Russka (103 page)

There was in Russia no more noble conveyance. No one knew exactly when the fashion had begun – some said it came from Hungary – but if a young nobleman nowadays wanted to impress the world, he found the smartest coachman he could and harnessed up a troika.

The troika – also known as a unicorn – consisted of three horses running abreast. In the centre, between the shafts and under a brightly painted headboard, was the leader, who trotted. On each side were two wheelers, fanning outwards, who galloped – one furiously, the other coquettishly. It was difficult to handle, stylish, and the ultimate in elegance. And it was such an aristocratic carriage that now, in a cloud of dust, came whirling up the slope towards them.

As it reached the house, they could see two passengers within; but it was the splendidly dressed coachman, who now leaped down with a cry, who look strangely familiar and caused Alexis to mutter: ‘What the devil’s this?’

It was Sergei. And as he strode forward and, in the Russian manner, kissed each of them three times, he cheerfully announced: ‘Hello, Olga. Hello, Mama. Hello, Alexis. I’ve been exiled.’

He was bound to have got into trouble sooner or later. And as Olga reminded Alexis, one didn’t have to do much to be in hot water these days.

For one of the first acts of Tsar Nicholas, to ensure political order in his empire, had been to set up a new special police bureau – the so-called Third Department – and place at its head one of his most trusted friends, the redoubtable Count Alexander Benckendorff. Benckendorff’s task was simple. The Tsar, who meant well, would consider reforms at the proper times; but meanwhile – however long this process might take – there were to be no more Decembrists. Benckendorff was thorough. Already his gendarmes, in their light blue uniforms, seemed to be everywhere. And in particular, the Department paid close attention to enthusiastic young gentlemen with too little respect for authority – men like Sergei.

In fact, it was Sergei’s boyhood hero Pushkin who had really started it. Pushkin was making a name for himself. Already, some of his first, brilliant writing had been published. And already, the young poet’s
Ode to Liberty
had landed him in trouble with the authorities. The Tsar had told Benckendorff personally to censor young Pushkin’s work. It was not surprising therefore that Sergei, longing to step into the limelight with his hero, should have hastened to produce something shocking of his own.

Sergei Bobrov’s poem
The Firebird
was printed at his own expense – a huge sacrifice for a young fellow on a modest salary of seven hundred roubles a year. Pushkin, to whom he immediately dispatched a copy, had sent a letter of generous encouragement: and in truth, for a first effort, it wasn’t bad. The firebird of his story was – needless to say – a harbinger of liberty. And in two days, before the ink was dry, Benckendorff had impounded it.

The author was so little known, the action of the Third
Department so quick, that a week later Sergei found himself not a celebrity, but under orders to return straight to the family estate at Russka and stay there until further notice. And here he was.

‘There’s a letter for you, Alexis,’ Sergei went on. ‘Very important,’ he added, as he drew it from the recesses of his coachman’s coat.

It was from Benckendorff himself. Alexis took it, without a word.

At first it seemed all might be well. Besides his manservant, Sergei had brought with him a pleasant young man from the Ukraine, called Karpenko, whom he had met in St Petersburg. Between herself, Pinegin, and this Karpenko, Olga hoped she could keep Sergei and his soldier brother apart.

Alexis, she could see, was doing his best to be pleasant. He was somewhat mollified by Benckendorff’s letter.

‘We think,’ the great man had written, ‘that the young man is a harmless scamp; but it will do him no harm to cool his heels in the country for a while. And I know, my dear Alexis Alexandrevich, that I can rely upon you to keep a wise and fatherly eye on him.’

‘I’ll do that all right,’ Alexis told Olga.

But about Sergei’s high spirits he could do nothing.

Dear Seriozha. He made light of everything. No one could resist his good humour for long. Since Benckendorff, like Tatiana, came from the Baltic nobility, he insisted on bringing his mother his verses for censorship. Once he even wrote out the Lord’s Prayer for her. ‘For under the Third Department’s rules,’ he explained, ‘most of the Lord’s Prayer will have to go.’ And when he was able to prove that this was indeed the case, even Alexis could not help smiling.

He set about teasing old Arina at once. ‘Dear old nanny, my dove,’ he would say, ‘we can’t have an old thing with her head full of fairy tales looking after young master Misha here. He needs an English governess. That’s the thing nowadays. We’ll send for one at once.’ As for the little boy, he was immediately fascinated by this wonderful uncle who made rhymes and drew funny pictures. ‘Misha, you are my little bear,’ Sergei would say. And the little fellow followed him around everywhere.

Sergei and his friend made an amusing pair. Karpenko was a small, dark, twenty year old with rather delicate features, and very shy. It was obvious that he was devoted to Sergei, who treated him
kindly. With Sergei’s encouragement, the Ukrainian’s soft brown eyes would light up and he would give brilliant imitations of everyone from a Ukrainian peasant to the Tsar himself. Karpenko taught Misha to do a little dance like a bear. And after the priest of Russka had come to call one day, the Ukrainian did such an explosively funny imitation of the fat man greedily ordering a meal and trying to rearrange his red beard over his huge stomach, that Alexis actually burst out laughing.

To little Misha it seemed that, after the cold winter and his mother’s death, he had found himself in a strange new world of wonderful sunlight and magical shadow that delighted him, but whose signals he could not always decipher.

For everywhere now, at the Bobrovo estate, a rich sensuousness hung in the air.

Young Arina, with her rather plump young body and her reddish-gold hair: Misha thought she was beautiful. Her blue eyes seemed to light up with excitement whenever she saw his Uncle Sergei or Karpenko. She was a little shy of Sergei though, whereas she would let the dark Ukrainian put his arm around her.

Uncle Sergei was a marvel: there was no doubt. Everyone loved him. He would talk with clever Uncle Ilya by the hour, often in French. And he was always happy to come and sit at old Arina’s feet where he would declare: ‘I’ve read all Krylov’s folk tales, but even he never told them like you, my dear.’ Misha was puzzled therefore when once he saw his father glaring at Sergei when the latter’s back was turned, and he asked his Aunt Olga: ‘Doesn’t Papa love Uncle Sergei?’

‘Of course he does,’ she told him. And when, rather shyly, he asked his father, Alexis said the same thing.

Often, when they all went for a stroll in the alley of birch trees behind the house, he would notice that Karpenko tried to walk beside Aunt Olga. Once he heard her say to Uncle Sergei: ‘Your friend’s in love with me,’ and then give a ringing laugh. Could Karpenko be in love with two women? the little boy wondered. And then there was Pinegin, with his pipe, his pale blue eyes and his white tunic. He was always there, quietly watching, giving a faint smile from time to time. Yet there was something about him, something hard and reserved, that made the boy afraid. Once, when they were all sitting on the verandah, Misha asked him: ‘Are
you a soldier?’ And being told yes: ‘And soldiers kill people?’ Pinegin puffed on his pipe, then nodded. ‘He kills people,’ the little fellow announced to all the grown-ups, and everyone burst out laughing. Since he couldn’t see the joke, Misha gave up trying to understand things that afternoon, and ran off to play with Timofei Romanov.

To Olga’s relief, over a week passed without incident. Everyone knew that Sergei and Alexis must be kept apart. Everyone was careful.

She had forgotten how amusing he was. He seemed to know everyone and to have seen everything. He would tell her scandalous stories of the scrapes, duels and illicit affairs of everyone in Moscow and St Petersburg, but always with such unbelievable detail that she laughed so hard she had to hang on to his arm.

It was one evening, after listening to his stories, that she asked him curiously about his own love life. Had there been many women? she wondered. Whatever answer she expected, it was not what came next. Leading her to a quiet corner, he took a little book from his pocket and handed it to her. There were columns of names on each page, each with a little comment. ‘My conquests,’ he explained. ‘The ones on the left are platonic friendships. The ones on the right, I’ve had.’

It was outrageous. Nor could she credit the names. ‘The virtuous Maria Ivanovna slept with you, you rascal?’ ‘I swear.’ He gave her a graphic account. And she burst into peals of laughter.

‘I don’t know what we shall do with you, Seriozha,’ she said.

As the days passed, only two things troubled Sergei Bobrov. Neither could be mentioned to anybody.

The first was a tiny incident that had taken place the day before he left Moscow. He had been walking along the street with his manservant – a young serf from the Russka estate – when it had happened: and he had been so surprised that, before he could think, he had let out several incautious words – words that could be very serious for others. He had been unsure how much the young serf had taken in, but immediately afterwards he had sternly said: ‘Whatever you think I just said, you heard nothing – unless you want a thrashing. You understand?’ Then he had given him a few roubles.

He had kept an eye on the fellow since they got to Russka and, as far as he could tell, all was well. After a week, he put it out of his mind.

But the other matter could not be so easily dismissed. It was in his thoughts every day; and for once, he did not know what to do.

It seemed a harmless idea. Even Alexis agreed when, in his second week there, Sergei suggested they should get up some theatricals. He had found some French versions of Shakespeare’s plays in the library. ‘Ilya and I will translate some scenes into Russian,’ he announced. ‘Then we can all play them.’ After all, it was something to do.

So why did Olga feel a sense of misgiving? She was not sure herself. At the beginning, as it happened, this new activity brought her two pleasant surprises. The first concerned Ilya.

She had never, in truth, had much respect for her oldest brother. She remembered how, five years ago, everyone had hoped that his tour of Europe would improve his health and inspire him to do something. Indeed, after staying in France, Germany and Italy he had finally returned looking slimmer and even purposeful. He had obtained a good post in St Petersburg and it seemed he might make a career. And then, after only a year, it was over: he resigned, left the capital and returned to Russka. True, he had tried to take part in provincial affairs, but soon became discouraged by the lack of progress and by his boorish fellow gentry. A sort of lethargy seemed to overtake him. And now here he still was, living with his mother, reading books all day and hardly getting out of bed before noon – just as he had been when she was a girl.

But now, she had never seen Ilya roused to such enthusiasm. He and Sergei would work together for hours. His placid face would take on a look of furious concentration. He would even waddle about, waving his hands excitedly, as Sergei wrote down what he dictated. ‘He translates: I polish,’ Sergei explained. ‘He’s awfully good at it, you know,’ he added. And for the first time Olga had an inkling of what poor Ilya might have been.

The theatricals began light-heartedly. In the long, warm evenings, with the shadows slowly lengthening, and a faint, delicious smell of lilac wafting from some bushes nearby, they would gather by a linden tree before the house and practise their
parts. Their first attempt was some scenes from
Hamlet
, with Sergei as Hamlet and Olga as Ophelia. Tatiana joined in; Alexis too, as Hamlet’s wicked uncle; Karpenko and Pinegin split the other parts between them, the soldier turning in a quiet, accurate performance, the Ukrainian hilarious as the ghost. ‘And what shall I be?’ little Misha had demanded.

‘You are the bear!’ Sergei told him. And to Olga’s murmur that there wasn’t a bear in
Hamlet
he whispered: ‘But Misha doesn’t know that.’ He paused. ‘Nor does Alexis, come to think of it,’ he added mischievously, which sent her into a fit of giggles.

Olga’s second discovery surprised her even more. It was about Sergei. They were playing a scene as the two awkward lovers when it first struck her. Then, as she listened carefully to other scenes, she suddenly realized. For while Ilya had made the translations, it was Sergei who had turned them into Russian verse.

And it was brilliant – so lovely, so full of feeling, that she was taken aback. Sergei’s voice too, she noticed, when he spoke this wonderful verse, became musical, beautiful to hear.

She remembered the wayward boy who had befriended her; she knew the scamp and womanizer who made her laugh. Yet here, suddenly, was another Sergei, hiding beneath the frivolous surface – of a poetic nature, perhaps even profound. She found that she was moved, and with a new respect she told him: ‘You must go on writing, Seriozha. You have real talent.’

The trouble was Alexis.

It was not his fault. His acting, though stiff, was not so bad. It was his language. For while Ilya and Sergei, as educated men, spoke both French and Russian elegantly, poor Alexis – never a scholar, and joining his regiment when almost a boy – had learnt French from fifth-rate tutors and Russian from the serfs at Russka. The result was rather unkindly, but accurately, summarized by Sergei: ‘He speaks French like a provincial and Russian like a servant.’ It was a curious condition, not unusual amongst men of his class at that date. Nor did one notice it so much in everyday conversation; but now, reciting Sergei’s beautiful verse, he frequently stumbled awkwardly and Sergei, with a laugh, would have to correct his grammar to prevent him making nonsense of a line. ‘I speak well enough for a plain soldier,’ Alexis growled; but Olga could see he felt awkward.