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

offered no assistance for he was aware that I had devised a system of my
own that did not need any help.
When I came back, he combed my hair the best he could and helped me to
slip on my "valyenki", the heavy felt boots that are the best protection
against the intense cold and frost. Then we sat down to wait. How awful is
the slow passing of time when one is very young and impatient. How often
did I bombard this patient young man with the everlasting question of how
long did we still have to wait for that glorious moment of our arrival.
How irritating I must have been, yet he bore with me, took care care of me
to the best of his ability, never letting me out of his sight. Gradually
almost imperceptibly, the steady rhythm of he wheels changed to a slower
more drawn out tempo and stopped altogether. We were in Archangel.
Archangel, endlessly dear and lost for evermore. Faces that have
vanished and voices forever silent.
CHAPTER
TWO



1912

My paternal grandmother, Evgeniya Evgenievna Popova, the wife of Dr
Aleksandr Egorovich Popov, my step-grandfather, was awaiting my arrival in
the Issakagorka Station, as it was called in those days.
I can still see the tall, full figure dressed in a blue, furtrimmed
shuba, with a round fur hat to match, worn over a white lace shawl, tucked
into her collar. She carried a muff and another shawl hanging loosely over
her arm.
I was only five years old when I had last seen her, yet I somehow
instinctively knew that this tall, fine lady, with dark curly hair framing
a round face and kind laughing eyes, could not belong to anyone else but
me. She was my grandmother, my babushka. I ran towards her, stumbling in
my clumsy boots. She hurried forward, spreading her arms wide and caught
me up with muff, shawl and all, held me close and kissed me over and over
again.
Petya’s father, a thick-set elderly man, was also there, to meet his
son. They embraced and kissed in the traditional manner. For a short while
they all stood together discussing the journey while I burned with
impatience. Babushka repeatedly thanked Petya for bringing her
granddaughter safely home after what, she knew, must have been a
burdensome journey. At last there were the final goodbyes and we walked
over to our sledge. Standing beside the horses, stamping his feet, was a
young fair- haired man dressed in a heavy padded overlapping coat,
reaching down to his felt boots.
"This is Mikhailo," Babushka said. "Don’t you remember him?"
Mikhailo laughed. "How would she remember me?" he asked in turn, in his
lilting peasant accent. "She was only so high." He pointed with his knout
to a few inches above the ground. Two small dogs rushed forward, barking a
shrill welcome. I remembered them, or perhaps I imagined I did. My parents
used to tell me many stories about them — Scotka and Borseek. Scotka was a