And to his surprise also, his Bolshevik friend was extremely frank. ‘Yes. It is a danger, in theory. But remember, Nicolai Mikhailovich, that the political objective we seek is not that far from yours. The only way forward for Russia, the only way to Socialism, is through the people – through democracy.’ He paused. ‘Whatever else, always remember this: all Socialists, including the Bolshevik faction, are trying to reach the same thing: a democratically elected body – one man, one vote – with sovereign power. We don’t want to overthrow the Tsar to put another tyrant in his place. We want a Constituent Assembly, just as you do. Democracy will lead to Socialism; but democracy is the all-important means.’
It was said with great seriousness and great conviction. And all who heard him believed.
Or so it seemed, until young Alexander Bobrov broke his silence.
He had been standing beside Vladimir Suvorin all this time, watching Popov carefully. True, he had been listening as well, but for Alexander it was not a question of argument. The red-headed Bolshevik was his enemy. He knew that in his bones. His enemy unto death. For the youth, therefore, it was only a question of observing the object of his hatred so that he might know him better.
And now the revolutionary’s words had infuriated him: not because of what had been said but because, Alexander could see, the hearers had been impressed. Are they all going to be as stupid as my father? he wondered. And he had a burning urge to expose Popov, to throw down the gauntlet, and to humiliate him.
‘I’ve heard that all the leading revolutionaries are yids,’ he said, softly but distinctly. ‘Is it true?’
It was a calculated impertinence, a sort of generalized insult that those on the right liked to use – to anger Jews by calling them all revolutionaries and revolutionaries by calling them all Jews. There was a horrible, embarrassed silence.
But Popov, gazing at the boy, who was now flushing, only chuckled.
‘Well, of course, Trotsky and Rosa Luxemburg are both Jewish,’ he said. ‘So are several others I can think of. But so far, my friend, I have to tell you that the Jews are in a minority in our party. Mind you,’ he added, with a wink at Peter Suvorin, ‘Lenin, who’s not a Slav himself, always says the only intelligent Russians are the Jewish ones. So you’ll have to make what you can of that.’
It was well handled, and the company laughed gratefully. Alexander felt Vladimir Suvorin’s large hand resting on his shoulder give him a gentle, warning squeeze, but he ignored even his hero.
‘What about terrorism? I hear that the Bolsheviks are behind some of the bombing, and that they’ve been committing robberies too.’
In fact, these charges were entirely true. Lenin advocated both methods at this time, to maximize disruption and to get funds for the Bolsheviks – a fact which embarrassed party men like Peter Suvorin who tried to cover it up.
‘I too have heard of these incidents and expropriations,’ Popov replied blandly. ‘But I know absolutely nothing about them.’
Now Vladimir’s hand moved down to Alexander’s arm, squeezed firmly, and the boy heard the great man whisper: ‘Enough, my friend.’ But he had not finished.
‘Do you know, I have seen you before,’ he said, more loudly. ‘When you were inciting the workers of the man in whose house you now dare to come. But you avoided meeting him then. You used another name – Ivanov – and ran away like a dog. How many names have you, Mr Popov?’
For a moment, as Popov turned his green eyes upon him, it seemed to young Alexander that he was looking at a snake. But then, very calmly, the Bolshevik replied: ‘It is a sad fact that for a long time – since any opposition in Russia is under police surveillance – many people have had to use more than one name. Lenin, to my knowledge, has used more than a hundred.’ Though cool, Popov had turned pale.
‘You deny that you’re a thief and a coward then?’ Alexander pursued, into the terrible silence.
This time Popov did not reply at all, but only looked at him, for a moment more, with a faint half-smile. Then Mrs Suvorin, with an easy laugh, led Popov away.
‘You’ve made a dangerous enemy,’ Alexander’s father warned him, a few minutes later. To which the youth only replied, sulkily: ‘It’s better than having him as a friend.’
Despite Alexander’s embarrassing attack, it was generally agreed, afterwards, that the evening had been a success. Indeed, it was one of those special occasions which, for long afterwards, and for different reasons, remains as a landmark in the minds of all those concerned.
For Nicolai Bobrov, it was the evening when his son made an enemy of Popov. For Mrs Suvorin it was the occasion upon which, after spending half an hour with her, this strange, red-headed Bolshevik had promised to visit her salon again, when he was next in Moscow.
For two people, however, the evening was to be remembered for small events that took place just as it was ending.
It was only after leaving his brother’s house that Peter Suvorin turned to his wife and asked curiously: ‘Whatever was Vladimir talking to you about?’
‘Oh. Nothing.’
He waited, but she said no more.
‘It must have been something,’ he suggested. ‘You looked upset.’
‘Did I? I don’t think so.’
Why, even now, should his dear wife, at this harmless mention of a conversation with his brother, suddenly look as though she might burst into tears? Surely Vladimir could not have said anything to hurt her.
‘I think my brother’s kind,’ he said, to see if there were any reaction. ‘People say he’s wise,’ he added, for no particular reason.
And then came the reply which he remembered always, afterwards, and never understood.
‘He knows everything. That’s just the trouble. Please don’t speak of him again.’
It was certainly very strange. It made no sense at all.
For young Alexander Bobrov, the event that changed his life came just as he was walking out through the great hall behind his father. And it was only chance that made him glance up at the marble gallery above. But when he did, he found he could not move. Little Nadezhda loved to watch the guests departing. She would lie awake while her parents’ parties were in progress, then sneak out in her nightdress and peer through the marble pillars, taking note of all that passed below. As it happened, most of the guests having departed, she was standing up now, clearly visible, her long auburn hair cascading down.
Which was how Alexander saw her. A youth, almost a young man, staring up at a little girl of eight.
‘She must be Suvorin’s little girl,’ he murmured. He had never seen her before. What an angelic face. What lustrous hair. And she was Vladimir’s – his hero. And straight away, at that very moment it came to him. ‘One day,’ he whispered to her, though she could not hear, ‘one day you will be mine.’
1906, July
Nicolai Bobrov stared sadly at the long wooden house that had always been his home. He could scarcely believe he might never see Russka again.
The rest of the family had all departed a month ago: his old mother Anna, his wife and young Alexander. They were all in Moscow now, while he had returned to remove the last vestiges of his family’s long occupation.
It was mid-morning and he was done. The three carts by the stables had been piled high by the peasants who now stood expectantly beside them. A last search round the empty house had revealed only a few old boxes of papers left in the attic. He thought they would just fit on to the third cart. Then it would be time to go.
Nicolai was leaving things in good order: he was proud of that. He had stopped a leak in the roof and had the little bath house repaired. He had also arranged for Arina and her son to move up from the village and live in as caretakers. They would take good care of the place. Suvorin would have nothing to complain of. Indeed, as he had taken his last walk up the alley of silver birches above the house, and gazed down the slope to the little River Rus below, he had thought what a pleasant spot it was, and brushed away a tear.
; Now however, as he glanced towards the door of the house and saw Arina and her son watching him, he took a sharp breath and threw his chest out. He was a Bobrov. They would see him leave with dignity. ‘It’s time,’ he muttered, ‘to begin a new life.’ True, he was fifty-two; but though his hair was grey, his blue eyes were clear and his figure, unlike his father and grandfather at that age, had put on little weight. He might have lost the estate, but there was still the future.
Yet who knew what that future would be? The last three months had hardly been promising. The Duma, having met, had been a shambles. He had made a visit to St Petersburg and found everyone quarrelling. The peasant members had little idea what to do. Some of them had got drunk and started brawls in taverns. One was arrested for stealing a pig. Yet comic as these antics were, the behaviour of his own party, the liberal Cadets, had shocked him even more. Having demanded a wholesale distribution of land to the peasants, which the Tsar refused to consider, they would not cooperate with the government about anything. Worse yet, while the terrorists continued their campaign all over Russia, the Cadets refused even to condemn the violence until the government gave in to their own demands.
‘I’m a Cadet,’ he complained to Suvorin on his return to Moscow. ‘But thousands of people are being killed. We liberals are supposed to be responsible: I can’t understand it.’
Suvorin, however, had been philosophical. ‘You forget, my friend, that this is Russia,’ he said. ‘Throughout our history we have only known two political forms: autocracy and rebellion. This business of democracy and parliament, which only work through compromise, is all new to us. We think we want democracy, but we don’t really understand it. It will take time.’
Days before, having sat only two months, this Duma had been dissolved and new elections were expected later that year. Nicolai had heard, however, that the Socialist parties would probably take part next time. ‘And God knows whether that will make things better or worse.’ The future looked uncertain indeed.
Time to be going. There were only those few boxes in the attic to bring down; if they left soon, they could be in Vladimir by nightfall. Nicolai turned to go inside.
It was just then, however, that he noticed a figure coming up the slope towards him, and realized to his surprise that it was Boris Romanov.
He had not expected to see him. When he had gone down the day before to bid farewell to the peasants in the village, he had been aware that Boris had quietly avoided him. He had long realized that Boris harboured a grudge of some kind against his family. ‘Watch out for that fellow,’ his father Misha had cautioned him once. ‘I had some trouble with him.’ Misha would never say exactly what, though. For his part, however, Nicolai had nothing against Boris. He remembered with a wry smile how he had once incited him to revolution when they were young. And as I’m a Cadet, these days, trying to get more land for the peasants, he really ought to be my friend, he considered. Perhaps, after all, the head of the Romanov family had relented and come up the hill to say goodbye. Nicolai went forward to greet him.
They met by the end of the house. Nicolai gave the peasant a friendly nod while Boris paused a few paces away from him. It was some time since Nicolai had examined Romanov so closely. He, too, was going grey, but he looked strong and healthy. They were a typical contrast: the noble in his straw hat, open linen jacket, waistcoat, fob watch and tie, looking so western he might just have come from watching an English cricket match; the Russian peasant, the perfect muzhik, in loose trousers, bast shoes, red shirt and broad belt, unchanged since the ancient times of golden Kiev. Two cultures, both calling themselves Russian, yet with nothing in common except their land, their language, and a church in which neither of them usually bothered to worship. And now, having lived side by side for centuries, they were bidding each other farewell.
‘So you’re going.’ The burly peasant was standing with his arms hanging loosely by his sides. His broad face, Nicolai noticed, seemed to have closed up somewhat so that his eyes were now like slits.
‘As you see, Boris Timofeevich,’ the noble answered politely.
For a moment Boris surveyed the carts silently, and then the front of the house where Arina and little Ivan were watching. He nodded thoughtfully.
‘We should have smoked you out long ago.’ It was said in a matter-of-fact way, yet it was a far from friendly statement. The process of vandalism and arson by which, in recent years, many landlords had been encouraged to sell their lands to peasants was generally known as ‘smoking out’. Nicolai remembered the fire in his woods the previous year and looked at Boris thoughtfully. ‘But Suvorin’s got the land now, not us,’ Boris added bitterly.
‘The Cadets want land distribution. There are state lands hereabouts you may get which would be far better than my poor woods,’ he reminded the peasant.
But Boris ignored him. He seemed to be following his own train of thought. ‘The revolution’s started, but it hasn’t finished yet,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ll have all the land soon.’
‘Perhaps.’ Nicolai was beginning to grow bored with the peasant’s sullen rudeness. ‘I must be going,’ he said irritably.
‘Yes.’ Boris allowed himself a grim smile. ‘The Bobrovs are going at last. So, goodbye, Nicolai Mikhailovich.’ And he took a step forward.
It seemed he was going to say a half-friendly goodbye after all. Nicolai began to extend his hand. And then Boris grimaced. And spat.
Nicolai had never known what it was to have someone spit in his face before. It was worse, more utterly insulting, more violent, than any mere blow. He reeled back. And as he did so, the peasant hissed: ‘Good riddance, you damned Bobrov. And don’t come back or we’ll kill you.’ Then he turned and stamped away.
So horrified, so revolted, was Nicolai that, for a second or two, he could do nothing. After that he thought briefly of striking the departing peasant, or of having him arrested. Then he was overcome by a feeling of disgust and futility. He looked back at the house and saw Arina and the boy staring at him. The peasants by the carts were watching him impassively too. Did they all, perhaps, hate him so much?
‘We’re going,’ he called out, with what dignity he could muster. And a few moments afterwards, he was seated beside the driver of the first cart as it creaked down the slope. Still red, and shaking with impotent fury, he scarcely glanced back as they went along. And only when they were halfway to the monastery did he remember, with a shrug, that he had left some boxes still in the attic. It didn’t matter. They could stay there. It was over.
And so the Bobrovs quitted their ancestral estate.
1907
To Dimitri Suvorin at the age of twelve the world seemed a wonderful place. Yet there were still things he did not understand.
In particular: what was happening to his mother?
He was a strange boy, his body small and slight. His narrow face sometimes reminded Rosa of her father. Like Peter, however, Dimitri was short-sighted and wore spectacles. But if he looked physically fragile, this was offset by an extraordinary intensity in the pale face under its unruly mop of black wiry hair, and by the sudden laughter to which he was frequently prone.
He was a happy child. Though the little family was very close – his parents obviously adored each other – the atmosphere was never oppressive. The three of them lived in a pleasant, untidy apartment with high ceilings near the centre of the city. The building was three storeys high and its street side was faced with cream-coloured stucco. In the courtyard where the children played stood a mulberry tree. From the courtyard, one could see the dome of the little church where Dimitri had been christened looming quietly over the roof. The district was full of charm. Nearby was the School of Painting and close to that a strange house with a glass roof where Prince Trubetskoy the sculptor had his studio. Two streets away was a little flower market and beside it a coachmaker’s workshop with a huge stuffed bear in the window.
And how delightful it was, on a warm summer evening, to walk about the city. Snobbish St
Petersburg with its classical façades might be the empire’s head, but Moscow was still the heart. Though a city of nearly four hundred thousand now, it was a curious blend of the industrial and Muscovite ages. On the outskirts, tall factory chimneys and ancient fortified monasteries dwelt side by side. In the last two decades, the so-called ‘Russian’ style of architecture – Russia’s version of the West’s nineteenth-century ‘gothick’ style – had come into vogue, so that railway stations and other public buildings now arose with strange designs of brick and plaster so ornate that they might have come from the wild Muscovite extravaganza of St Basil’s Cathedral on Red Square. And these buildings, too, had their own heavy charm. Young Dimitri would spend hours wandering about the streets, or on the broad and leafy boulevards that ringed the inner city, or by the Kremlin walls from inside which the silvery tinklings of the church bells could be heard. And sometimes it seemed to him as if the whole city was like some gigantic piece of music by Tchaikovsky, Moussorgsky, or one of the other great Russian composers, that had miraculously been transposed into stone.
He was four when the first clear signs of his musical talent appeared. His mother spotted them at once. By the age of six, at his own request, he was learning both the piano and the violin. When he was seven his father declared: ‘Perhaps he’ll be a concert pianist.’ But at eight Rosa had said: ‘I don’t think so.’ And it was true, as time passed, that though he had a remarkable gift for playing, young Dimitri would often prefer to compose little tunes of his own than spend the extra hours needed each day if he were to climb the rocky path to the performer’s art. Now, at twelve, he went to the excellent Fifth Moscow Grammar School near Arbat Square and studied music voraciously in his spare time.
And prepared for the revolution. There was never any question about that in Professor Peter Suvorin’s home. They all worked for it. Two years ago, they had been up many times all night while Rosa typed out revolutionary articles on her typewriter, and young Dimitri had often been used to take them to various distribution points. It was thrilling to know that he was aiding the great cause.
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