of place was given to a large bed piled high with feather mattresses and a pyramid of pillows.
Exhausted by their ordeal, Yenya and her mother dragged off their heavy shubas and felt boots and scrambling up the small steps beside the bed fell into the depth of warm softness and sweet oblivion. In the same room, on a mattress on the floor, slept Pavel Mikhailovich, but to Stepan was allotted the warmest corner in the cottage. He slept beside the children on top of the stove.
During the early hours of the morning, a wild blizzard followed the frost.
It was impossible to go on. For three days, tormented by anxiety, they remained stranded in the cottage, but on the fourth day the weather cleared. The kibitka went off again, the horses struggling through deep snowdrifts on to the next post house.
The weather continued to improve. There were clear nights and the frost was bearable. One evening the troika set off for a village that was nearby and boasted better conditions than most stations. It was a peaceful starry night. The fresh, sturdy horses ran cheerfully along the moonlit path when suddenly for no apparent reason they bolted at great speed.
“Derzhites Ч Voiki Ч Hold on. There are wolves,” Stepan called out. The horses had sensed before the passengers that there were wolves nearby.
None were seen at first but as they peered into the darkness they saw the small green lights of eyes weaving through the trees and moving in the same direction as the sledge. Anna Dimitrievna, who had a superstitious fear of wolves and firmly believed they were possessed by some evil power, crossed herself. “The power of the Cross protect us,” she said, using the prayer that wards off all evil.
The horses, maddened by fear, now out of control, raced on. The kibitka bumped and swayed over the frozen ruts. Any moment it could turn over and they would be thrown out and perhaps killed. There was the added fear that the wolves would run to where the road and the wood met and cut them off from the village. Then in the dip of the road, there came into view the row of orange lights from the cottages. There, the villagers had heard the urgent ringing of the bells. A loud chorus of dogs, barking and howling, shattered the stillness of the night. The troika rushed through the open gates of the station and stopped inside the safety of its walls. The horses stood trembling in clouds of steam, foam dripping from their muzzles. On the eleventh day after leaving Archangel, the troika entered the streets of St Petersburg. There were only three days to Christmas.
They drove slowly along the Nevsky Prospect, watching in silence the activity around them. The lit-up shops, small booths selling brightly coloured toys, sledges and carriages rushing by, people carrying parcels, the bustling on the streets, all told them that they had arrived in the midst of Christmas preparations. All were too tired to absorb the beauty of the palaces, fine buildings and streets, and were thankful when the troika drew up beside the entrance of their hotel, where everything had been arranged, near the Winter Palace. There they stayed and waited. A week went by. Pavel Mikhailovich was preparing for the return journey. It was imperative that they should leave as soon as the interview with the Tsar was over. Yenya was determined that her child would be born in Archangel and refused to contemplate any other place.
The old year passed away and the fateful year of 1881 took over.
A few days later, Yenya crossed the great square on her way to the Winter Palace. Her mother and Pavel Mikhailovich accompanied her as far as the heavily guarded entrance. From there she was escorted into the Palace and led into a waiting room. Other people were sitting there. All were silent, lost in their own thoughts. One by one, as their names were called, they left the room. Yenya never saw them again. Then, at last she heard her own name. A fluttering, like the wings of some bird caught in a
Exhausted by their ordeal, Yenya and her mother dragged off their heavy shubas and felt boots and scrambling up the small steps beside the bed fell into the depth of warm softness and sweet oblivion. In the same room, on a mattress on the floor, slept Pavel Mikhailovich, but to Stepan was allotted the warmest corner in the cottage. He slept beside the children on top of the stove.
During the early hours of the morning, a wild blizzard followed the frost.
It was impossible to go on. For three days, tormented by anxiety, they remained stranded in the cottage, but on the fourth day the weather cleared. The kibitka went off again, the horses struggling through deep snowdrifts on to the next post house.
The weather continued to improve. There were clear nights and the frost was bearable. One evening the troika set off for a village that was nearby and boasted better conditions than most stations. It was a peaceful starry night. The fresh, sturdy horses ran cheerfully along the moonlit path when suddenly for no apparent reason they bolted at great speed.
“Derzhites Ч Voiki Ч Hold on. There are wolves,” Stepan called out. The horses had sensed before the passengers that there were wolves nearby.
None were seen at first but as they peered into the darkness they saw the small green lights of eyes weaving through the trees and moving in the same direction as the sledge. Anna Dimitrievna, who had a superstitious fear of wolves and firmly believed they were possessed by some evil power, crossed herself. “The power of the Cross protect us,” she said, using the prayer that wards off all evil.
The horses, maddened by fear, now out of control, raced on. The kibitka bumped and swayed over the frozen ruts. Any moment it could turn over and they would be thrown out and perhaps killed. There was the added fear that the wolves would run to where the road and the wood met and cut them off from the village. Then in the dip of the road, there came into view the row of orange lights from the cottages. There, the villagers had heard the urgent ringing of the bells. A loud chorus of dogs, barking and howling, shattered the stillness of the night. The troika rushed through the open gates of the station and stopped inside the safety of its walls. The horses stood trembling in clouds of steam, foam dripping from their muzzles. On the eleventh day after leaving Archangel, the troika entered the streets of St Petersburg. There were only three days to Christmas.
They drove slowly along the Nevsky Prospect, watching in silence the activity around them. The lit-up shops, small booths selling brightly coloured toys, sledges and carriages rushing by, people carrying parcels, the bustling on the streets, all told them that they had arrived in the midst of Christmas preparations. All were too tired to absorb the beauty of the palaces, fine buildings and streets, and were thankful when the troika drew up beside the entrance of their hotel, where everything had been arranged, near the Winter Palace. There they stayed and waited. A week went by. Pavel Mikhailovich was preparing for the return journey. It was imperative that they should leave as soon as the interview with the Tsar was over. Yenya was determined that her child would be born in Archangel and refused to contemplate any other place.
The old year passed away and the fateful year of 1881 took over.
A few days later, Yenya crossed the great square on her way to the Winter Palace. Her mother and Pavel Mikhailovich accompanied her as far as the heavily guarded entrance. From there she was escorted into the Palace and led into a waiting room. Other people were sitting there. All were silent, lost in their own thoughts. One by one, as their names were called, they left the room. Yenya never saw them again. Then, at last she heard her own name. A fluttering, like the wings of some bird caught in a
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