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knelt in front of her. Standing beside him, bewildered, not knowing what was expected of her, Nelly hesitated. “Down, Nelly, down on your knees,” her husband urgently whispered as he pulled her down beside him. My grandmother stepped forward. Holding the ikon, she slowly and reverently made the sign of the cross over their bowed heads and then stepped back. My stepgrandfather took her place and gave his blessing with the bread and salt. That was all. The brief traditional ceremony was over.
    My grandmother laid down the ikon, opened wide her arms and holding Nelly close to herself, smiled and kissed her on both cheeks. She tried to tell her in her broken English that she now had another daughter. All the other relatives gathered round kissing them both in turn. All except old Nanny Shalovchikha, now in her hundred and fifth year, a small shrivelled old woman, who stood aloof and glanced coldly at my mother. When my father called to see her during his short leave from Scotland, she had asked him if he did not think there were enough good-looking girls of his own kind to choose from. “Do you have to marry a foreigner?” she had demanded bitterly, “and an СAnglichanka5 at that?” A subject of a country where had reigned that other “Anglichanka”, the detested Queen responsible for the Crimean war and the death of her only son.
    In the drawing-room were the gifts from the Russian side of the family.
    With the expansive generosity of the merchant class they had presented gifts of pure silver that overwhelmed my mother. There, on a separate table, were the pieces of jewellery long since laid aside by my grandmother for the wife of the eldest son. There was no time to ponder and admire. Babushka, who had missed her sonТs wedding, was now determined that she also would have a wedding reception worthy of her son and daughter-in-law. Already the table was set and the hungry guests were eagerly waiting to sit down.
    They had to hurry and join the party. Nelly, remembering that her mother-in-law was wearing a gold brocade gown, changed into what she thought was suitable for the party, but when she entered the dining-room she discovered to her dismay that Babushka had changed into mourning dress. The gold brocade gown was only worn for the ceremony of the blessing. Glancing round, Nelly found that with a few exceptions, everyone was dressed in black. Even the two little boys, aged four and six, were wearing mourning bands on their sleeves. For a fleeting moment she felt a strange, almost uncanny sensation. It was a time when mournings were taken seriously and by none more so than the Russians, especially in the depths of the north. It may not have looked like a wedding reception, but that did not deter all the guests from enjoying what was now to Nelly and Gherman the third wedding celebration and proved to be the gayest gathering of them all.
    Some eighty guests had gathered round the table which stretched from the dining-room into the hall. There were again the endless courses, vodka, champagne, toasts and the traditional Russian wedding customs. A custom that seemed strange to Nelly was one that was usually followed at the table of newly-weds, and although my parents had been married for more than three weeks it did not stop the guests from following it now. One of the guests remarks casually to another that the food or drink has a slightly bitter taste. The other guest immediately agrees. “Decidedly it is bitter,” he says and the message is passed on to the next one who in turn repeats the same word until the chanting of “GorТko, gorТko” …
    “Bitter, bitter” Ч forms a chorus from all parts of the table. At this point the only way to sweeten everything is for the young couple to turn and kiss each other. This was repeated several times. Odd as it must have been to Nelly, she obediently complied each time.
    One by one the guests dispersed in their sledges to their own homes. It was a gay and exhaustive