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

startled by the incoming monster, would fly up suddenly and vanish
somewhere into the woods beyond.
As I stood at the window, I became aware that the train was slowing
down. A great activity began around me. The train was steaming into
Vologda. Passengers were gathering their belongings, running up and down
the corridor calling on each other, kissing and saying their final
goodbyes. Some were leaving for their homes and others, like ourselves,
were completing the first stage of their journey.
Only one more night remained and tomorrow we would be in Archangel.
Meanwhile we had to leave this train and take the line that went due
north. Our two friends in the compartment were leaving us in Vologda. In
front of them was a long journey by horse into the depth of the country,
but first it was agreed that we would adjourn to the restaurant in the
station. Petya helped me into my shuba — the furlined coat — and felt
boots, and tied a shawl over my fur hat. We stepped down on to the
station. After the overheated compartment, the bitter cold was almost
unbearable, yet the crowd bustling all around us did not appear to be
aware of it.
Vologda is an important junction. From here passengers were leaving for
Siberia, to Archangel, Moscow and St Petersburg.
Everywhere were people, their breaths emitting clouds of steam,
jostling and pushing. All hurrying somewhere. They are all here. The poor
and the rich with their unmistakable stamp of class and society. The
peasant in his nondescript bulky clothing, his face patient and
weatherbeaten, struggling along with his bundles. He is travelling "hard",
the cheapest possible way. The opulent "kupets", the well-to-do trader and
his young wife in a neat-fitting jacket and flowered kerchief framing her
round face; the proud lady with her children, and governess, moving toward
the first-class compartment.
Her husband, no doubt a wealthy landowner or some important civil
servant, is following behind. He has a detached and faintly bored
expression. A group of young officers, dashing and debonair, are hurrying
along bound on some journey, oblivious in their haste of the milling crowd
around them. Here one is also aware of a faint, indefinable yet
all-pervading atmosphere. In his magnificent prologue to Russian and
Ludmilla, that magic fairytale, Pushkin called it "dookh". The word
conveys a mingling of many things, expressing all at once the spirit,
sense, smell and the very breath of Russia. One can recognise it all over
Russia. In towns and villages, rivers and fields and on the boundless
steppes.
Inside the restaurant there was a welcoming air, underlaid with the
aroma of food, fresh linen, and burning wood. Against the far wall stood a
high sideboard. On top were rows of coloured bottles, an assortment of
items and a steaming samovar. We sat down at a table near the entrance. A
waiter in a white apron brought a tray laden with a variety of "zakuska" —
salted herring, caviar, dill cucumbers, mushrooms and of course the
inevitable bottle of vodka. Other dishes followed. After the confinement
in the train I was content just to sit and watch all that was going on
around me. The men kept talking and laughing and heaping up my plate.
People were constantly coming and going. Every time the door opened