Irina’s Day on the Estates
Irina is a Russian who answers promptly if you ask her what Christmas she remembers best, “The one we spent on the estates.” But that may be because it was so unusual to be there at all in the winter. Christmas Eve is the great time in Russia, but Santa Claus does not come until evening and the day before Christmas being a fast-day is usually somewhat depressing.
Old Mashinka, who comes in to open the heavy, outer shutters, usually has some lively gossip to tell while she lets in the light. Perhaps wolves slipped into the courtyard in the night and were fighting with the watch-dogs; perhaps the snow has fallen again and is so deep that Ivan and the stablemen have been out since daybreak cutting new paths to the kitchens, stables, and farm buildings, and breaking out the roads. Or perhaps Dmitri, who moved yesterday into a new house, took with him a cock and hen, and this morning the cock refused to crow at dawn so that all the family are sure that evil fortune will enter the house with the new year. But on this morning she has no news to tell; she moves silently and slowly, for it is a fast-day.
Even Irina, who is always ready to run and jump, feels oppressed by the still, silent house. The dining room is desolate with its breakfastless table, usually so cosy with its steaming samovar. As a rule they are at this time in St. Petersburg where, though Irina stays quietly all day in an upper room, except when attending church services, she can at least look out upon all the coming and going on the river and the Nevski Prospect. But this year Andrei the steward is raising questions about the plans and locations for new stables and barns, so they are here where everything is depressingly still and silent, and upstairs her father and mother are praying in their rooms. So she puts on fur-lined boots, a long fur coat with deep collar, and a fur cap which comes well down over the forehead, and once outside the house finds herself in the thick forest. Further on she comes to a frozen river, and fast-days and solemn services are all forgotten, for there are her two fur-wrapped brothers busy with a little sledge. The red scarves of the boys are taken for guiding reins, and far along the ice for two hours or more she drives her team. They have passed beyond the forest and out upon the steppes, where for miles ahead no trees are to be seen except where willows mark the curve of the river, or a few stunted saplings show black against the snow. On one side is a long, low sheepfold belonging to Irina’s father, and out comes the shepherd with a clamor of dogs. He has no chairs, so he throws down three heaps of clean straw for the children to sit on; and he, too, forgets that it is a fast-day as he reaches cakes of dark brown bread from a shelf below the tiny square window, and pours for them cups of goats’ milk. Black crust and all—it goes quickly, and then they rest and stroke the half-tamed sheep that come to nibble the straw while the shepherd tells the children stories. He cannot read, to be sure, but when he was a boy his old grandmother told them to him. Perhaps, because it is the Christmas season, he tells them of the old woman whom the Russians call Babouscka and the Italians Befana. Irina’s favorite is one that would remind you of Cinderella, although the fairy godmother is much more like an old witch; and as the children start off for home they wonder a little fearfully if this forest is not very like the one in the shepherd’s story.
On arriving home they confess their sins—only the little matter of the rye bread is really forgotten. Everybody is busy; the cook is getting the supper, and father in the drawing-room has the door locked. Some one has said there will be no Christmas tree, for there are no shops here; but why was mother away for four days, and why did that pedler who came by a few days ago stay so long? Irina finds a book, curls up on a rug, and tries to read, but she does not understand Kryloff’s “Fables” very well; the day out-doors has made her drowsy and she does not quite know what becomes of the time until her brothers shake her a little, the clock rings out “Cuckoo” six times, and then open comes the door. There is a Christmas tree after all, a tall one with a shining star at the top. Hundreds of burning candles light it up, and tiny wax figures dance among hanging oranges. At the foot of the tree lie four or five heaps of parcels,—ah, then, mother was shopping; no one is forgotten and every one is merry. Then comes Pavel to say that supper is ready. But the white cloth looks very different from usual; it is not laid smoothly at all. Underneath it has been spread a layer of hay, and each one as he sits down pulls out a straw. Irina gives a cry of joy: her piece is quite complete, with its yellow, dried flower—which shows that she will be lucky all the next year.
There is no meat at this Christmas Eve supper, only fish dishes and the special Kostya, or puddings which belong to the season very much as do mince pie and plum pudding in England. Of these puddings there are two kinds,—the white Kostya, made of rice, almonds, and raisins, and the black Kostya, made of honey, barley, and walnuts.
During supper the children from the village school which Irina’s mother has started come and sing carols outside the window until Pavel with a handful of coins tells them to be off. Other young villagers follow to acknowledge their gifts with more singing. Lastly comes the church choir, who are invited in to supper after Irina and her brothers have returned to the tree and their new toys. For each there is a gift and from each a torrent of good wishes.
This practice of carol singing is probably in its origin akin to the religious processions which one may see on any holy day in all the villages of Greece, the Balkan provinces, and up through Russia,—wherever, in fact, the Greek church has diverted into the service of religion the old customs of the people. For centuries back and probably long before the Christian era, it was the practice of the young people here and elsewhere to gather into bands and go about the country roads at this time of year singing hymns which were at first, no doubt, songs of rejoicing that the shortest days were over and the sun returning to the world again. Nowadays the songs are chants or carols, and the village boys are proud to carry in religious processions pictures of the saints and the banners of the church.