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

black Scotch Terrier originally named "Scottie" but rechristened "Scotka",
a name which came easier to the Russian tongue. He was brought by my
father from Scotland, along with a small flock of black-faced ewes. They
arrived in a cargo ship when Scotka was only some ten weeks old. Everyone
knew Scotka. After six arctic winters, his thick coat became much thicker
and longer. He resembled a small ferocious bear. His appearance belied
him. Below the overhanging eyebrows twinkled a pair of friendly brown
eyes. He was intelligent, courageous and an expert rat catcher. No Russian
rat was ever too big for this true representative of his small country!
His constant companion Borseek was found one Christmas morning by my
father inside our gates.
He was a tiny puppy and almost frozen. My father revived him with hot
milk laced with a little vodka. I was only a few weeks old at the time. We
grew up together and from all accounts he suffered patiently all my
antics. He developed into a sturdy small mongrel with a soft russet coat
and a bushy tail that curled over his back.
Tucked away somewhere in his head was a very crafty brain.
Favouring a chosen few, he looked at the rest of the human race through
his amber eyes with lofty contempt.
The big woollen shawl Babushka carried was wrapped over my head,
crossed in front and securely tied behind my back. I was completely
enveloped, for Babushka had a real fear of frostbite. Through the whole of
the journey she constantly kept pulling the shawl over my cheeks. We
climbed into the sledge. Mikhailo tucked the bearskin rug over our knees
and scrambled into his seat in front. "Nu . . .
Poshawl," he called out in that gay ringing voice so special to
drivers, jerking his reins and waving his knout. Off went the horses to
the jingling of bells and wild excited barking of the dogs running behind
us.
The station is on the left bank of the river Dvina. All communications
between it and the town on the other side are maintained in the summer by
a ferry. In winter after the ice freezes to a great depth, the river bears
all traffic.
We drove down a gradual incline on to the river itself. Wide and
dazzling, it stretched before our eyes, disappearing into the distance
beyond the island of Solombala on to the sea. To the right, sweeping away
in a wide curve to the north, lay the ancient city of Archangel. The sun
lit up the pastel buildings and played on the golden domes of the
churches. High above, the crosses glinted against the blue porcelain of
the cloudless sky.
How glad, how perfect was that morning. The sun, the crystal air, the
clean smell of the snow. The horses breaking into a gallop skimmed the
tight-packed surface of the river. "Get, get, get, my darlings," Mikhailo
kept calling out, and they ran faster and faster, their heads thrown back
in wild abandon with flying manes and jingling bells. The little dogs
raced at full stretch, sometimes keeping up with the sledge, sometimes
falling behind. I sat close to my Babushka, muffled in my shawl, warm and
secure, and laughed as only children can laugh when they are happy.
We reached the shores of Archangel and halted beside the road leading
into the town. The dogs had fallen behind. They came running up, panting