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

days. I remember the cold and darkness and my father standing beside me
holding my hand. He has a small parcel in his other hand and keeps telling
me over and over again that it is for me and that I am to open it after
the train leaves the station. My mother, in a short sealskin jacket and
small hat perched on her dark hair, is standing facing me. Beside her is
Petya Emelyanoff, a young man and friend of the family. Petya is studying
music at the Conservatoire in St Petersburg and is now going home for his
Christmas vacation.
He has been commissioned to take charge of me for the long journey to
Archangel where he will hand me over to my grandmother. I had been staying
with my mother and young brother for a short holiday in Scotland, in the
house of my Scottish grandparents; and then in Hamburg where my father was
involved in some business. There, before leaving for St Petersburg, I had
developed pleurisy and became very ill. My parents, who were to remain in
St Petersburg for some time, had decided that the clear, crisp air of the
distant north might be better for my health than the prevailing damp and
fog of St Petersburg. It was also necessary for me to be tutored for the
entrance exam to the local gymnasium (grammar school) in Archangel where I
was to begin my education the following autumn.
Other people had arrived to see me off, but their faces are long since
forgotten. I remember a light flickering somewhere, the bright shafts
lighting up the faces in our little group and then plunging us back into
gloomy darkness. My parents kept talking and smiling anxiously as if
trying to reassure me, but instead were unconsciously transferring their
sadness and anxiety to me.
This was my first separation. The first of many.
In front of us lay a journey of two nights and days. Endless forests
and snows, flat fields broken by poor dark cottages sunk in snowdrifts and
small grey stations flashing past. We shared a compartment with two young
merchants travelling to Vologda. I was allotted the top bunk above Petya.
The train had departed and now I was eagerly unwrapping the parcel.
Sitting there curled up on the top bunk in my cosy isolation I gazed
with wonder at my present. I had never been showered with too many sweets
or presents, but there was a box of chocolates all to myself.
It was not an ordinary box. The day before, my parents, my brother and
I had gone for a walk along the Nevsky Prospect. It was a lovely winter
morning. The sun, the frost and the glistening snow.
Nevsky Prospect, always beautiful, was now preparing for Christmas and
wore a festive air. The shops, jewel bright, were spilling over with their
rich and varied merchandise, catching the eyes of the passers-by. We
sauntered slowly along from window to window until we came to the shop of
a confectioner renowned for his chocolates.
Here, against a background of black and crimson, chocolate boxes were
displayed. All were of the same strange design, fashioned in the shape of
mice. Pale grey, complete with sparkling crimson collars, red bead eyes
and silver tails that moved and trembled. All sizes. Repelling and yet
fascinating, they attracted crowds of people. I could hardly bear to leave
the window and longed to possess one of these boxes there and then, but no
one had paid any attention to my demands. Now it lay on my lap. I opened
the lid cautiously. There inside, wrapped in silver foil with tiny red