew darker. Earlier, in the late autumn, Mikhailo, assisted by Vassily and young Yashka, brought the heavy window-frames down from the garret. They laboured all day long fixing them again on all the windows in the house. Between the double frames they spread white cotton wool on every window-sill and sprinkled them with borax, which sparkled in the wintry sun. The logs inside the stoves burned and crackled merrily spreading their warmth and the pleasing smell of pine and birch throughout the rooms.

The winters werenТt easy for those who laboured in the cold outside.

Keeping the house supplied with water was especially hard, as only in government buildings such as schools, hospitals, and public baths was water laid on. But later, there was an innovation which spared Mikhailo and the others in our district from going to the river to fetch the water from the waterholes.

In a nearby street a small kiosk was built to which water was laid on by some device. You slipped a metal disc into a slot, which was collected by a girl sitting inside. She then turned on a tap, filling barrels, buckets and all kinds of containers. That was a great boon.

I have heard it said that hardship sat lightly on the shoulders of our northern people. That is not altogether true. Hardy they were, but many times the burden almost reached the limit of endurance. There was the monumental task of washing-days, which came once a fortnight. A tub standing on legs, named the “koryto”, fashioned like an oval table surrounded by an edge just deep enough to hold the water, was brought into the kitchen. The work had to begin early so as to finish before the daylight vanished. Buckets of hot water were carried from the boiler and emptied into the tub. A woman engaged to do the laundry soaped and scrubbed the clothes, bending over the koryto until the white mountain of the laundry gradually diminished. At times Grusha relieved her. All the soaped clothing was placed in baskets and carried out on to the waiting sledge. Mikhailo drove both women on to the river close to the waterhole.

The worst part of the work was still to come.

Going down on their knees and leaning over the blue depth, where often newly formed ice had to be broken, they began to rinse. No gloves could possibly be worn and there was nothing to protect their hands. The worst part was the wringing, of sheets, tablecloths and towels. I once saw Grusha standing in the warm kitchen rubbing her hands, which had lost all feeling, tears streaming down her face.

The frozen laundry, stiff as boards, was carried to the garret to hang until the following day. The ironing which followed, went on all day and in the evening the finished bundles were placed in drawers and presses.

With the blessed coming of the spring, the waterholes were carried out to sea. The pier became the meeting place where once again the women rinsed their laundry and gossiped in the sunshine.

A new member of the family often came to visit Babushka. Sometime in the autumn, Uncle Sanya and his young housekeeper Shura decided to get married. There was a quiet wedding attended by all the members of the family except myself. I had succeeded in catching chickenpox and was forced to stay behind, lying in bed.

Uncle Sanya and his young wife called at the house after their wedding and came to see me. “This is your new aunt,” Uncle Sanya said. I thought my aunt, standing smiling back to me, dressed in her snow-white wedding gown, a veil and wreath of orange blossoms, was pretty, but nothing as pretty as my mother. Now that Aunt Shura was not the housekeeper but mistress of the house the first thing she did, to Uncle SanyaТs deep distress, was to get rid of all the squirrels and little birds flying and leaping from room to room, tearing the paper off the walls and fouling the floors and furniture.

A decorator was engaged who painted and repapered all the doors and walls and generally put the house in order. The tomcat, Vaska, still remained.

My uncle, who adored his cat, flatly refused to part from it.

In early December I attained my eighth birthday. There were several presents and a parcel arrived from St Petersburg. Inside was a gold locket and a book. On the fly-page was written in English, “To Ena with love from Mama”. Mother never called me anything else but Ena. About the time of my birth, Princess Eugenie, the granddaughter of Queen Victoria, married the King of Spain. She was often referred to as Princess Ena. The name appealed to my mother, as it came easier to her tongue than the diminutive Jenya of my full name Evgeniya. From that time on I was always called Ena or Eugenie in Scotland, and Jenya or Evgeniya in Russia.

Christmas back again Ч the time of gathering round the table, gilding the walnuts, fixing loops on sweets and apples. Again we heard the jingling of the troikas as they ran through the gates bringing old friends. The scent of spices, tangerines and pine pervaded the house. This year, the Christmas tree could not surprise me. I knew that it was being decorated behind the locked doors of the ballroom which for some reason I was not allowed to enter, and more mysterious activities went on in the boysТ

bedroom.

On Christmas Eve the numerous guests arrived. Uncle Vanya, our wandering “Siberiyan”, arrived with Tanya and her family. Uncle Sanya brought my new aunt Shura. Aunt Shura had a large stomach Ч I wondered if there might be a baby, for I had noticed in the past that a large stomach was followed by the appearance of a baby. The mystery of how it succeeded in getting out, or for that matter getting in, remained unsolved for some time to come.

After the Christmas dinner the lights went out, and Babushka, according to her custom, rang the little crystal bell. The doors into the ballroom opened Ч and there it was again, this glorious vision of all the glowing candles, the sparkling decorations, the swaying fairies and the gnomes.

I moved across the room Ч there, sitting on my table was the doll won by Uncle Henry, by now almost forgotten. No longer the doll dressed in a simple shift, she was transformed into Red Riding Hood, all set to go on a visit to her granny. Every detail is there Ч the full embroidered skirt over a frilled petticoat, white blouse, black velvet bodice and the crimson cloak over her shoulders. In her hand is a little basket holding tiny replicas of a loaf, a bottle of wine, oranges, apples and a napkin.

She is resting on a little patch of grass and growing at her feet are wildflowers, all cleverly contrived. She is oblivious of the wolf hiding in the pine branches behind her. Only his head and glowing eyes are visible. It was Yura and Seryozha, I discovered later, who had worked in their bedroom, secretly creating the realistic head of the wolf. Outside this sylvan scene were presents and a small replica of an old chest complete with copper hands. Inside was everything a doll could wish for Ч

little boots and shoes, dresses, coats and hats.

Who conjured up all this? No one but Babushka. For months, unseen by me, she had laboured, sewing out of bits and pieces all the garments with meticulous attention to the smallest detail. Even the tiny flowers and the grass had to have the realism and perfection she demanded of herself.

Later, after all the excitement subsided, we children watched once more the coloured pictures on the wall. We had seen them all the year before, but that did not detract from the enjoyment of seeing them again.

In the late evening, the sledges of our friends glided away, the boys put out the candles on the tree and closed the door behind them. So passed Christmas of 1913 Ч the last Christmas of a peaceful era. Each year the peace diminished until, in the end, it vanished for ever.

1914

On New YearТs morning I was woken by Mikhailo dropping his heavy load of firewood on to the floor. “It is a hard frost the New Year has brought us,” he said, arranging the logs inside the stove.

Outside the frost was bitter. A thick rime like cottonwool hung over the river and the empty streets. Nothing stirred. That day, as the frost hardened, no one left the house and no one called. Our guests and Babushka whiled away the time playing cards, sewing, knitting and reminiscing for hours on end. It was a peaceful beginning to the year.

At the end of January, Irisha, who had been with us since my brother was an infant, left to be married. A young girl Ч Marusya Ч joined the household after a short interrogation by Babushka, followed by an adroit scrutiny of her person and especially her hair. Babushka had an innate fear of lice being brought into the house. This fear, amounting to an obsession, sometimes drove Babushka to extreme measures. I remember how on one occasion a visiting relative left her little daughter, Varya, in our care while she went shopping. Babushka, sitting watching us at play, suddenly observed the tell-tale signs in VaryaТs hair and promptly proceeded to use the infallible cure of dousing her head with vodka.

Marusya, according to the prevailing custom observed in all households, had to give her passport to Babushka. Without a passport no servant could obtain employment. Marusya was attractive. Dark, curly hair framed a round face and clear complexion. Brown eyes, unusually large, held a serenity seen often in the eyes of grazing cows. She was compliant, doing everything that was expected of her, but she moved slowly and in a manner which, now, with hindsight, I recognise was sexually provocative. The boys, for some unknown reason, rechristened her “Marietta”. One day, soon after her arrival, Yura, who was a talented painter, decided he would like to paint a portrait of “Marietta” and she obligingly complied. The paints and canvas were all set out in YuraТs bedroom. I do not know what form this painting was to take as it never got under way. Babushka, discovering “Marietta” in the bedroom, promptly despatched her to the kitchen and Yura was told to stop his nonsense.

However, Babushka was too preoccupied these days to worry about Marusya.

Marga, now in her last term at school, was planning to join the university in St Petersburg the following autumn. Meanwhile the girls in her class were giving coming-out balls and parties. The whole household revolved round Marga. Nastenka was hardly ever away from the house, measuring, sewing, fitting and crawling on her knees, pins in her mouth Ч sorting the hem, letting out or taking in. Marga had to have several dresses, as not a week passed without her attending a dance or party. Kapochka, through her experience as a dresser in the theatre world, was an artist in hair styling. She spent hours arranging MargaТs coiffure, while Marga, difficult to please, sat gazing into the mirror and Babushka anxiously hovered around. And then there came the great occasion when it was MargaТs turn to have her ball. Invitations to all her friends were delivered by hand to the various parts of the town.