Russka (105 page)

For there was something else about the tales, too: a haunting beauty, an air of nostalgia and even melancholy that she discerned in his tone – as there always is when one speaks of a world that has entered its twilight. ‘The old Zaporozhian
sich
is gone,’ he said quietly at one point. ‘Catherine the Great destroyed that.’ And later, rather sadly: ‘The Cossacks are all good Russians now.’ If he felt a tinge of regret for the past, Olga didn’t blame him. The disciplined Tsarist regiments of today’s Cossacks were fine in their way, but a far cry from the freedom of older times.

Ilya in particular was captivated. ‘My God,’ he exclaimed, ‘you tell your stories so well that if you want to make a literary reputation, you should write them down. Have you considered it?’

And it was then that the trouble began. For having blushed with pleasure and admitted that he had, Karpenko then added a curious and unexpected statement. ‘Actually,’ he confessed, ‘what I really want is to write them in the Ukrainian language. They sound even better that way.’

It was a perfectly innocent remark, though undoubtedly surprising. ‘Ukrainian?’ Ilya queried. ‘Are you sure?’ Olga, too, found herself puzzled. For the Ukrainian dialect, though close to Russian, had no literature of its own except one comic verse. Even Sergei, always willing to support his friend, couldn’t think of anything to say in favour of this odd idea.

And it was now that Alexis spoke.

Though he had obviously enjoyed the Cossack’s stories, Olga had noticed her elder brother’s expression gradually become rather thoughtful. She had not attached too much importance to this; though when the Ukrainian spoke of Russia, she had noticed that once or twice he frowned. Now, at this last suggestion, he shook his head.

‘Forgive me,’ he said calmly, ‘but the Ukraine is part of Russia. You should write in Russian therefore.’ His tone was not unkind, but it was firm. ‘Besides,’ he added with a dismissive shrug, ‘Ukrainian is only spoken by peasants.’

There was silence. Olga glanced anxiously at Karpenko. Then Sergei spoke: ‘How boorish.’

And Olga trembled. Was this the start of the quarrel she dreaded?

The little Cossack saw her face and understood at once. ‘It’s quite true that Ukrainian is the peasant’s language,’ he readily agreed. ‘But that’s why I’d like to use it – for writing about village life, you see.’ If he thought, however, that he had saved the situation, he was premature.

‘Quite right.’ Sergei was determined to defend his friend. ‘After all, our own Russian literature has only existed for a generation. Why shouldn’t the Ukrainians start their own?’ He smiled contemptuously. ‘Or is having their literature strangled at birth by an illiterate Russian to be another benefit of the Tsar’s rule?’

Olga caught her breath: a gratuitous insult. Alexis went pale; but with an effort he ignored Sergei. Turning to Karpenko, however, he asked dangerously: ‘Do the people of the Ukraine dislike the Tsar’s rule?’

The Cossack smiled gently. He could have said that the Ukrainian peasants had no special love for Russia; he might have mentioned that, under the programme of Russification, the towns were losing all their ancient liberties. He could have remarked that even his own family remembered bitterly that their ancestor, a proud Cossack landowner, was sent in chains by Peter the Great to his new capital in the north, and never heard from again. But instead he was tactful.

‘When Napoleon invaded,’ he quietly reminded Alexis, ‘the Tsar had no more loyal troops than the Cossacks. And on the
eastern side of the Dniepr, where I come from, the landowners have been glad of Russian protection since the time of Bogdan. On the western side of the Dniepr, however, where there’s more Polish influence, Russian rule is accepted but not particularly popular.’ It was a fair assessment, and even if it was not quite what Alexis wanted, he could hardly argue. For the moment, he relapsed into silence.

And it was now that, casting about in his mind for a more cheerful topic, and without thinking too much, young Karpenko rattled on.

‘Do you know,’ he remarked, ‘funnily enough, about ten miles from where we live, there’s a place where my family used to have a farm once. It has a new name now, but in Peter the Great’s time it was called Russka.’

This, as he hoped, diverted their thoughts. Nobody had heard of it, though Ilya at once remarked: ‘Many northern place-names derive from the south. The Bobrovs formerly came from near Kiev, you know, so the village you speak of may once have been ours.’ He smiled. ‘There’s something we have in common, my friend.’ The fact that the Cossack’s ancestor had run away from the northern Bobrov estate and discovered this Russka in the south was unknown to them both.

‘I wonder what sort of place it is now,’ Olga said.

And then Karpenko made his great mistake. ‘Actually,’ he confessed awkwardly, ‘it’s a military colony.’

He realized his error the moment he had spoken. Alexis sat bolt upright. Sergei grimaced. And Alexis suddenly smiled. Now was his chance to put everyone in their place.

‘A military colony,’ he said with a triumphant look. ‘There’s a splendid improvement.’ And despite himself – he could not help it’ – the Cossack winced.

For of all the changes that the Tsar’s government had made in the Ukraine, the military colonies were the most universally loathed. There were about twenty of them, each large enough to support an entire regiment, and they covered a huge area. Since Karpenko could think of nothing to say in favour of these terrible places, he bit his lip and said nothing.

But Sergei, quietly simmering, had no such inhibitions. ‘If Alexis had his way, you see,’ he said quietly, ‘the whole of Russia
would be a single military colony. Like Ivan the Terrible and his
Oprichnina
, eh, Alexis?’

His face became stony. ‘Young people should speak of things they understand,’ he stated with dry scorn. ‘Like making rhymes,’ he added bitterly. And he shifted his chair so that Sergei was presented with his back. Then, looking about for someone trustworthy, he remarked to Pinegin: ‘If all the empire were governed like a military colony, things would be a lot more efficient.’ To which Pinegin quietly bowed his head.

It was time to end the discussion – and end it quickly. Olga glanced round, wondering what to do. She signalled to her mother, who nodded, remarked placidly – ‘Well, well, this has all been very pleasant’ – and made as if to rise. But before she could do so, Sergei’s voice cut through the air.

‘You’re surely not suggesting, Alexis, that the military are efficient?’

Why, oh why, could he not for once keep silent? Olga saw a muscle flicker in Alexis’s cheek. But he did not turn. He merely ignored the interruption. Olga began to rise.

‘I said,’ Sergei repeated with an evenness that showed he was now angry, ‘do you believe the military are so efficient?’

In the silence that followed, one might have thought Alexis had not heard. But then he turned to Pinegin again and coolly remarked: ‘I think, my friend, I heard a dog yapping somewhere.’

And Sergei went scarlet. Olga knew then that there was nothing she could do. Sergei exploded. ‘Do you know how our wretched soldiers are taught to shoot a volley?’ he burst out to the whole room. ‘I’ll tell you. All together. Perfect timing. There’s only one problem – they aren’t trained to point at anything. It’s a fact. I’ve seen it. No one minds where they shoot, as long as it’s together. The chances of a Russian volley hitting the enemy are almost nil! But this,’ he sneered contemptuously, ‘is my brother’s military efficiency.’

Alexis had lost his calm now. He seemed about to turn and strike. But it was Pinegin who spoke. Olga had never seen him like this before. He was very quiet, but his eyes glittered, and there was something strangely menacing as he asked: ‘Are you insulting the Russian army?’

‘Oh, much more than that,’ Sergei shot back. ‘I’m criticizing the whole Russian Empire which thinks that by imposing order on the
human spirit – no matter how absurd or cruel the order – it has achieved something. I’m criticizing the Tsar and that dog Benckendorff with his idiotic gendarmes and his censorship: I despise your military colonies, where you try to turn children into machines, and the institution of serfdom, which makes one man the chattel of another. And, yes, by all means I’m insulting the army, which is run by the same incompetents who are in charge of this whole vast sea of stupidity and rottenness that is called the Russian Government.’

He turned back to Alexis. ‘Tell me, my efficient brother, how many rounds are Russian soldiers given each year for target practice? How many?’ And when Alexis, too angry for speech, made no reply: ‘I’ll tell you then. Three rounds. Three a year. That’s how your men are trained before you go off to fight the Turk.’ He laughed savagely. ‘And no doubt military organization is just what you are using so effectively to run down this estate – now that it no longer has those Suvorins to prop it up!’

Olga gasped. It seemed that Alexis was about to throw himself upon Sergei. She looked at Pinegin desperately, beseechingly.

And the soldier in his white tunic smiled.

‘Well, Bobrov,’ he remarked with a dry laugh, ‘if your brother had said that to me in our regiment, I suppose I should have had to play target practice with his head. But we won’t mind. Let’s have a game of cards.’ And before Alexis could speak, Pinegin led him firmly away.

Thank God, Olga thought: thank God for Pinegin.

The following morning, Alexis announced that he had to go to Vladimir to see the governor. He expected to be back in a week.

‘Would you stay here, my dear fellow, and keep an eye on my brother?’ he asked Pinegin, to which the other quietly agreed.

By noon, Alexis was gone. With him he carried a letter that he had written late the night before. It was addressed to Count Benckendorff.

Did she still love Sergei? She was fond of him, of course; but could one love a man so self-centred? The quarrel with Alexis had been so unnecessary and his insults unforgivable. The next morning, when he took Misha out fishing, she ignored him.

All morning, she was occupied with her two babies. Old Arina was unwell that day, but young Arina helped her.

It was in the early afternoon, while young Arina was putting the two infants down for a sleep, that Olga, strolling towards the birch wood above the house, noticed the white uniform of Pinegin alone in the alley. Feeling she should speak to him, she followed him and soon came to his side.

‘I owe you many thanks, Fyodor Petrovich,’ she said quietly, as they walked along.

He gave her a quick look. In the flickering light and shadow of the alley his eyes looked a deeper blue than usual. ‘I am always at your service,’ he said, and quietly puffed on his pipe.

They went slowly up the alley. Despite the fact it was high summer, the short grass in the shade was still green and springy. There was the faintest breeze. ‘I am very angry with Sergei,’ she sighed.

He did not reply for a few moments. Then, taking his pipe out of his mouth, he said calmly, ‘If you will forgive me, he is still a child.’

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’

He glanced at her again. ‘Even children, Olga Alexandrovna, can be dangerous though.’

Sergei? Dangerous? Yet that was what Alexis had said of this man. They walked on in silence. What did she make of him? she wondered. If a man is to be judged by his actions, she must think well of him. It was certainly restful to be in his quiet presence. She looked at his hard, impassive face and remembered how he had danced with her, then smiled to herself. Perfect control: she could imagine him as a patient hunter, biding his time.

Yet still there was something distant about him, something she could not fathom. And, emboldened by the sense of intimacy they shared at that moment, she suddenly turned to him and said: ‘You told me something of your life once, Fyodor Petrovich. But may I ask you – what do you believe in? Do you believe in God, for instance? And what guides you when you are in danger?’ She stopped, hoping she had not offended him.

He puffed on his pipe for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Fate,’ he said at last. ‘When you never know if a tribesman’s going to put a bullet in your head, you start to believe in fate.’ He smiled. ‘It’s restful.’

‘You’re not like my brothers, are you?’

‘No, that’s true.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Your brothers are always hoping for something. If they can’t hope, they get angry – or give up, like Ilya.’

‘You don’t hope?’

He turned towards her. ‘As I said, I believe in fate. Things happen as they are meant to. We just have to recognize our destiny.’

She was conscious of his pale blue eyes, watching her. Yes, she thought; she had a strange sensation of being safe with him, yet also in danger – and she found it rather fascinating. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that I understand a little.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, Olga Alexandrovna,’ he said quietly, ‘I think we understand one another.’

And sensing that this was a compliment, and not knowing quite how to respond, she reached out and lightly touched his arm.

Then they walked back.

And why not, after all? Pinegin was alone. After leaving Olga, he had decided to walk along the lane to Russka; and now he was sitting on one of the little burial mounds beside the path, enjoying the view of the monastery as the afternoon sun glanced off its golden domes.

Why shouldn’t he? He was a gentleman, wasn’t he? And this woman was special: she was not like the others.

He had had his share of women. There had been that Jewish girl, when he was stationed in the Ukraine. And the Circassian, down in the mountains. Pure beauty. There he had lived far from the clinging dross of civilization. And some others. But because he was so ridiculously poor, he had always felt awkward with the daughters of the gentry. He told himself they were shallow, vapid, and of no interest. I, who have stood so often on the edge of the abyss, between life and death, he used to think, what can they say to me? But Olga was a being apart. She has suffered, he told himself. She might understand me. He suspected he might never find another like her.

He was poor, of course. Yet he had noticed that when other poor men married rich women, people thought well of them, even admired them. Besides, he had other things to offer. He was not some young fool with only a few thousand serfs to recommend
him. He was a man who could take care of himself, who had stood alone. And there was something else – a secret that he was strangely proud of: he had never known fear.