Russka (129 page)

Something else Nicolai quickly realized was that, for his father, the famine was also a personal crisis. Though seventy, and not in the best of health, Misha Bobrov had plunged into activity with a fervour that was almost reckless. ‘For the fact is,’ he confessed, ‘as a member of the
zemstvo
gentry, I feel a double burden these days.’

Nicolai knew very well what he meant. Ever since the elected
zemstvo
assemblies had been set up by the reforming Tsar Alexander, the government had tinkered with its membership. Sometimes the present Tsar had simply refused to confirm people, even when elected, if their loyalty was suspect. But the crunch had come in 1890, when the Tsar had simply decided to alter the voting rules – so drastically that the electorate was often reduced by more than half, and the gentry composed the vast majority of the board members. It was a shameful business, a calculated slap in the face of the simple Russian peasants, and Nicolai knew that his liberal-minded father had felt deeply embarrassed. ‘We gentry really have to prove ourselves,’ he repeatedly said. ‘Otherwise what are we good for?’ The result of this was that Misha Bobrov had worked himself into the ground; the tragedy was that he had achieved so little.

It was not his fault. The
zemstvo
had organized grain stores; it had carefully monitored food allocations; Misha and others had
toured the area continuously. But nothing could alter the fact that supplies were running low. ‘In another eight weeks, all the grain will have gone,’ Misha told his son. ‘After that – God knows. We’ve been trying to buy grain from other provinces not so badly hit. But …’ He spread his hands. ‘Nothing.’

While they themselves were not short of food, it was clear to Nicolai that the strain of the famine around them had been too much for his parents. His father looked grey and sunken, his usual optimism entirely gone. Anna, usually so decisive, seemed wan and hesitant. But she did take him aside and tell him firmly: ‘Nicolai, you must take over. Your father can’t go on.’

He toured the village. It was always the same. To his delight he found that Arina was still alive – a small, shrivelled little
babushka
, but with eyes as keen as ever. Timofei Romanov and his wife gave him a warm welcome. Their daughter, baby Arina as Nicolai thought of her, was now a pleasant, rather square-faced girl of seventeen. Only Boris seemed cold towards him; but Nicolai did not place great importance on that. Throughout the village, he found a calm resignation. The elder saw to it that each family had a little bread. There was still salted meat in some
izbas
. And most families went out each day to try to catch fish through holes in the ice. ‘But,’ as Timofei remarked, ‘I dare say you’ll bury us, Nicolai Mikhailovich.’

At the monastery, which had grain stores, the monks had taken over the feeding of the nearby peasants, giving them flour each day. ‘We have nine weeks’ supply,’ they told him.

‘But the man upon whom everything now depends is at Russka,’ his father told him. ‘And that’s Vladimir Suvorin.’

Vladimir: the elder grandson of that old terror Savva, and the brother of the unfortunate Peter Suvorin. Back at the time, deeming it unwise, Misha had never told his son about the incriminating letter of Peter’s and how he had used it to blackmail old Savva. Since then he had preferred to keep the incident closed. Of Peter therefore, Nicolai knew only that he had run away, and appeared again some time later. ‘I believe he’s a professor in Moscow,’ Misha told him. ‘He never comes here.’ Of Vladimir Suvorin, on the other hand, Nicolai had heard more. The powerful industrialist ran his factories firmly in Moscow and Russka, but fairly. His workers never laboured more than ten hours a day; no children were used; there were numerous safety
precautions and both work and living quarters were clean; there were no cruel fines for minor infractions. And unlike some of Russia’s leading industrialists, he had never suffered from a strike. In Moscow, Nicolai had heard, Vladimir had a huge house; but he came to Russka often. Having been away so much himself, however, Nicolai had never met him. ‘What’s he like?’ he asked.

‘Huge. And impressive,’ his father had replied, so that Nicolai had a vision of some tall and forbidding figure like old Savva.

It was on the second morning that Vladimir Suvorin arrived at the Bobrov house. He was huge, all right. But not as Nicolai had supposed. In fact, he was unlike anyone Nicolai had seen before.

Vladimir Suvorin was six feet tall and built like a bear; but there any resemblance to the animal kingdom ended. Even as he stepped off the sled and walked towards the waiting family, his presence seemed to fill the place with a sense of authority as, pulling off a grey glove, he extended a huge, rather fleshy hand to old Misha and smiled kindly.

‘My dear friend.’ He seemed to envelop them all.

This impression was even more striking once they were inside. His big frame was encased in a beautifully cut coat that made his slight paunch seem only a fitting adjunct to his imposing chest. His large, square-cut face had just enough fleshiness to suggest controlled good living. His hair was thinning but cut short; his nose large but regular; his dark brown moustache and short beard perfectly manicured. Around his neck was a soft, grey silk cravat fixed with a large diamond pin. And about his person there was a faint and pleasant scent of eau de cologne.

Nicolai watched him, fascinated. Like all those who lived in St Petersburg, he had a slightly superior attitude to Moscow. Moscow was provincial, a place for merchants. In St Petersburg, Nicolai had moved in the best circles. He knew the men of the imperial court, cosmopolitan aristocrats. He knew nobles with great houses. Yet here was a man – grandson of one of the Bobrov serfs – who did not belong to these upper-class circles and yet who was, Nicolai sensed at once, even more cosmopolitan than they. He spoke Russian elegantly; by a few words he let fall, it was clear he spoke French. And in fact, though Nicolai did not then know it, Suvorin was comfortable in German and English too.

But what was this extraordinary aura that Suvorin had? He’s like a monarch, or an eastern potentate, Nicolai thought. His black
eyes, set wide apart, seemed to possess a comprehensive intelligence; above all, there was about him an astonishing sense of comfort and of power. He has perfect manners, yet he says and does exactly as he likes, and everyone obeys him, Nicolai guessed. It was the first time he had met a member of that special group, the cosmopolitan very rich. For though aged only forty-one, Vladimir Suvorin had long ago grown accustomed to the pleasant idea that, if he chose, there was almost nothing he could not buy. This knowledge, when combined with intelligence and culture, could make even the grandson of a serf into a prince.

And so, at once, the great man took them all over. Nicolai he immediately treated as a trusted colleague. ‘Thank God you are here, Nicolai Mikhailovich.’ Towards old Misha he was both courteous and protective. ‘You have done so much, dear friend. It’s time to let the younger generation take some of the burden now. But I know you will keep an eye on us all.’ In two minutes, Nicolai felt proud to be swept into his orbit.

‘There is news from the provincial governor,’ he said. ‘The government will supply grain. It’s being shipped from the Ukraine and we shall have it in a month. As you know, we still have about eight weeks’ supply left. I am going myself to speak to the governor, to make sure there are no slip-ups. So all we have to do is keep everyone in good heart. Yes, thank you,
chère Madame
, I should love a glass of cordial.’ And he sat down amongst them comfortably.

During his visit, Nicolai learned a little about Suvorin. He had lost a wife, married again and had a son. Normally he liked to travel two months a year. He knew Paris as well as he did Moscow. He knew personally such artists as Renoir and Monet; he knew the great writer Tolstoy and had been down to his estate at Yasnaya Polyana. Tchaikovsky he also knew. ‘And his unfortunate wife,’ he added with a sigh. This was a glittering world of literary men, crowded
salons
, connoisseurship and judicious patronage – a world where high rank or extreme wealth were a passport to entry, as they are everywhere, but where only talent and excellence were tolerated. It was clear that, on top of this, Suvorin was a formidable man of business. Nicolai also, learned much about the work that the
zemstvos
had done in the last few months. ‘Without men like your father,’ Suvorin told him frankly, ‘the local administration would have broken down entirely. It’s the
zemstvo
people in town and country who have held things together, not the central government at all.’

And after he had gone, Misha remarked admiringly: ‘Thank God we have him with us. He makes things happen. The authorities daren’t ignore him.’

Though he had noticed Boris Romanov’s coolness towards him, Nicolai would still have been surprised to hear the dispute raging in the
izba
of Timofei Romanov round that same time.

The disputants were old Arina and Boris. Timofei and his wife said little; as for the subject of the quarrel, the seventeen-year-old girl, her grandmother’s namesake, no one thought of asking her at all.

‘You can’t do it,’ Boris was fairly shouting. ‘Those people are our enemies, only you’re all too stupid to see it.’ At this Timofei looked uncomfortable and old Arina shrugged contemptuously. ‘Besides,’ Boris cried, ‘she should be here to help her parents.’ But old Arina was obdurate. ‘It would be one less mouth to feed,’ Timofei’s wife remarked at last.

‘Better to starve,’ Boris growled.

The years since the tragic fire that killed Natalia had done nothing to assuage the feelings of Boris Romanov. Indeed, as time passed, his sense that the Bobrovs and the entire gentry class were conspiring against him had grown even stronger. To Boris, the evidence was clear. Ten years ago, for instance, when it was rumoured that the government would finally abolish the burdensome payments the peasants had been making to their former owners ever since the Emancipation, the administration finally announced only a niggardly reduction of twenty-five per cent. ‘And what the devil is the use of that?’ Boris protested. Now the peasants’ voting rights to the
zemstvo
assemblies had been almost wiped out. ‘Another swindle by the gentry,’ Boris stormed. ‘Now they even take our votes away.’ And when, during the famine, old Timofei had pointed out the good work that Misha Bobrov was doing, Boris had only replied contemptuously: ‘If that old criminal can do it, an honest peasant could do it better.’

His grandmother’s decision that her granddaughter Arina should join the Bobrov household had therefore filled him with fury. Yet, since his father was head of the family, and Timofei was
not prepared to contradict the determined old woman, there was nothing he could do.

‘I think it would be best,’ Timofei finally agreed, ‘if they’ll take her.’

And the old woman was certainly adamant. It was astonishing what force of will could be contained in that small frame; it was strange, too, how her determination to ensure the family’s survival had now caused her to shift all her thoughts from her own beloved daughter to the next generation. Her memories of the last great famine, perhaps some guilt from the time she had nearly exposed her as a baby, now caused old Arina to fight for the girl with an implacable determination. If things got worse, there was only one house where there would certainly be food. ‘I’ll speak to them,’ she said quietly. ‘They’ll take her.’

So it was that, shortly after Vladimir Suvorin had left, the Bobrov family was faced by old Arina and the girl. The old woman did not even have to say much. Anna Bobrov understood perfectly. ‘Of course we’ll take her,’ she promised. And then, with a smile: ‘My husband is tired. I’m sure he’ll be glad of her help.’

By that afternoon the girl was installed. ‘Now you’ll be safe,’ her grandmother whispered to her as she left. But there was one other message that remained, for some time, in the girl’s mind. For just as she had departed the village, Boris had pulled her to one side and muttered: ‘Go to those damned Bobrovs if you choose; but just remember, if you ever become their friend, you won’t be mine any more.’

The next six weeks were busy for Nicolai Bobrov. His mother’s prediction that the young Romanov girl would be useful soon proved to be accurate: a few days later, relieved of the strain of, coping alone with the famine, Misha Bobrov suddenly fell sick. Day after day he lay on his bed, seemingly too weak to move, and if it had not been for the calm, steady presence of this peasant girl who nursed him, Nicolai believed they might have lost the old man.

What a treasure she was, this baby Arina. She was fair-skinned with very light brown hair, and though one could not exactly call her pretty, there was a quietness and simplicity in her rather square, peasant’s face that was very attractive. She had a quietness about her, like a nun, that made her a pleasant, peaceful presence in any room she entered. She was very devout. Anna and she
would often walk over to the monastery, shawls tied over their heads, so that from a distance one could not have said which was lady and which was peasant. Yet she had also learned from her grandmother a huge fund of folk tales, and when she recited these, her gentle face and blue eyes would seem to glow with pleasure and with quiet amusement. Besides her daily nursing, it was this knowledge in which old Misha rejoiced. ‘Tell me, little Arina, about the Fox and the Cat,’ Nicolai would hear his father’s voice weakly rasping as he passed the room. Or: ‘Pass me that book, little Arina – those
Fairy Tales
by Pushkin. He has a story like the one you tell.’

‘Your tales remind me of when I was a boy,’ he would tell the girl. ‘Isn’t it funny? We used to call your old grandmother young Arina then. And the tales you know come from another Arina – her aunt, I suppose – who was still alive when I was young.’ And to Nicolai he would say: ‘This young Arina, you know, she is the real Russia, the enduring heartland. Always remember that.’ And sometimes, looking at her affectionately, he would doze off and dream of those sunlit days when Pushkin was still alive, and his Uncle Sergei was putting on theatricals at Bobrovo.