Tragic Magic

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

One evening, as I was changing for dinner and struggling with the fastening of my dress, I heard the sound of some one singing in the saloon. There was something familiar in that song, something that I seemed to have heard a long time ago. I realized that this was a song popular in the north of Russia and whoever was singing was singing in Russian. How could this be? I asked myself. I must be dreaming. I am back again, a little girl in another world far away - standing in the garden on a warm summer's day, listening to our cook Dunya singing in the kitchen beside the open window where she is washing the dishes. Her voice, rich and strong, is resounding throughout the garden. It is all about poor Marusya who had been betrayed by her lover and had taken poison. The words are silly, yet the melody is haunting. But now the mysterious voice is singing a joyful song and still in Russian. This is unbearable. I had to find the owner of this voice. Hurriedly dressing I rushed upstairs. In the saloon sitting beside the piano was a well-built, fair-haired woman. She had stopped singing as I entered and was now softly strumming some melody. I sat down a few paces away from her.

'Excuse me, please, I addressed her, a little timidly. I have been listening to your singing chance Russian?' - are you by any

She turned and smiled in a friendly way. 'No,' she rejoined, 'I am Norwegian, but my father was the Nor wegian Consul in Archangel, in the north of Russia, where he spent many years. My sister and I grew up there. My name is Falsen - Lulu Falsen.'

I am also from Archangel,' I said.

She rose and sat down beside me. 'What an amazing coincidence,' she exclaimed. 'Here we are, out of all these passengers only two people from Russia and not just Russia but from the same town. Where did you live in Archangel?'

'In Olonetskaya Ulitza.'

'Our doctor lived there - an extraordinary, big, dignified man.'

Yes, I agreed, 'he was my step-grandfather.' She laughed. 'Another coincidence. I remember one day when I developed a painful throat and imagined that this was serious and that I would probably die. When your grandfather came into my room I threw myself on his broad chest crying, "Dear doctor, please save me. I am too young to die." He patted my head and told me that I wouldn't die and that I would be better in three days. He was right, I soon recovered. Our conversation continued. 'Wasn't there a rather pretty Englishwoman married to one of the sons?"

'She is a Scot,' I corrected her. 'My mother.' We went on talking, the words tripping over each other, until the bell rang for dinner.

Later, during the journey, we used to meet and hold long conversations about the people we both knew in Archangel and all the events that happened during the tumultuous days of the first and second Revolutions.

After a brief halt in Aden we sailed into the cooler winds of the Arabian Sea. With the exhausting heat of the Red Sea behind us it was pleasant to relax and watch flying fish and dolphins dancing along the side of the ship.

Three days were spent in Colombo. There was more sightseeing and a trip to Mount Lavinia. I would have loved to have spent more than just a day in that tropical paradise of waving palms and a blue sea lapping the sandy shores, where in the nearby hotel we were served with a memorable lunch of cold lobster accompanied by many exotic trimmings.

After Colombo there was Madras, where more pass engers disembarked. It was the last port of call before Calcutta. The journey of almost five weeks was becoming tedious and the nearer we drew to our final destination the more impatient I became. But now at long last I was sailing up the Hooghly.

There is no recollection of any outstanding features as the ship continued moving up the river, excepting the low-lying shores of the jungle, some huts and brickfields and a mass of little fishing boats following in the wake of the Mulbera. It seemed as if this meandering around each bend would go on for ever, when, suddenly, my attention was caught by the appearance of the first compound of a jute mill lying on the right bank. From that moment I stood watching, with mounting elation, as one small craft after another came sailing towards us from both sides of the river. Lying close to the shores could be seen well-laid-out gardens, smooth lawns, flowerbeds, bushes and stately trees. Behind the gardens stood stolid light-coloured buildings and still further back could be glimpsed the chimneys of the mills where, in the swelter ing heat, laboured the Europeans and thousands of Indian workers. As I stood absorbing this unfamiliar landscape my eyes were drawn to a compound that seemed to stand out from all the others. Above a two-storeyed, cream-coloured building was the name LAWRENCE in gold letters. 'Lawrence, I repeated to myself, hardly believing what I saw. This is the place of which I had heard so much, the place that was to be my home, the place where I would start again my interrupted married life. Someone was waving from the garden as it was gliding out of sight to be replaced by other scenes.

Some minutes later the Mulbera halted. A launch carry ing the harbour-master drew alongside. Some men were standing behind him and in their midst I recognized, with joyful astonishment, the familiar figure of Dennis. He climbed aboard. After a long absence we were reunited.

Calcutta, that great metropolis of the East, was not altogether alien to me. From my early childhood, living in the north of Russia, I used to hear many tales about the mysterious land of India from my mother, whose brother, Uncle Henry, had left Scotland for India about the same time as she embarked with my Russian father for Archangel. Being close to each other, mother and Uncle Henry kept up a steady correspondence, mostly by postcards, showing in turn many aspects of life in India and Russia. After my mother's death all these postcards fell into my hands.