Russka (138 page)

The gay intimacy of their afternoons together was only occasionally dampened by the presence of a rather serious sixteen year old.

It was November when they first began to notice that Alexander Bobrov had entered their lives. His father at that time had just become one of the Moscow deputies, for the liberal Cadet party, to the Tsar’s new and conservative Duma – which, after losing their estates, had been some comfort to the family. Since his own father had just been cut out of the Duma, however, this did not make Dimitri especially friendly towards the solemn youth. Nadezhda was polite, because he was a friend of her father’s. But Karpenko, only two years Alexander’s junior, made no secret of his contempt.

Alexander seldom said much. Having called upon Suvorin on some pretext, he would come in with him, or sometimes venture in alone, speak a few polite words to Nadezhda, and stand around for a short while, listening to their conversation rather awkwardly. And it was not long before Karpenko had found a nickname for him. ‘Look out,’ he would whisper, ‘here comes the Russian calendar.’

It was a clever joke. Though Peter the Great had reformed the calendar, he had used the old Julian system for counting the days; and whereas the rest of Europe had since transferred to the more modern Gregorian system, Russia and her Orthodox Church had stuck with the Julian. As a result, by the start of the twentieth century, the huge empire now lagged thirteen days behind the rest of the world. The cruel nickname exactly captured Alexander’s conservative mentality.

Whenever he saw young Bobrov, Karpenko would speak enthusiastically of the coming new age, of the folly of the Tsar, and declaim the lines of Alexander Blok on Russia’s years of stagnation:

Let the ravens croak and fly
Over us who daily die
God, O God, let better men
See Thy Kingdom come.

And poor young Bobrov would watch, morosely.

It was the following Easter, in 1908, that a small incident made plain what was in young Bobrov’s mind.

As for everyone in Russia, Easter Day was a busy time in the great Suvorin house. Though neither Vladimir nor his brother Peter were religious, it never occurred to either to miss the long Easter vigil the night before; and on Easter Day the house was open to a constant stream of visitors. In the huge dining room, the long table was piled high with the rich foods that were allowed now the Easter fast was over. In the centre of the table were the two traditional Easter dishes:
kulich
, the creamy, thick bread decorated with the paschal sign; and the white sweet shaped like a little pyramid – the
paskha
. And everywhere, of course, decorated Easter eggs, some painted red, some in the Ukrainian manner covered with elaborate designs: people brought them, received them – several thousand eggs would be consumed in the huge Suvorin mansion. And all washed down with iced vodka.

The Bobrovs came by in the middle of the day, just after Peter Suvorin and his family, and so Dimitri and his friend were witnesses to the little scene. Young Nadezhda and her mother were both wearing the traditional festival dresses of Russian women. Mrs Suvorin also wore a high diadem – the
kokoshnik
– of gold and mother of pearl, which made her look more regal than ever. As was the custom, each arrival went from one person to another, kissing each one three times and exchanging the Easter greeting: ‘Christ is Risen’: ‘He is risen indeed.’

When young Alexander Bobrov reached Nadezhda, however, he did not pass on but paused and reached into his pocket and drew out a little box. ‘This is a present for you,’ he said gravely. Astonished the girl opened it, to find a tiny but beautiful little Easter
egg
, made of silver with decorations in coloured stones. It came from Fabergé.

‘It’s lovely.’ For once, she was so astonished that she did not know what to say. ‘It’s for me?’

He smiled. ‘Of course.’

Dimitri and Karpenko watched, equally amazed. It was one of Fabergé’s smallest pieces, of course, but still an astonishing present for a boy at school to give, and hardly appropriate. Nor were they alone in thinking so for the little scene had caught the eagle eye of Mrs Suvorin. She swooped.

‘What a charming present.’ She gathered both the boy and his egg and somehow whisked both across the room before Alexander knew what had happened. ‘But my dear Alexander,’ she said, gently but firmly, ‘I can’t allow you to give such a thing to Nadezhda at her age. She’s really too young, you know.’

Alexander blushed scarlet.

‘If you do not wish …’

‘I am very touched that you should have thought of it. But she is not used to such presents, Alexander. If you wish you can give it to me and I will give it to her when she is older,’ she said kindly. And feeling now that there was nothing else in politeness he could do, Alexander sadly gave it to her.

But the message was clear. He had tried to make a declaration and Mrs Suvorin, for whatever reason, had not let him do so. He felt embarrassed and humiliated. And even when Vladimir put his arm affectionately round him and led him off for a stroll in the gallery, he was hardly comforted.

As for Dimitri and Karpenko, they were beside themselves. ‘Poor young Bobrov,’ Karpenko mocked. ‘Fabergé sold him a rotten egg.’

And Nadezhda, deprived of her egg, could hardly decide what she felt about it all.

In the summer of 1908 it seemed that Russia, after all, might be at peace. The wave of terrorism was passing. Stolypin’s harsh measures against the revolutionaries had greatly damaged them; and the recent discovery that the leading Socialist Revolutionary terrorist had long been a police agent had weakened that party in the eyes of the people. There were signs of progress too. The new Duma was not, as some had feared, the Tsar’s lapdog. Liberals like Nicolai Bobrov spoke up boldly for democracy; and even the
conservative majority backed the minister Stolypin in his plans for careful reform. Finally, that year, the excellent weather gave every promise of a bumper harvest. The countryside was quiet.

And it was in the country that the blow which was to decide Dimitri’s destiny fell, quite unexpectedly, out of the blue sky.

It was Vladimir’s idea that they should go to Russka. All spring, Rosa had looked unwell and both Vladimir and Peter had urged her: ‘Escape the city in the summer heat.’ In the end it was agreed that Dimitri and his friends should come; Karpenko would stay for the month of June before returning to the Ukraine for the rest of the holidays, and Rosa would try to come with Peter in July.

Dimitri found the place delightful. His uncle’s remarkable vision was already at work. Thirty yards from the old Bobrov house there now stood a long, low wooden building which housed the museum and, at the far end, some workshops. In these Vladimir had already installed an expert woodcarver and a potter, whom Dimitri and Nadezhda loved to watch. The museum, though only just begun, was already a little treasure house. There were the traditional distaffs, elaborately carved painted wooden spoons, presses for making patterns or bread and cakes, and wonderful embroidered cloths, featuring the curious oriental bird design that was customary at Russka. Vladimir had also begun a collection of icons of the local school from the time when the monastery had been a centre of production.

In the house itself, Vladimir had provided a varied library and a grand piano. Mrs Suvorin, evidently rather bored by the country, usually sat reading on the verandah; but the house was efficiently run by Arina, whose young son Ivan was constantly hovering, hoping for a chance to play. He and Nadezhda were almost the same age, and it was amusing to see the sophisticated ten-year-old girl go whooping down the slope after the peasant boy or play hide and seek with him in the woods above the house.

In the afternoons, Vladimir would often take Nadezhda and the boys to bathe in the river. The big industrialist was surprisingly agile and a strong swimmer. Karpenko, it turned out, could hardly swim, but Vladimir personally held him in the water and coached him so that soon he could outstrip any of them. Afterwards, their bodies tingling from the cold water, they would sit on the bank and talk.

The industrialist was a wonderful talker. He would put his great arm round Nadezhda or one of the boys and discuss all manner of things with them, exactly as if they were adults. And it was on one of these afternoons that he gave them his view of Russia’s future. As usual, it was to the point.

‘It’s really quite simple,’ he told them. ‘Russia is now in a race against time. Stolypin, whom I personally support, knows he has to modernize Russia while he keeps the lid on the forces of revolution. If he succeeds, the Tsar will keep his throne; if not …’ He grimaced. ‘Chaos. Peasant and urban insurrection. Remember Pugachev, as they used to say.’

‘What must Stolypin do?’ Karpenko asked.

‘Three things, chiefly. Develop industry. Thanks to foreign capital that’s going well. Next, educate the masses. Sooner or later some kind of democracy will come, and the people aren’t ready for it. Stolypin is making progress there. Thirdly, he’s trying to reform the countryside.’ He sighed. ‘And that, I’m afraid, will be hard.’

The attempt to change the Russian peasant, Dimitri knew, lay at the heart of the great minister’s reforms. In the last two years, important changes had been made. The payments due to the former landowners, together with all arrears, had been entirely cancelled. The peasant had been given full civil liberties, the use of the same law courts as any other citizen, and an internal passport for travel without the permission of the commune, which he was now free to leave at any time. At last, half a century after the Emancipation, he was a free man in fact as well as theory. But there still remained one huge problem.

‘For what can be done about the commune?’ Vladimir wondered aloud.

Even now, the commune’s wasteful strip-farming of medieval times with its periodic redistributions had changed but little. Russian grain yield remained only a third of those in much of Western Europe. In his attempt to change this, Stolypin was trying to encourage peasants to withdraw from the commune, cultivate their own personal land, and be independent farmers. Laws were being passed; easy credit made available through the Peasant Bank. But progress so far was slow.

‘Isn’t Stolypin trying to make the peasant into a bourgeois, though – a capitalist?’ Dimitri objected.

‘Of course he is,’ Vladimir replied. ‘Unlike you, Dimitri, I’m a capitalist. But I do confess that it’s going to be very difficult to make it work.’

‘I’d have thought it would be easy,’ Karpenko remarked.

‘Yes, my friend.’ Vladimir tousled the boy’s head affectionately. ‘But that’s because you come from the Ukraine. Down there in the western provinces of White Russia there’s a tradition of independent farming. But in these central provinces, in Russia proper, the commune system is solid. And if you want to know why, just look at the village here. Look at Boris Romanov, the village elder.’

Dimitri and Karpenko had soon come to know Romanov. As village elder now, he was a figure of some power, which he clearly enjoyed. The family, with three strong sons, had the largest share of strips in the village now and Boris’s house had handsome carving round the eaves and painted shutters. Yet that spring, when Stolypin’s reforms had made some state land by the monastery available for purchase, and Vladimir had remarked to him – ‘Well, Boris Timofeevich, I dare say you’ll be buying some yourself’ – he had glowered and replied: ‘The commune’s buying it.’ And then, quietly but audibly: ‘And we’ll smoke you out too, one day.’

‘Nothing will persuade Romanov that the answer to everything isn’t to take this estate,’ Vladimir continued. ‘And do you know the irony? In many provinces there isn’t enough land – even if you dispossess every landowner – to do the peasants the slightest bit of good! Their best answer is to resettle to less populated provinces – which Stolypin’s also trying to encourage.’ He sighed. ‘So the peasants support the social revolutionaries – even the terrorists – because they promise to distribute all the land.’

The industrialist smiled grimly as he summed up.

‘So the communal peasant does little for himself but waits for a miracle that will solve everything in the twinkling of an eye. Passive, but angry. He’d prefer decades of unnecessary suffering, followed by a moment of useless violence.’

Though Dimitri, coming from the Socialist household of Peter and Rosa, naturally knew that in his conservative politics his Uncle Vladimir was mistaken, he had a great respect for his intelligence and recognized the truth of much of what he said. And thinking of the revolution he knew one day must come, he asked: ‘So do you think Stolypin will fail, and the Tsar lose his throne?’

‘It isn’t clear to me,’ his uncle replied frankly, ‘but remember this: in 1905 we had a war and a food shortage. That’s what actually caused the revolution. My guess, therefore, is that in order to win the race, Stolypin needs two things: peace, and good harvests. That is what will really decide the fate of Russia. Nothing much else.’

Yet it would have been hard, that peaceful summer, to think for long about such serious matters.

It was a happy time. In the mornings, Karpenko would often go out to explore the countryside, or sketch, or devise fantastic games to amuse young Ivan and Nadezhda, who both seemed to look upon him as a god. Meanwhile, for three hours, Dimitri would practise the piano. He had concentrated on the piano now, to the near exclusion of the violin, and though he might lack the driven technical virtuosity of the professional performer, his playing was of a remarkable musical sophistication.

In the afternoons, if they were not swimming with Vladimir, they sat on the verandah and read books or played cards with Mrs Suvorin.

One day Vladimir had taken them round the factories at Russka. It had been an impressive tour. Dimitri had studied the factory workers with interest as they quietly went about their tasks; but Karpenko had been fascinated by the mechanism of the plant itself. ‘Such raw power,’ he whispered to Dimitri afterwards. ‘Did you notice the incredible, harsh beauty of the place? And your uncle – he’s in charge of this machine. I admire him more every day.’