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

heavily, their breaths small clouds of steam.
Babushka patted the bearskin and they leaped up joyfully into the
sledge beside us.
The sledge drove slowly into a busy market place, past warehouses and
stalls where peasants in heavy clothing were offering their produce. When
we reached the crossroads, the sledge turned left into Troitsky Prospekt,
the wide main street running through the whole length of Archangel. We
drove on through the heart of the city, past the ancient cathedral with
its painted frescoes on the white walls dominating the square in front. In
spite of the sub-zero temperature the town was busy. Pedestrians, muffled
in shawls and furs, hurried along the footpaths between high snow-banks
heaped up against the pavements. At times only their heads were visible.
Sledges, small and big, of every style raced up and down.
Over all lay the deep snow and the great silence of an arctic winter.
Only the sound of creaking runners and the bells or the sudden cry of a
crow in flight broke the silence.
We turned into a street called Olonetskaya Ulitza and drove down
towards the river. The horses suddenly quickened their pace.

In the
corner of the street close to the river stood the house. The double
gates wide open. Leaning on his broom, Vassily the old gardener was
standing there. Babushka laughed, waving her hand to him.
The horses raced through the gates. Straight ahead, I could see, sunk
deep in the snow, the dark tips of a hedge separating the courtyard from
the garden. Beyond in the garden on a small hill surrounded by pines and
birches stood a white summer house fashioned in the style of a castle.
From the turret a flag fluttered lazily.
The trees, like silent sentinels, guarded the castle. We swept past the
two wings overlooking the courtyard, up to the front entrance.
The sledge slowed down and stopped. Babushka helped me down and, taking
my hand, led me through the double doors and up the crimson-carpeted
staircase. Suddenly the inner doors on the top landing burst open. Looking
down were the smiling faces of two young boys and a girl. Behind them in
the hall stood a group of people.
I entered the house. It embraced me, holding me fast for the next eight
years until the morning of my childhood was over.
It was a rambling house built on two levels. The long single storey
overlooked the wide expanse of the Dvina. French windows led out into a
balcony with wrought-railings. There during the long, clear summer nights,
friends and members of the family sat talking or listening to the voices
carried from the river as they watched the sun moving along the western
horizon behind the dark line of the opposite shore. To the north lay the
island of Solombala. All ships coming in from the White Sea skirted the
island, appearing suddenly into view.
The two double-storeyed wings of the house jutted into the courtyard,
facing east. Round the corner of the north wing was the front entrance and
a few yards along was the second set of double gates leading out on to the
river front. The ground floor of this wing housed a self-contained flat of
two rooms, a kitchen and private entrance.