Russka (134 page)

She is certainly a handsome woman, Nadezhda thought, but I should make Papa a much better wife. Which was, perhaps, a rather strange thought for a little girl of eight.

The first thing people noticed about Nadezhda Suvorin was her auburn hair. She was allowed to wear it long and loose so that it fell in lustrous masses over her shoulders to her elbows. In a taffeta dress, silk stockings, shoes with satin ribbons and a big, wide-brimmed hat from under which her hair poured down, she looked enchanting. And then people would notice her eyes. They were very fine, deep brown, and they knew everything.

It was amazing what Nadezhda knew. Yet how should it be otherwise? Fate had decreed that her brother should be older: by the time she was six, he was already studying abroad. It was natural, therefore, that her father should turn to this bright little girl to be his companion.

She knew every painting in the great house. There were the contemporary Russians – wonderful natural evocations of the country by Repin, Surikov, Seron, Levitan. Levitan had done a huge landscape of Russka – a haunting vision of the little town on its high bank, seen from across the river under a deep blue sky full of retreating clouds. In the dining room hung portraits of her mother by Repin and her father by Vrubel. But her greatest delight was to take visitors through the rooms reserved for Vladimir’s collection of European painters, which was dazzling; and middle-aged Russians who were scarcely familiar with such wonders themselves would be astonished as she prattled: ‘This is
a Monet; here’s Cézanne. Renoir’s nudes always seem to have the same two faces, don’t you think?’ Or: ‘This is by Gauguin. He ran away from his wife and children and went to live in Tahiti,’ On his last trip to Paris, her father had even brought back small pictures by two new artists: Picasso and Matisse. ‘These are just getting started, so I bought them for you,’ he had told her.

Vladimir delighted in taking this bright little person with him and showing her his world. As a patron of the arts he went everywhere and knew everyone. Already she had been to St Petersburg and seen the great Pavlova dance; she had visited the great Tolstoy at his Moscow house; at the Moscow Arts Theatre, which Vladimir helped support, she knew all the actors and had even met the playwright Chekhov. When she had been unimpressed by this modest man with his pince-nez, compared to the leonine figure of the great novelist, her father had told her: ‘Never judge by appearances, Nadezhda. For Chekhov is great also. It’s what people do that matters.’ Which had caused her several times to demand, quite innocently, of distinguished old gentlemen visiting the house: ‘Now tell me, Ivan Ivanovich, what exactly you have done’ – to their great confusion and Vladimir’s huge amusement.

Only one thing puzzled little Nadezhda. Why was her mother often cool towards her father? To the outside world they seemed devoted, but the sharp-eyed child knew better. It was her, not her mother, that Vladimir took out: she had watched him approach his wife in private and had seen her gracefully drawing away. It was very strange. And no wonder therefore if the girl considered: I should look after him better.

It was now, having finished her letter, that Mrs Suvorin turned and stood up.

She was indeed a striking woman. With her tall, powerful body, her head thrown proudly back and her brown eyes gazing, apparently, down upon the world, she seemed more like a member of one of the princely families than a merchant’s wife. When men looked at Mrs Suvorin however – as they always did – it was the fine points of colour on her cheeks, the creamy flesh of her wonderful, sloping shoulders, her splendid, rather low breasts that they noticed, while becoming instantly conscious of the powerful, controlled sensuousness that her elegance did not trouble to conceal. If she’d let me, strong men thought, I could
make that body glow; while others, less certain of themselves, could only muse: Now that, my God, would take a proper man. A few, more poetic, thought they saw in those proud eyes a hint of sadness; but then, watching her in her drawing room, it was hard to know whether this might not be just an element of her art. One thing in any case was certain: Mrs Suvorin was in full bloom of her maturity.

As she rose, Mrs Suvorin noticed Nadezhda’s eyes fixed upon her, and she gazed at her daughter thoughtfully before nodding to herself.

It would have surprised Nadezhda to know that her mother understood very well what was passing in her mind. Indeed, she had guessed it all long ago, and it made her feel guilty. But as she looked at the girl’s accusing eyes, she could only sigh inwardly and reflect that there were things about her life that she could not explain to Nadezhda. Perhaps when the child was older. Perhaps never. At least, she thought sadly, whatever my faults, I am discreet.

‘I must dress now,’ she remarked briskly.

It promised to be an interesting evening. For these were certainly astonishing times.

Young Alexander Bobrov could only gasp. Of course, he had always known that his hero Suvorin was rich. ‘He’s a director of the Merchants’ Society and the Commercial Bank, you know,’ his father had explained. ‘He’s one of the elite.’ And his home matched his position, being one of the half-a-dozen former princely palaces which had, in recent decades, passed into the hands of the new merchant magnates like Suvorin who had supplanted them in power.

Since they had special business to conduct, they had come a little before the other guests, and now as they awaited their host, young Alexander stared round the huge room into which they had been shown.

It was very long, high and vaulted like a church. Down the centre, on an immense oriental carpet, ran a massive table covered with a green cloth upon which, he supposed, a hundred people could easily have stood. Above, huge brass chandeliers lit what would otherwise have been a cavernous gloom, and caused the golden patterns inlaid in the vaulting to glow. Around the sides of
the room, stout upright chairs and tables of dark wood were lined. Heavy, opulent, almost oppressive, it was like the palace of some Tsar from ancient Muscovy. But most astonishing of all were the walls: the paintings were hung so densely that their frames touched. Russian scenes, Impressionists, historical paintings – their brilliant colours blazed out like new-made icons.

One of these, just above Alexander, especially caught his attention. It was a large historical picture of Ivan the Terrible. The mighty Tsar was standing in a long robe of gold brocade edged with fur; in his hand was a heavy staff, and his fearsome eyes were glaring down accusingly, straight at Nicolai Bobrov. As well they might, thought Alexander, considering his father’s disgraceful errand.

For Nicolai had come to sell the merchant his estate.

It wasn’t really his fault. He couldn’t hold out any longer. He was in good company too. Since the troubles began in the countryside last year, landowners all over Russia had been selling off. Suvorin, moreover, had offered him an excellent price for the place. ‘More than it’s worth,’ he reminded his furious son. But now, seeing the boy’s miserable face, he looked down awkwardly at the long table and muttered: ‘I’m sorry.’

Vladimir Suvorin did not keep them waiting long. He swept into the room with his lawyer, embraced Nicolai warmly, gave Alexander’s arm a friendly squeeze, and in a moment the papers were all on the table before them.

Suvorin was in a good mood. He had long considered having a country retreat near his factories at Russka. In recent years, also, he had become interested in Russian crafts. ‘I’m going to set up some workshops for woodcarving and pottery on the estate,’ he had told Nicolai. ‘And a little museum for folk art, too.’ Now, seeing the father and son standing gloomily before him, he understood perfectly what was passing in their minds.

‘Your father’s made a wise decision,’ he said firmly to Alexander. ‘Though I want the estate for my museum, I shan’t be able to make it pay any more than he could.’ He smiled. ‘All the wise men are selling, my friends, and only fools like me are buying.’ Turning back to Nicolai he remarked: ‘Naturally, my friend, I rather envy you. You’re free as a bird now. You should make a tour of Europe. All the Russians are doing it, and nobles like you are treated with great respect in Paris and Monte Carlo. You should show your son the world.’

But even these kindly words failed to draw a smile from Alexander. Not that he felt any resentment towards the industrialist – quite the reverse. All he knew was this: the Bobrovs had held estates as long as Russia had existed; his father, with his liberal ideas, had lost them. His father had failed in his duty. And looking with renewed admiration at Suvorin he thought once more: How I wish you were my father.

But now Vladimir was beckoning. ‘Enough of business, my friends. It is time to meet our other guests.’

Mrs Suvorin’s entertaining was justly famous. Everyone came to her house. Artists, musicians and writers were especially welcome. But the aristocracy did not disdain the merchant’s hospitality and even a proud St Petersburg sophisticate like Prince Shcherbatov was a regular visitor. The Suvorin influence spread everywhere – theatres, journals, art schools. Even a strange young man named Diaghilev, who seemed to want to make himself a one-man ambassador for Russian art and culture, found patronage and encouragement in the Suvorin house. Indeed, of Russia’s celebrities, perhaps only Tolstoy, for some reason, had never come there.

Mrs Suvorin liked her guest-list to have a theme, and this evening was no exception.

‘Tonight,’ Vladimir had murmured to Nicolai Bobrov as they went into the huge salon, ‘will be all about politics.’

It was certainly appropriate. The political events of the last nine months had been astonishing. All the previous summer the situation had grown worse while the Tsar delayed. There had been constant terrorist acts, and industrial trouble. ‘Why the devil won’t he listen to the
zemstvos
?’ Nicolai would fume. But still the Tsar remained undecided. And then, in October, the unthinkable had happened. There had been a general strike. For ten, terrible days, as winter approached, nothing had moved in the entire Russian empire. The government had been completely powerless. ‘Either we shall have reform,’ Nicolai had declared, ‘or we’re all going to die.’ And then at last the Tsar had given way. He would grant the people a parliament – the Duma. ‘At last,’ Nicolai had explained, ‘that poor man has seen some sense. We’ll have a constitutional monarchy, like England. We’ll be civilized, like the west.’

Except that this was Russia.

The first Duma of the Russian state was organized as follows. Elections were held in which most Russian men could vote, but they did so grouped by class, each class able to send only so many deputies. The arithmetic of this system meant that each vote of a gentleman like Bobrov was worth that of three merchants, fifteen peasants, or forty-five urban workers. At the very time when the voting was taking place, however, the government also issued a package known by the old-fashioned title of Fundamental Laws. These added a second chamber on top of the first, half appointed by the Tsar and the rest selected by the most conservative elements. This effectively hamstrung the Duma. ‘Just in case they wanted to do anything,’ Nicolai Bobrov commented wryly. Even if the two houses were in agreement, they still had no real control over the bureaucracy who actually ran the empire. Further, the Tsar confirmed the autocracy, reserved the right to dissolve the Duma at his pleasure and affirmed that, whenever the Duma was not in session, he could govern by emergency decree as he saw fit.

‘In short,’ Nicolai had summarized, as these measures became known, ‘it’s very Russian. It’s a parliament – and it isn’t. It can talk – but it can’t act. The Tsar gives – and the Tsar takes away.’

Why then, as he walked into Mrs Suvorin’s drawing room that evening, should he have been so pleased? The answer was: two simple reasons. First the Socialists had boycotted the entire proceedings, and so put up few candidates; second, the Tsar’s assumption that the majority of the gentry and of the peasants would be loyal and vote for conservative candidates was completely wrong. The overwhelming majority voted against the regime – and returned a large number of progressive liberals. ‘And do you know,’ Nicolai declared gleefully to his wife, ‘I’m not sure next time I won’t stand myself.’ And so as he entered the room, he looked about him with interest.

Mrs Suvorin greeted him pleasantly. ‘I have done my work well,’ she smiled. ‘We have someone from almost every political party here.’

Nicolai smiled. It was typical of the situation in tsarist Russia that at present almost all the political parties remained, technically, illegal. The Duma was beginning its deliberations arranged in parties which, officially, did not exist!

Her claim was true. Nicolai soon identified men of impeccable
right-wing credentials who wanted the Duma abolished. ‘Friends for you,’ he said with a grin to his son. There were conservative liberals who wanted the Duma to cooperate with the Tsar; and there were men like himself, Constitutional Democrats, known as Cadets for short, who were determined to push the Tsar towards a proper democracy. ‘And what about the parties of the left?’ he asked her.

There were two of these nowadays. There were the Socialist Revolutionaries, who represented the peasants, but some of whom were unfortunately dedicated to terrorism. ‘I’m short there,’ his hostess remarked lightly. ‘Though if a bomb goes off, I suppose I’ll know I had one after all.’ And there was the party of the workers, the Social Democrats. ‘And there I have done better. Come and meet my brother-in-law: Professor Peter Suvorin.’

Peter and Rosa Suvorin did not often come to his brother’s huge house. Not that they were unwelcome: the two brothers were fond of each other; but their ways had long since parted. Rosa and Mrs Suvorin had little to say to each other, and Peter found that there was a subtle patronage towards him in her manner which plainly said: ‘I shall be charming, of course, but you are a poor, unfortunate creature.’ Indeed, but for one circumstance the two families might scarcely have met at all: and this was the friendship of their children.