Read Online To Dream of Snow by Rosalind Laker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rosalind Laker
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about, their faces little round moons of laughter or shy curiosity. Yet many of the villagers had an emaciated look. Marguerite pitied them for their hard life, knowing that every one of them was some masterâs serf and owned body and soul like a chattel.
It intrigued the Frenchwomen when now and again they saw peasants sliding over the snow on what appeared to be long, narrow boards, a stout stick in hand to aid their speedy progress, but there was little else to relieve the monotony. In many ways this final stage of the journey was the hardest. In spite of the quick changing of the horses the journey still took almost four weeks. As well as the frequent heavy snowstorms that caused delays, there was the sheer boredom of travel day after day with nothing to occupy their minds other than gazing at the passing white-blanketed landscape. Christmas day would have passed unnoticed if they had not remembered previously to buy small gifts for each other.
By now they had lost interest in all their previous pastimes and a village or very occasionally a town looked the same as any other under its blanket of snow. It made them disagreeable and tired, quick to snap and to quarrel. They grumbled about everything. It added to their ill temper that most of their nights were spent in uncomfortable lodgings and often the food was barely edible. Once Violette and Jeanne came to clawing at each other and had to be separated for the rest of the way. It took all Margueriteâs efforts to keep the peace as much as possible. Isabelle was the only one who never complained and Marguerite appreciated her loyalty.
The new year of 1753 was two days old on the moonlit evening when the sledges passed into the city of St Petersburg, wall lanterns illuminating the wide streets and windows pouring out golden light from chandeliers. Here and there the braziers of the cityâs watchmen glowed red and gold and the whiff of hot charcoal hung in the air.
The seamstresses looked from side to side in wonder and strained their necks to look up at the great mansions, silvery in the moonâs glow and all grandly ornamented, many with balconies and each with the look of a palace. It was obvious that by day these would be pastel-coloured, which would add to the charm of the architecture, and everywhere the spires and onion-domes of the churches soared into the stars. Linking everything were the wide sweeping curves of the great River Neva that presently lay frozen and austere with reflected light adding flickers of gilt to its opal surface. It was easy to see from branching canals that this was a city of waterways.
They all gave a spontaneous cheer as they reached the end of their long journey. They had arrived at the Imperial Winter Palace, which reared up before them like a beautiful cake of great size, every window aglow. The sledges came to a standstill by what they knew was the domestic entrance in spite of its magnificently carved portal and great door. Both coachmen sprang down from their seats, pulling away the thick scarves that had covered the lower half of their faces, but their beards, eyebrows and lashes were frosted white by their own breath. One man thrust open the door and disappeared into the glow of candle-lamps within while the other began to unload the baggage.
One by one the seamstresses alighted. They were all stiff and tired as well as being extremely hungry. Marguerite, equally fatigued, led the way indoors, and the others followed her wearily. There was an inner door to insulate against the cold outside and then they passed through a tiled vestibule before entering a wide hallway with doors on all sides, one of which stood open. There the coachman was talking rapidly in Russian to a thin-faced, severe-looking woman wearing a black gown and a lace apron and cap. She listened attentively to all he had to say, nodding her head, and then waved him back to his duties with an impatient gesture. Closing the door behind her as if
It intrigued the Frenchwomen when now and again they saw peasants sliding over the snow on what appeared to be long, narrow boards, a stout stick in hand to aid their speedy progress, but there was little else to relieve the monotony. In many ways this final stage of the journey was the hardest. In spite of the quick changing of the horses the journey still took almost four weeks. As well as the frequent heavy snowstorms that caused delays, there was the sheer boredom of travel day after day with nothing to occupy their minds other than gazing at the passing white-blanketed landscape. Christmas day would have passed unnoticed if they had not remembered previously to buy small gifts for each other.
By now they had lost interest in all their previous pastimes and a village or very occasionally a town looked the same as any other under its blanket of snow. It made them disagreeable and tired, quick to snap and to quarrel. They grumbled about everything. It added to their ill temper that most of their nights were spent in uncomfortable lodgings and often the food was barely edible. Once Violette and Jeanne came to clawing at each other and had to be separated for the rest of the way. It took all Margueriteâs efforts to keep the peace as much as possible. Isabelle was the only one who never complained and Marguerite appreciated her loyalty.
The new year of 1753 was two days old on the moonlit evening when the sledges passed into the city of St Petersburg, wall lanterns illuminating the wide streets and windows pouring out golden light from chandeliers. Here and there the braziers of the cityâs watchmen glowed red and gold and the whiff of hot charcoal hung in the air.
The seamstresses looked from side to side in wonder and strained their necks to look up at the great mansions, silvery in the moonâs glow and all grandly ornamented, many with balconies and each with the look of a palace. It was obvious that by day these would be pastel-coloured, which would add to the charm of the architecture, and everywhere the spires and onion-domes of the churches soared into the stars. Linking everything were the wide sweeping curves of the great River Neva that presently lay frozen and austere with reflected light adding flickers of gilt to its opal surface. It was easy to see from branching canals that this was a city of waterways.
They all gave a spontaneous cheer as they reached the end of their long journey. They had arrived at the Imperial Winter Palace, which reared up before them like a beautiful cake of great size, every window aglow. The sledges came to a standstill by what they knew was the domestic entrance in spite of its magnificently carved portal and great door. Both coachmen sprang down from their seats, pulling away the thick scarves that had covered the lower half of their faces, but their beards, eyebrows and lashes were frosted white by their own breath. One man thrust open the door and disappeared into the glow of candle-lamps within while the other began to unload the baggage.
One by one the seamstresses alighted. They were all stiff and tired as well as being extremely hungry. Marguerite, equally fatigued, led the way indoors, and the others followed her wearily. There was an inner door to insulate against the cold outside and then they passed through a tiled vestibule before entering a wide hallway with doors on all sides, one of which stood open. There the coachman was talking rapidly in Russian to a thin-faced, severe-looking woman wearing a black gown and a lace apron and cap. She listened attentively to all he had to say, nodding her head, and then waved him back to his duties with an impatient gesture. Closing the door behind her as if
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