"Евгения Фрейзер. The House by the Dvina (Дом на Двине, Мемуары) (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

collars round their necks, were chocolate mice laid out in compact
neatness. I planned never to eat a single one of them. Never to spoil the
smooth circle of these little creatures sitting in such orderly
perfection, nose to tail. I played for a long time with that box,
arranging and rearranging the chocolates but in the end, tiring, put it
under my pillow.
Meanwhile, below me, Petya and the two young men were talking and
laughing as if they had known each other all their lives. I sat, my legs
dangling over the edge of the bunk, listening to the steady flow of
conversation beyond my understanding. One of the young merchants was
constantly laughing. He appeared to have an endless supply of jokes and
droll remarks. At times, looking up at me, he would say something, or wink
and smile, as if he and I were sharing some secret joke. "Nye tak li,
Jenichka?" . . . "Is that not so, Jenichka?" he would ask me, and I,
sensing his kindness, would eagerly nod my head and smile back, although I
did not really know what it was all about. It was all very strange. I was
not quite seven and travelling alone in the company of grown-up men.
By now the northern evening was closing in. It was impossible to see
anything outside through the dark windows, frosted over in white ferns and
mysterious forests and mountains. The wheels turning round kept a steady
rhythm as if they were repeating something over and over again, something
sad, something lonely.
The attendant came in, balancing a tray laden with tumblers of tea.
Hampers appeared. I watched with interest as they were opened,
revealing the contents wrapped in white linen. These little hampers,
usually packed with all kinds of home baking, played an important part on
long journeys. There would be a variety of "pirozhkis", the pastries
filled with chopped meat, mushrooms or eggs, the "vatrushkies", the small
flat tarts with sweet cottage cheese, soft cookies and spiced biscuits,
rich and delectable, so dear to the Russian heart and stomach. I have a
vague and distant picture of a young child sitting on that top bunk,
contentedly swinging her legs and cheerfully accepting all that these
young, good-natured men were passing up to her.
The whole of that journey is like a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing.
One of the young men produced a balalaika. He began to strum gently and
sing in a soft tender voice some old, plaintive folksong. Petya joined in.
This was the first time I had ever heard him sing. As I sat alone, apart
from the others, listening to their voices falling and rising in deep
sadness or suddenly changing into a song full of wild and gay abandon, it
was as if something of Russia herself crept into my young heart. Neither I
nor the other passengers crowding round the door of our compartment knew
they were listening to a voice already famous in the far north. "Severny
Solvei," "The Northern Nightingale" he was affectionately named there. As
a friend of the family he often visited our house.
When asked to sing, he would sit down at the grand piano, strike a
chord, and begin. I, no matter what I was doing, would leave everything
and hurry so as to be able just to stand nearby and listen.
I don’t remember how long I sat listening to the singing and watching
the people gathered around our compartment. I must have been very tired
and in the end I fell asleep.