Russka

by Edward Rutherfurd

  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 y
our 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.’

  If the village was deceived, however, Arina was not. She said nothing, but she knew very well that Nicolai wasn’t ill. As for Popov: What is he up to, that evil one? she would ask herself. As the days went by, Arina several times confided to her daughter: ‘Something bad’s going to happen, Varya.’ But when asked what, she could only shake her head and say: ‘I don’t know.’

  Perhaps, she realized, it was her own family troubles that gave her a sense of foreboding. Things were looking bad for the Romanovs. Young Boris and his wife were gone, and already she could see the strain was telling on Timofei. All alone now, the peasant’s simple face looked pale and abstracted, as if he were suffering pain. The money Natalia brought from the factory was a help, but there was something about the girl recently which made Arina wonder if she was reliable. I don’t like the look of her, she thought. She’ll run away or do something stupid. Varya’s pregnancy was not agreeing with her either. She was looking pale and unwell; and once when the two of them had gone into the woods to pick mushrooms, and the younger woman had tripped on a root and fallen face down on the ground, she had just lain there instead of getting up and moaned: ‘This baby’s going to kill me, Mother. I know it.’

  As she considered these matters, it seemed clearer than ever to Arina that when it was born, the baby must be disposed of. It’s easier to be hard when you get old, she considered. You see things as they are. And if anything confirmed her in this view, it was the interview which took place between Natalia and the family one evening.

  Natalia was rather proud of herself when she made the announcement.

  In a way, she had reason to be: for her courtship of Grigory had been successful.

  Right up to the end, it had been hard work. His reluctance and shyness had remained a constant challenge. Overcoming them had become a game she played with herself each day, and even Natalia was not fully aware how much this game had turned into an obsession. How slowly they had progressed from that first kiss, as she patiently cultivated the small flower of his trust and affection; how hesitantly it had grown from the cold, bare ground of his barren life. And what a sense of excitement it gave her to hold his small, bony form in her arms and feel him gradually spring into life. What was it, this result of her careful labours? Was it love? Was it affection? She supposed that, being life where before there was nothing, it must be. Above all, it gave her a strange and wonderful sense of possession. This, she thought, is mine. And since the completion of this process, the flowering, must be marriage, it seemed to her that when that took place, it would be the solution to everything.

  As for Grigory, he allowed himself to be persuaded. Gradually, their innocent embraces became, for him, full of a new excitement. As his confidence grew he began to want, urgently, to explore her body and to possess her. And since she would only let him go so far, he understood well enough that they must be married if this new world of wonder was to be opened and revealed to him. All right then, I’ll do it and have her, he thought. We’ll get married.

  And what then? He would lie with her. Her whole body would be his. The thought had become so thrilling that it made him laugh. What else would happen? He could hardly see beyond this except for one thing. As soon as we’re married, I’ll hit her in the face and give her a beating, he thought. That way I’ll be master in my own house. It wasn’t much, but it was the only thing he knew about marriage.

  So it was that, one sunny evening, Natalia told her parents the good news. Now that Grigory had proposed, she felt such a sense of achievement that she almost forgot that they might not be pleased. It was a shock, therefore, when instead of smiling, her father went pale and then roared: ‘Never!’

  ‘But why?’ she stammered, taken aback.

  ‘Why? Because he’s a penniless factory labourer, that’s why! He hasn’t a yard of land. He hasn’t a horse. He’s got nothing but the clothes on his back! What the devil do you mean by asking me to accept such a son-in-law?’ He pounded his fist on the table. Then, turning to his wife: ‘Varya, Varya. First the child; then my son leaves; now this. What the devil am I supposed to do?’ And he buried his face in his hands.

  Natalia looked at her mother. She too was pale, and shaking her head. ‘But he could help us,’ she explained, and told them her plan for having Grigory live with them. ‘It would mean we’d get his wages too.’

  But after only a short pause her father went on, with a groan: ‘Yes, and then you’ll produce a brat of your own, and then where will we be?’

  ‘There are young men in the village who’d have you, you know,’ Varya said gently. ‘It’s better if you have your own place, Natalia. You’d find that out quite soon.’

  ‘You’re not to see this boy any more,’ Timofei interrupted. ‘I ought to take you back from that cursed factory, except …’ He threw up his hands helplessly. Except that he couldn’t afford to.

  There, they all knew, lay the real point. But it was only because she was hurt that Natalia suddenly decided it was time to speak the truth.

  ‘The fact is,’ she said quietly, ‘that you don’t want me to marry at all because you need me here to support you. As for your talk of finding me a peasant with land, you can’t give me any dowry, so who’d have me? The boys in this village have enough girls to choose from. But I shall get married, whether you like it or not – and Grigory is the best chance you’ve got.’ It was humiliating, but true. She turned to walk out.

  ‘You’re only fifteen. I can refuse my consent,’ Timofei shouted after her. ‘I forbid you to see him.’

  She went outside and started to walk out of the village. Only when she got to the river bank did she start to cry.

  Inside the izba, Timofei put his head in his hands, Varya shook her head sadly, and Arina, who had said nothing, looked thoughtful and grim. She was sure of it now. Whatever happened, there was no room for this baby.

  How easy it was, Popov discovered, to go about his business unmolested. With his hat and his sketch book – and his careful references to Nicolai’s malady – no one seemed to suspect him of anything. It excited no suspicion if he loitered in Russka market, sketching. Even old Savva Suvorin had seen him near the cotton mill, and done no more than give him a bleak stare. And this last was important to Popov. For he was starting to make remarkable progress.

  There was no question: young Grigory was a wonderful find. Who’d have suspected, Popov thought, that a chance encounter would lead to such a treasure? The fellow
was intelligent, quick: and above all, he was bitter. He has judgement, Popov considered. He wouldn’t do anything rash like Nicolai Bobrov or Peter Suvorin. But no one who had heard Grigory speak his true mind about old Savva Suvorin and his factories could be in any doubt: if he needed to, he would kill. It seemed to Popov that there might be an important future awaiting Grigory – perhaps even a great one.

  The girl was not bad, either. Natalia didn’t have her young man’s cold fire. But she was a rebel too, with a mind of her own. She hated the old order. And it appeared that she was determined to marry young Grigory. They’ll make a good team, Popov judged. He could see himself working with them for a long time, as things developed.

  For the moment, however, until he was sure he could trust them, he was cautious. Though it was clear that Grigory would gladly burn down the factories and slit Suvorin’s throat, if he thought he could get away with it. Popov kept their conversations general. He would speak vaguely about the better order that was to come; he dropped faint hints about his friend Nicolai Bobrov’s connection with the mysterious Central Committee; he told them that he himself was only a new disciple of the cause. ‘Bobrov hasn’t told me much, and unfortunately he’s sick,’ he explained. And so, over two weeks, he found out far more about them than they did about him.

  It was on the day after Natalia’s quarrel with her parents, when they were meeting in the storeroom where he had hidden away the printing press, that Popov told them in a confidential tone: ‘I have a message for you from Bobrov. He is impressed with what he hears of you and he wants to entrust you with a mission.’ He paused and, seeing they were interested, lowered his voice. ‘There is someone else in Russka who has contacts with the Central Committee. Tomorrow he will give you some leaflets, which you are to distribute selectively – to people you can trust – in the factories and in the village.’ He looked at them carefully. ‘But one thing is of the greatest importance. You must not speak to this person, and you must never reveal his identity to anyone.’ He looked grave. ‘The Committee knows how to deal with those who betray them.’