I spent hours by the River Zdvzhi, rod in hand, fishing from the bank or from a boat. Even now at night, I recall those happy days and the familiar sounds of the river ring in my ears like music. We would go bathing and fishing several times a day … But there were also the stables, a ride to take the horses to water, at the cattle yard and aviary, and a trip to woods and fields with the steward.
In midsummer, starting early in the morning, we would go to the common, about twelve versts from Yurov, to pick mushrooms and berries in the forest. Auntie stayed with the baskets of food and the samovar, while we hurried off, exchanging cheerful calls, so that no-one wandered too far and got lost in the huge black woods. By evening whole traploads were filled with delicious mushrooms, fragrant forest raspberries, black-currants and red bilberries. After supper by the camp fire, on the way home I would curl up in the trap and fall asleep. Sometimes a bump in the road awakened me, I’d look up at the stars and fall asleep again – I never slept so well in my life.
During the harvest, after the day’s work, the mowers gathered to eat by the fire, telling tales of mystery and horror, and singing songs about the freedom of the Cossack life. I have also not forgotten the send-off always given to the Tchoomaks, Ukrainian ox-cart drivers, when they were sent to the Crimea for salt. Powerful short-horns drew the carts, whose drivers were selected for their health and strength. Assembled in the village square, they awaited the priest, who would offer prayers for their journey. When he arrived, arrayed in his vestments, they fell on their knees, praying ardently. Then they arose, and the eldest of them, loudly and ceremoniously addressed the crowd, “Farewell gentlemen, farewell one and all!” And this was not the end of it. Dozens of old women would run and kiss the departing travellers with sobs of woeful lamentation as though they were going to their deaths. This also lasted a considerable time.
Finally the elder Tchoomak announced severely, “Let us now be gone!” Removing their caps, they turned towards the church, crossed themselves, and once more bowed to the crowd. The row of carts creaked off in a long line. The older Tchoomaks each took a handful of earth, tied it in a rag, and hung it round their necks, so that if one died on the road, his fellows would put this clod of home-earth with him in his grave.
But alas, the joys of life in Yurov were shadowed by the cruel treatment of the serfs by the steward. Every day there was crude abuse, oaths, slaps and punches in the teeth, causing blood to flow from many mouths.
My worst memory was the beating of offending serfs which took place on Saturday outside the steward’s house. Then I used to retreat to a distant corner of the garden so as not to hear their cries and groans. On Saturdays, I was always late for supper and sat there unable to eat. Aunt and Uncle saw my state and tears, and understood. They were good people and I cannot recall them ever resorting to violence in the treatment of their own servants. But they saw the whip as a necessity and saving grace, although they never inflicted their views on me. But when I recall these things with living clarity, my lower lip trembles as it did sixty years ago, and tears of pity and indignation come to my eyes.
The visits of the Priest Yefin Botvinovsky were a great treat for the younger members of the household. He would constantly be telling the most delightfully funny stories, and if he drank a bit over supper, he would sometimes throw off his cassock and present himself in loose trousers and a Russian ‘poddyovka’ (long-waisted coat) and dance with great enthusiasm. He would only do so when everyone assured him that Grandmama (of whom he stood in awe) had already gone to bed in her far-off room.
But there were occasions when the situation was incorrectly assessed, and Grandmama would appear unexpectedly. Batya, executing the complex steps
of the Trepak with great heat and effect, would fail to notice the fearsome spectre until Grandmama’s voice would ring out furiously. The poor dancer would instantly look highly embarrassed and rush to kiss the old lady’s hands, but she would tear them away and depart to her room, scowling and muttering fiercely.’
Postcards of Kiev.
Two of the Khijniakoff estates remained in the family’s possession till the Revolution, but long before that, bad management, debts and fraudulent stewardship had set the rest on that well-worn path of melancholy decline so common in Russia. But in the case of Yurov – best loved of all – the end was more spectacular, for one day when Aunt Tatiana and her daughters had driven out to pay calls, on turning home in a sudden storm, they saw the glow of fire. Struck by lightning Yurov was ablaze, and all was lost including the splendid library.
In Kiev, life was far from easy for Maria Mihailovna in a household where her only helper was Marysya, the old nanny. But by 1890 her eldest stepdaughter was married, one stepson was in the army and two more at boarding-school, so that only one stepson, together with Alla and Seriozha, the children of her first marriage, and Ivan and Katya remained at home.
Seriozha, was their mother’s special favourite and indeed was adored by all, being extremely handsome with the charm of both his parents combined. But he was a bit of a scapegrace, shockingly lazy and like his mother addicted to reading novels till dawn. This made early-rising for his studies trying in the extreme. He would therefore write a note in his mother’s name to say he was ill, summon his dog Aidyl (trained by him for this purpose) and despatch him with the note to the school porter. Seriozha would then return to bed until two-thirty when his mother rose, and then pretend to be just back from school. Yet even though Aidyl was often called on to pad off to the porter’s lodge, his master still managed to move up a class at the end of every year.
Seriozha was also a great flirt. Lydia was the name of more than one girl he had fancied and indeed had led to Aidyl’s name – Lydia spelt backwards. One of his ploys when walking up the Kreschatka, the main street of Kiev, was to douse a handkerchief with scent and drop it at the feet of a pretty girl. ‘Excuse me, is his your’s?’ ‘No.’ ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I though it was.’ Then, when they next met, greetings could be exchanged and the acquaintanceship got under way.
‘Eventually, however, he married one Mathilda Ivanovna pleasant modest German girl, quite different from all the Lydias who had once appealed to him. Sobered by marriage, he took a university degree but, most unfortunately, he yearned to own an estate and was encouraged by his mother in this ambition. And alas for them all, Duka, the contractor, made his appearance. He was a shrewd illiterate peasant, who saw profit in Maria Mihailovna’s property and drew on her funds with such cunning and confidence that she would not believe her friends when they tried to open her eyes to his activities’. This situation, which damaged irreparably the family’s already shaky finances, was compounded when Seriozha bought an estate near Kiev on credit and got in the words of Katya’s aunt ‘into a terrible mess.’
Far worse was to follow for, by the winter of 1903, Maria Milhailovna was dying of painful cancer, and Seriozha, with already two young children to support, fell seriously ill from stress and anxiety. Before she died, his mother told him: ‘I am not saying goodbye to you for long!’ Seriozha’s poor wife also understood the way things were, for showing a relative some light-coloured material to make a coat, she said ‘Its not worth cutting-out, I shall soon be in mourning.’ Sure enough, nine months after his mother, Seriozha was dead.