The House by the Dvina Read Online Free Page B

dressed in high-necked, black cotton shirts and trousers, came to polish these floors. After removing their boots, each slipped a thick sock over one foot. On the other was a special short boot fitted with a brush, firmly strapped round the ankle. Crossing one arm behind his back each man skated over the floor, the leg with the attached brush swinging back and fore in a wide sweep while the other dragged behind twisting and hopping. The free arm moved like a pendulum swinging up and down. Their damp shirts clung to their backs, but they continued skating up and down the room, only stopping to change the boot to the other foot or drink a glass of kvas Ч the cool beverage brewed from black bread and raisins, drunk all over Russia. This strange, rhythmic hopping and twisting continued from room to room until the floors shone with a golden brilliance. The heart of the house was the dining-room, lying between the two wings. The dining-table ran the length of the room. Every night at six oТclock some ten or twelve people sat down to dinner. In the corner of the wall was a lifesize ikon of St Nicholas. A small table stood in front with an ancient bible on it. Close to the ikon was a row of small candles lighting up the face of the saint. This ikon, black and almost indiscernible, had been in the family for over two centuries. It had been found floating down a river during the religious persecution of the “Old Believers”. My great-grandmother from Kaluga brought it to Archangel.
    According to the old Russian custom everyone paused in front of the ikon to cross themselves before sitting down at the table. I followed the others hurriedly crossing myself, afraid to look directly into these dark unfathomable eyes. This ancient ikon of St Nicholas was alleged to have some strange miraculous power. Babushka was fond of recalling how her brother Dmitri, a giant of a man, had once blasphemed in the presence of the ikon, referring to it as a piece of black useless wood only fit to burn inside a stove. When he went back to his home he found his infant son stricken with diphtheria. He had rushed back and, sweeping everyone aside, prostrated himself in front of the ikon, screaming his repentance and beseeching St Nicholas to save his child. The baby recovered. Uncle Mitya was a wild and reckless man, not very religious and not very likeable, but I can still see him when he called at the house, standing looking with reverent intentness at the ikon as he crossed himself with a wide sweeping gesture.
    In the corner of the dining-room stood a round serving table. After dinner, when the tables were cleared, a plush cover was placed over this table. The centre hanging lamp was lowered, casting a pool of soft light.
    One by one everybody deviated to it. Babushka had a passion for nibbling pine kernels with the lightning speed of a squirrel. This was a practice usually of peasants and the lower strata of society, but Babushka also had some peasant blood flowing through her veins. She would place a big bowl of these nuts on the table and everyone gathered round, cracking the small brown kernels while they talked and had these endless discussions.
    Best of all was when Seryozha read to us. Seryozha, my elder step-uncle, still at school, had the great gift of reading in a soft expressive voice.
    The Russian language, always infinitely rich and pliable, flowed straight from his heart, falling and rising in sorrow or joy. He held his listeners in rapt attention until the last word faded away. No one spoke. Babushka, her hands pressed into her cheeks, looked down intently at the table, and Marga, my young step-aunt, gazed straight ahead somewhere beyond. It was at this table in the house where I was to spend my early impressionable years surrounded by all that was Russian, customs, religion, the people who came and went and talked in their own inimitable Russian style, all that and more, that I, although of Scottish-Russian parentage, began to absorb and