Russka (120 page)

For the document he had given Popov to read was almost a poem. Not that poor Peter Suvorin realized it, of course. He thought he had written a call to revolution.

They had a strange relationship. It had not taken Popov long to become Peter’s mentor. He had soon discovered Peter’s hatred of the Suvorin factory, his guilt about the workers there, his vague, poetic longings for a better world. Popov had given him a copy of
What Is To Be Done
and talked to him about his responsibilities for the future. More recently, Popov had indicated that he was part of
a larger organization with a Central Committee. He could see this had intrigued Peter. He had dropped other hints about future action and hinted at the existence of the little printing press. And above all, he had achieved mastery over Peter by the simple art of giving or withholding approval. It was amazing how people needed approval. But though the heir to the huge Suvorin enterprise was obviously an important catch – potentially far more important than Nicolai Bobrov – he was so confused and idealistic that Popov had concluded: Although I can do what I want with him, I’m not sure how to use him.

The composition he had now brought Popov, sheet after sheet in his nervous handwriting, was the passionate distillation of all his thoughts. It was a cry for social justice, an almost religious invocation of human freedom; it spoke desperately of the oppression he saw in Russka – not so much of the body as of the spirit. And it concluded with a call to revolution. A gentle revolution.

It had taken him many hours to produce and now, with an anxious frown, he awaited his mentor’s verdict.

‘You mean,’ Popov asked, ‘that the people can take power peacefully, without bloodshed? That their oppressors will just give up without a fight when the people refuse to cooperate?’

‘Exactly.’

‘It would be like a sort of pilgrimage,’ Popov remarked.

‘Why, yes.’ Peter’s face cleared. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

Popov looked at him thoughtfully. He couldn’t imagine how he was going to use him, but he’d think of something. ‘I’ll keep this: it could be important,’ he said. ‘I shall report it to the Central Committee. In the meantime, hold yourself in readiness.’

Peter Suvorin flushed with pleasure. Popov put the paper in his pocket and turned to go. He was due to meet the girl Natalia and her friend in a short while. He wondered if that would be any more interesting.

By the time he arrived at the village, Misha Bobrov was red in the face. Arina had been so insistent, that he had come on foot straight away, almost at a trot. If he hadn’t known Arina all his life he would not have believed what she had told him. Yet now, arriving just in time to hear Nicolai’s final words, he went completely pale. Those terrible words. Spoken by his own son.

‘Rise up! Take the Bobrov land and all the other estates. For this, my friends, is the revolution!’

It was true, then, what she had said. Yet even now he could scarcely take it in. His only son a betrayer. He means to ruin me and his own mother. Is that how much he cares for us? For a second this was all that Misha Bobrov could think of. Then he felt Arina tugging urgently at his sleeve.

‘Look.’

He suddenly realized that the villagers were quite silent and that they were turning to look, not at Nicolai, but at the village elder who was making his way grimly towards him, accompanied by two of the senior men. ‘They’re going to take him to the police,’ Arina whispered. ‘He’ll be arrested. You must do something, Master Misha.’ And he realized she was right.

It was not often that Misha Bobrov had to think quickly; but now he did. And in a flash he saw what he must do.

‘Nicolai!’ His voice rang out. The crowd turned in surprise. ‘Nicolai, my poor boy!’ He strode forward, Arina just behind him.

He was an impressive figure when he wanted to be. The crowd parted before him. Even the village elder and his two men hesitated as the landowner marched up to his astonished son. When he reached Nicolai, Misha turned to the villagers angrily. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me sooner?’ he thundered. Then, with a peremptory nod to the elder: ‘Quickly now. Help me lift him down. The poor boy.’

Nicolai was so taken aback by the entire proceedings that he let them lift him to the ground almost before he knew what was happening; and he was even more surprised when his father, giving him a pitying smile, swiftly mounted the stool and addressed the little crowd.

‘My friends, the fault is mine. I should have warned you.’ He looked a little embarrassed. ‘My poor son has been suffering from a nervous disorder. The doctors in Moscow recommended country air and heavy exercise. That is why he has been working in the fields.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It seems the treatment has not worked and the fits of delusion have returned.’ He raised his hand and let it fall, helplessly. ‘A family tragedy. We can only pray for his recovery in time.’ He turned politely to the elder. ‘Perhaps your men would help me get him back to the house?’

There was a moment’s pause. Had it worked?

‘We were going to arrest him, sir,’ the elder began, uncertainly.

‘My good man,’ Misha retorted sharply. ‘It’s not a policeman he needs but a doctor.’

The elder seemed to hesitate. The crowd looked confused. And then, dear Arina’s voice, a clearly audible cackle from just behind him: ‘He used to have those fits when he was a boy. I thought he’d growed out of them.’ Thank God she had taken her cue.

There was a murmur in the crowd. This explained it all: no wonder the young man’s behaviour had seemed eccentric. There were even one or two chuckles.

Only the village elder looked thoughtful. Quietly, now, he came to Misha Bobrov’s side. ‘I shall still have to report this to the police, sir,’ he said softly.

Misha looked at him. ‘That will not be necessary,’ he said calmly. ‘The boy needs rest. He’s quite harmless and I don’t want him agitated.’ Then, with a sidelong glance: ‘Come and see me tomorrow and we can discuss it.’

The elder nodded. They both understood that a little money would change hands. Moments later, two of his men were helping Bobrov and Timofei lead poor Nicolai away.

He went quietly. Indeed, he scarcely knew what else to do. The indifference of the peasants the first day had come as a shock, but the discovery that they were about to arrest him … He could scarcely believe it. And now, he thought miserably, they actually believe I’m mad. He hung his head. Perhaps I am. He had not himself realized the strain that the last few days had been. Now, suddenly, he felt strangely depleted: unable to do anything. Silently they all went up the slope.

It was when they were halfway to the house that Timofei Romanov was struck by a thought. He turned to Misha Bobrov.

‘The other young man, sir, with your son – the quiet one. Would he be a doctor then?’

At which Bobrov smiled grimly. ‘A sort of doctor. Yes,’ he muttered, ‘I suppose you could say that.’

An hour later, in the privacy of the house, Misha Bobrov was beside himself.

The two young men were standing before him. And they did not even seem to think they owed him an apology.

‘You sir,’ he addressed Popov, ‘I hold you equally responsible. Whatever your beliefs, you have abused my hospitality. As for you,’ he turned to Nicolai, ‘you have just incited the peasants to attack your own parents. Have you nothing to say?’

Nicolai looked pale and exhausted. As for Popov, it was impossible to know what he was thinking. The insolent young man seemed slightly bored.

‘You have both lied to me, too,’ Misha went on furiously, ‘with these stories about collecting folklore. Yet you dare to preach to me about morality!’ He glowered at them. ‘Well?’

Yet whatever response the landowner expected, it was not what he got.

For now Popov laughed. It was a dry, contemptuous sound.

‘Poor Mikhail Alexeevich.’ His voice was quiet, deadly. ‘What a fool you are.’ He sighed. ‘But you
liberals
are all the same. You talk about liberty and reforms. You praise your ridiculous
zemstvos
. And it’s all a lie – a dirty little compromise to hold on to your own power and wealth! And you don’t even realize we all see through you. We know what you really are: you’re even worse than the autocrat, because you want to corrupt the people into thinking they are getting somewhere. But you will be completely destroyed, and there’s nothing you can do about it. The march of history is inevitable. So there’s nothing for you to get excited about.’

For a moment, Misha thought he was going to strike this loathsome Popov; but he contained himself. If nothing else, he was determined to get to the bottom of this young man’s ideas, which had such an influence on his son.

‘Your real reason for being here is to foment a revolution that will usher in a new age – this heaven on earth of yours, without a God. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘The revolution will destroy everything – the Tsar and the landowners – for the good of the peasants?’

‘For the common good.’

‘Would you have the peasants kill the landowners?’

‘If necessary, certainly.’

‘But the peasants don’t follow you. They almost arrested Nicolai. Where does that leave you?’

‘The peasants aren’t politically aware yet. They don’t understand the common good.’

‘That’s the new world of perfect equality?’

‘Yes. The peasants still need to be educated.’

‘By you?’

‘By the new men.’

‘Who understand what is really good for them. And to achieve this end – for the common good – will new men like yourself use any means?’

‘Possibly. Why not?’

‘This means that the new men are superior to all of us. They are above the ordinary rules because of their higher mission and understanding. You’re a sort of superman.’

Popov smiled faintly. ‘Perhaps.’

Misha nodded. Now he thoroughly understood. ‘You’ll leave my house tomorrow morning,’ he said drily. ‘At dawn. As for you,’ he turned to Nicolai, ‘you will stay in the house for the time being. Your nervous illness is the only thing protecting you from the police. You understand?’

But if Misha thought he had settled matters, he had not reckoned with Yevgeny Popov; and it was with atonishment that he now turned as the red-headed student calmly addressed him.

‘Actually, I shall be staying here for some time.’

What new impertinence was this? ‘You’ll do as you are told and be gone at dawn,’ Misha snapped.

Yet still Popov only gazed at him imperturbably. ‘I think not,’ he replied. And as Misha started to grow red, he went on quietly: ‘Consider, Mikhail Alexeevich, your true position. Your son has incited the peasants to revolution. I didn’t. In the eyes of the authorities, it is Nicolai who is a criminal now. So your position is very weak. For myself, I care nothing about the authorities or anything they can do to me. But if you force me to, I could certainly make things very unpleasant for you and your son. If I say, therefore, that I wish to stay here for a while, it would probably be wiser of you to let me.’ And then he smiled.

Misha was dumbfounded. He looked first at one, then another of the young men. ‘And you call this man your friend?’ he said to Nicolai with disgust. And then, furiously, to Popov: ‘Do you really suppose you can get away with this?’

‘Yes.’

Misha was silent. He supposed it was true that the young troublemaker could be a danger to Nicolai. I wish to God I had
more information – something I could pin on this Popov, he thought. Perhaps something would turn up. In the meantime, though he hated to show any weakness before this loathsome interloper, he decided to be cautious. ‘You can, perhaps, be useful,’ he said at last. ‘You can remain here a while on the following conditions: you are to refrain from any political activities; and you will tell people that Nicolai is sick. But if you start any trouble, or implicate Nicolai in any way with your activities, then you may find I have more influence with the authorities here than you think. Do you understand?’

‘That suits me very well,’ Popov said blandly, and strolled out of the room.

It was half an hour later that Nicolai came to Popov’s room. He found his friend in a calm but thoughtful mood.

‘That was a brilliant trick of yours, telling Father that you’d expose me,’ Nicolai said. ‘He didn’t know which way to look.’ He had never admired his clever friend more.

‘Yes. It was, wasn’t it?’

‘But what shall I do now?’ Nicolai asked urgently. ‘I can’t just give up. Should I go to another village, do you think, and try to raise the peasants there?’

To his disappointment, however, Popov shook his head. ‘For the moment, Nicolai,’ he said, ‘I want you to stay in the house and do just as your father asks.’ And when Nicolai began to protest, he stopped him. ‘The fact is, my friend, I have some business to attend to at Russka and your being here gives me just the cover I need. So do cooperate, there’s a good fellow.’

‘If you think that’s best,’ Nicolai said reluctantly. He looked at Popov curiously. ‘What are you up to?’

For several moments Popov did not answer. Then, rather thoughtfully, he remarked: ‘He’s right of course, your father.’

‘Is he? What about?’

‘The peasants. They won’t follow us.’

‘Perhaps in time,’ Nicolai suggested.

There was a silence.

‘God, how I despise them,’ Popov murmured.

Which left Nicolai rather confused.

Two weeks had passed since Nicolai’s attempt to start the revolution, and in the village of Bobrovo everything was quiet.

No one had set eyes on Nicolai Bobrov. It was known that he was up at the manor house. The serfs up there said he sometimes went for walks in the woods above the house; the rest of the time he seemed to rest or read books.

As for his friend Popov, he was often to be seen nowadays, wandering about with a notebook and sketch pad. Somewhere in the Bobrov house he had found an ancient, wide-brimmed hat that had once belonged to Ilya and which gave him the look of an artist; the people at Bobrovo would often see him wandering over the little bridge to sketch the village from the footpath on the other side of the river. Frequently, too, he would take the lane through the woods to Russka and draw the monastery or the town. And if anyone asked him about Nicolai Bobrov he would shake his head sadly and say: ‘Poor fellow. Let us hope he will recover soon.’