Based on "The House By the Dvina" by Eugenie Fraser
1912
Forever and ever, the once-upon-a-time train
Chunters on and on, past endless forests and snows,
Flat fields and poor dark cottages sunk in drifts,
Small grey stations flashing by...
Northward rolls the train, into darkness,
Little Natasha sits dangling her legs
Over the top bunk’s edge, trying to grasp
The flow of grown-up talk beyond her ken,
Conversation, drollery and laughter....
Now and then one of the men glances up at her,
With a wink and a smile, as if sharing a secret.
The windows frost over with fairy rings,
And the wheels keep repeating
Something lonely and sad, into the night...
They open hampers of pirozhki and vatrushki,
And delectable spiced biscuits,
And one man fetches out a balalaika,
Strums and sings a plaintive folksong.
Tatiana lies back, clutching her doll:
Little Red Riding Hood, basket in hand,
Fiel with tiny loaf, apples, oranges
And a bottle of wine-oblivious
To the wolf hiding in pine branches
Behind, only his glowing eyes visible.
Pale morning sunlight fires the carriage,
Warm glow, and she wakes to the tinkling
Of tea-glasses, giant snowflakes cling
To the windows, and a startled bird flies up
Over the vanishing birches and pines....
And at last the station, rich and poor
All hurrying, jostling back and forth,
Breathing steamclouds, peasants
In bulky gear, rugged and longsuffering,
Opulent merchants and their wives,
Proud ladies and gentleman of bored mien,
Debonair young officers in white gloves,
The cabbage smell of Russia...
Dazzling-wide the river stretches before her,
The sun lighting up the city’s pastel buildings,
Golden church dome crosses glinting,
And the clean smell of snow...
Shawl-muffled in the sledge she sits,
The horses break into a gallop, heads
Thrown back, bells jingling...
Natasha sits by Babushka, laughing for joy....
Creaking of runners and the sudden cry
Of a crow in flight...the sledge turns
Into the familiar street, races through
The gates to the house, and stops,
And Babushka leads her in through door
Into a warm and loving embrace...
All winter the house is closed and intimate,
Soft light pools on tables, lampadas
Flickering on the faces in icons,
Sweet humming samovar,
Fragrance of birch and pine logs
In stoves...she dares not look
Into the dark fathomless eyes
Of St Nicholas, miraculous icon....
Wind pounds the windowpanes,
And Natasha lies curled up on the bed,
Watching and listening, listening,
Babushka brushes she hair in the mirror
And talks, talks of the past,
Her face glowing in the lamplight,
As she recalls her younger days,
And the journey she made once
By troika to St Petersburg, to see the tsar;
The snowshimmering birches,
Squirrels dancing on pine boughs in the sun,
Snowdrifts turning pale rose as the sun
Descended, and the small green eyes
Of wolves weaving through the trees
At night, as the fearmaddened horses
Starting to race, the kibitka bumping
Over frozen ruts, -it could turn over
Any second, - the passengers saying prayers
To ward off evil, until the barking
Of dogs leads them into a safe village,
And the horses stand trembling in clouds,
Foam dripping from their muzzles...
Uncle Misha has a beard as long as a saint’s.
He wears a peasant shirt and long boots.
Drunk, he rages and wrecks whole rooms,
Broken china and chairs scattered all over,
Mirrors shattered, trampled into the floor...
The next day he grovels at Babushka’s feet,
Beseeching her forgiveness, once again.
Once he had even joined a revolutionary march,
Full of bravado, carrying a red flag,
Proclaiming the slogans in full voice,
Side by side with workers,
Then suddenly a troop of Cossacks had appeared
And charged at the gallop-the procession
Scattered, in panic, and Uncle Misha
Threw aside his banner and leapt into the river;
Clinging to the bridge, in the cold water,
He waited as the hooves boomed overhead,
Then swam ashore and crept back to the house,
Creeping in, drenched, through the back door.
Snow lies thick in the garden, burying the gate.
Spangled drifts on bowed pine branches
Powder the glittering birch twigs.
The whole garden scinillates.Nothing moves. Silence.
Golden beams play on cherry trees’ trunks.
The summerhouse, “The Fairy Castle”,
Is snowed up, Natasha cannot get in.,
But the tress around are protecting it,
Guarding the sleeping princess within
Who will awake when spring returns.
At Christmas, the floors and mirrors are polished
Till they shine; and all over the house
Mysterious preparations are afoot...
All the lights are extinguished;
The ballroom doors are thrown open,
There in the darkness rises the tree,
Stretching up to the ceiling, ablaze
With glorious lights, the snow queen
On her sledge with silver reindeer,
The princess in a diamond coronet,
The evil witch beside her grotesque cottage,
The crystal icicles tinkling,
Layer on layer of brilliant candles,
Each pointed flame haloed like a saint....
1913
Epiphany. High snowdrifts. Empty streets.
Darkened windows and eerie silence.
The family play games of divination:
In an empty room a mirror is set
On a table, a lighted candle on either side.
Draping a sheet over her shoulders, a girl
Sits down, another mirror right behind her.
Darkness. The mirrors reflect her face
And shoulders in the flickering lights,
The candles multiplied by the mirrors-
Uncanny gallery of infinite lights.
There she sits, immobile, meditating,
Till shadow forms and faces take shape,
And whole scenes emerge in the air....
All of a sudden, she turns white, rushes
Out of the room, shaking and crying,
And will not say what she has seen.
Shrovetide. Children toboggan down hills,
Tumbling and rolling in snowdrifts.
Evening and the snow changes hue
From gold to crimson to lilac.
Babushka deftly conjures a golden tower
Of pancakes, light and delicious;
The moon vanishes, as snowflakes fall
Thicker and thicker, and troikas appear,
Dark formless shades in the haze.
Easter. In church, the candles are put out,
And the choir’s poignant singing
Rises, possessing all hearts.
Christ’s body is taken down fro the Cross:
Worshippers lay flowers beside the icon.
At home, they mix the sweet cheeses,
Bake the kulich and rumbabas.
Hams are decorated, joints of veal
Are glazed, baby sturgeons arranged
In aspic, zakuski laid out on fine plates.
In the centre of the table rises a pyramid
Of eggs in so many vivid colours,
Blue, crimson, gold and green.
Spring. The river’s white is tinged with lilac;
A dark ribbon appears in the middle and widens;
Suddenly the ice breaks; broken floes, borne
By churning waters, rush towards the sea,
Clambering over each other, rearing and collapsing,
Showering ice splinters high.
In the garden, grass spurts through the snow,
The black birch twigs show green tinges;
Rooftop snow starts to slide and crash
Down onto pavements. The windows are unsealed
And noises burst in-the whole earth
Chirping and cawing and barking...
Natasha wakes to summer morning,
Watching strange shadows glide across the wall,
Opposite the wide-open windows....
She catches the drifting pollen of light
And clasps it to her smiling face.
The summerhouse is open again:
Hurry, hurry! Baba Yaga is hiding in the bushes!
The garden is marvellous and sinister,
Glaring with newfound force...
Down on the riverfront people stroll,
And bands strike up in the park.
A little crowd is gathered,
Trying to revive a drowned man.
Uncle Dima returns like a prince,
Thin and still, full of goodness,
Having trekked across Siberia, alone.
He sits smiling benignly,
Loving all animals, flowers and trees.
He describes the wondrous steppe in spring,
Flowers as far as the eye can see;
In his hands he holds seeds and bulbs
From the Far East, and little icons
And crosses from far-off monasteries.
It is Aniushka’s coming-out ball.
When the dancing starts, little Natasha
Hides behind a curtain, watching
As the dancers form pairs and glide
Hand in hand around the floor,
Forming a great circle and breaking into pairs.
Aniushka, in white chiffon, flashes past,
Held by an office, smiling down at her,
She as ever looked so beautiful, so happy!
Creeping back to bed, Natasha cannot sleep:
Lies listening to the strains of waltzes,
Voices and laughter rising up the stairs,
And somehow she feels strangely sad....
1914
All too soon the summer is over.
Natasha and playmates go fishing
In the pond, but the hideous old carp
Are far too wily, impoosibet to catch.
They gather berries and mushrooms
In the cool pungent wood,
Where sunbeams splash sombre pines,
Doves coo, and capercaillies call.
The villagers are in the fields,
Harvesting the crops, when a stranger
Arrives and pins a notice to a post:
Germany has declared war on Russia.
Women congregate round tables,
Making bandages from gauze,
While Tsar Nicholas looks down
From the wall, his eyes benign,
A faint smile on his lips.
In the banya the naked women
Whip themselves with birch twigs,
And scrub in the furious haze,
And Natasha throws basins of water around,
And lies on the floor to peep
Through the drainhole at the bare feet
Of the men next door-
And occasionally she is confronted
By a pair of curious eyes
Staring from the other side.
A letter comes for Dasha. Her husband
Has been killed in action. She holds
His little medal in her hand.
In church, Natasha stands with her candle,
Remembering his handsome face,
And the wedding day, when the salt cellar
Had toppled and smashed on the floor
When the bread and sat was brought,
And how everyone has gasped
At the evil omen, and poor Dasha
Had wept with dread at what might be.
1917
One March morning, walking through slush
To school, Natasha sees a procession
Of men and women tramping along the road,
Waving crimson flags, and singing the Marseillaise.
In school, on walls where only yesterday
Hung portraits of the Imperial family,
Now there are blank spaces.
The children are putting on a play:
When the curtain raises, Old Mother Russia-
A wicked old crone in black-
Slowly sinks, banished by greater magic,
Through the floor into Hell,
While a beautiful young girl, dressed
In red sarafan, rises through the same trapdoor,
Struggling under an unwieldy red flag.
It is the Festival of the Assumption
And the convent is crowded with worshippers;
Natasha, clinging to Babushka’s side,
Sees the people coming to beg
Blessings from the resident saint,
A shrunken crone in black cloak
Of skull and crossbones, risen
From the depths where she dwells,
Living on bread and water, and sleeping
In a coffin; mechanically, she raises
Her claw to make the sign of the cross
Over each supplicant in turn,
Her shrivelled deathly face half hidden
By a dark hood, her eyes inhuman.
After dark the nuns and villagers
Circumambulate, chanting, in torchlight procession
The ancient convent walls
Lifting their brands to heaven, showering
Clouds of sparks like fireflies,
Glazing the moat with rippling light.
Seryozha returns from the front,
Carried on the flood of deserters,
Rushing back, pillaging estates on the way.
He has walked for days, and travelled
On packed diseased trains
Where the dead were thrown out
At every station. Now he enters again
The gates of his beloved home,
Hollow-eyed and filthy, in tattered uniform,
No more the merry lad, the patriot,
But a cynical grieving old man.
The family bring down the old bathtub
From the garret, and he scrubs himself
In the kitchen, for hours on end, as if somehow
He could scrub himself clean as a baby,
Free of dirt and war and death.
1918
Shura’s house is a magic realm, her room
With pictures of fairytales on the walls,
The cat following her round everywhere....
Shura! Everything Natasha is not-
Talented at the piano and guitar,
Dancing and singing in fine contralto,
The cleverest pupil, with beautiful face
And large calm grey eyes...-
And yet they are the best of friends.
All their life they will both remember
And delight in the time they appeared
Together in the school play, and Shura
Starred as the wicked princess
Who suddenly sees her true reflection
In the mirror, and realizes what she is.
After the thunderstorm, the garden reeks
Of sweet lilac, deep purple blossoms
Opening their petals to the sun;
Raindrops sparkle on lacy twigs.
Upriver, battles are being fought
In woods and villages, the rumour
Of gunfire and voices carries on the air.
Poor Uncle Dima, -who crossed Siberia
And survived so many adventures,-
Is found dead one morning,buried
By a blizzard, not far from his home.
And in his hand,frozen into a fist,
He clutches a tiny flower..
1920
In the evening dark shadows pass
The windows, fleeing north. The White Army
Is falling back, the Reds are winning...
Crouching at a window, Natasha sees
Horsemen galloping after ragtag groups
Of soldiers, tattered and barefoot,
Heedless of the snow and frost.
Running like madmen from the Devil.
Staving wretches burst into the house,
And devour the family’s only meal
While they stand by, helpless, shocked.
In school, the boys and girls join hands
And move in a chanting circle, dancing
The khorovod, around a singe figure;
Natasha has her turn at the centre,
And as she dances, notices Alexei,
The boy she has had her eye on for so long-
She rushes up and kisses his cheek,
Choosing him to stand in the middle-
With a laugh, he in turn takes her place,
And the khorovod starts up again,
But, next time, when his choice comes,
He selects not Natasha but Shura
While Natasha looks on with jealous chagrin.
In spring, when icicles shatter on pavements
And firs shake the hoarfrost from their boughs,
On the outskirts of town the sounds
Of shots are heard, as prisoners are taken
To the woods, and executed by the Reds.
Bolsheviks trample through the house,
Search for treasure, turning out pillows
And cushions, destroying the rare plants
In the greenhouse, and hauling off
The old family piano in a cart.
Day by day the old routines are crumbling,
And few gather anymore around the samovar
To drink its comfort and love.
One day on the street Natasha sees
Prisoners tramping by under guard,
Haggard and unshaven, carrying spades,
Not giving a sideways glance as they pass.
In the woods, gathering berries, the children
Hear distant shots, and a flock of birds
Whurries, frightened, overhead.
Later, walking home, with baskets full,
They meet the same guards, briskly marching,
But no prisoners with them, bundles
Of clothing thrown over their shoulders.
The family gather, ready to leave for the ship.
Natasha runs out into the garden
To say goodbye to the trees,
The dropping poplars, the summerhouse
Now shabby and forlorn.
As the ship moves downriver, she
Leans against the railing on deck,
Watching the familiar places slip by,
An suddenly she sees the house,
Lit up by the setting sun,
Before it vanishes forever.
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