Russka: The Novel of Russia

  When Alexander came up with him, Suvorin was walking towards the cotton mill. He nodded briefly as the youth fell into step beside him. ‘It is really a strike?’ young Bobrov asked.

  ‘Yes.’ The industrialist seemed quite calm.

  ‘What will you do?’ Alexander whispered. ‘Call in the Cossacks?’ He knew several strikes had already been broken up by the dashing Cossack cavalry squadrons. But to his surprise, Suvorin shook his head. ‘I’m not such a fool,’ he replied.

  For half an hour they walked round various parts of the Suvorin enterprise – the mill, the weaving looms, the dormitories. All the machines lay idle, but there was no sign of other trouble. The workers were mostly standing around in groups, talking quietly, and as Suvorin went by, he exchanged polite greetings with them. ‘The strike’s not against me or the working conditions, you see,’ he explained to Alexander in a low voice. ‘This is different. People from outside have come and persuaded them to strike in sympathy. They’re demanding political reforms.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Calling in the Cossacks would only make things worse.’

  Alexander groaned. ‘It’s those zemstvo men, like my father, isn’t it?’ he muttered. ‘They’ve stirred up all this trouble.’

  But to Alexander’s surprise, Suvorin shook his head firmly. ‘Don’t blame your father,’ he replied. ‘Wait.’ And for several more minutes he said nothing.

  Only when they were outside in the warm and dusty street did Suvorin explain. Taking the boy by the arm, he walked up and down with him, speaking quietly but with conviction.

  ‘You don’t understand what is happening, my friend. Do you know the story of the emperor who had no clothes? Well, that’s what is happening to the Tsar now. Think of it – Russia is huge, inchoate, disorganized. A vast land of peasants where a semblance of order is maintained by an autocratic Tsar, his army and police, and a minority of privileged people like you who have few links with the people. But the whole state is a huge sham, don’t you see? Because – this is the key – no one has any real power. The Tsar has no power because his army is in the east and he has no true link with his people. The government is not for the people, it’s against them. You and your father have no power: you depend upon the Tsar for all your privileges. I have no power: I depend upon the Tsar to maintain order and protect my business. The people have no power, because they have no organization, and no idea what they want anyway.’ He shrugged. ‘The present crisis shows that the Tsar is actually unable to lead our society or to control it. The emperor has no clothes. And in this huge mess we call the empire, it will only take one spark to set off a huge fire. We could have a revolt any day, that would make the Pugachev look like a tea party. Total, mindless, chaos.’ Suvorin sighed. ‘That’s why I’m being careful.’

  ‘So what can the Tsar do?’

  ‘Head them off. The only organized forces out there are two. There are the unions, still forming, and except for the railway men all professionals – the doctors, teachers and lawyers – and there are the zemstvo men like your father, the only people with a programme. The Tsar has to come to terms with them and hope that the people will quieten down. The longer he takes, the worse it will be.’

  ‘But what about the Tsar and Holy Russia?’ cried Alexander. ‘The peasants believe in that.’

  Suvorin smiled. ‘They do on Feast Days, I dare say,’ he replied. ‘But only two people believe in Holy Russia every day of the year.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘The Tsar himself, my young friend. Just the Tsar.’ He grinned. ‘And you!’ He liked to tease the boy.

  It was as they continued their walk round the town that Alexander noticed that Suvorin seemed to be looking for something. His eyes were constantly scanning the street before him: several times he turned abruptly to glance to one side. When Alexander asked him, however, what he was searching for, the industrialist quietly smiled. ‘Not something, my friend. Someone.’ He glanced down at young Bobrov.

  ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you,’ Suvorin asked, ‘that all the time we went round inside, we saw only familiar faces. No sign of the outsiders who stirred up the trouble. But I’ve discovered who it is: a single man.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘They call him Ivanov.’

  ‘Will you arrest him?’

  ‘No. I’d like to, but it would only create more trouble.’

  ‘Are you going to speak to him?’

  ‘I offered to, but he avoids me. He’s a cunning devil.’ He paused. ‘I’d like to get a good look at him. Just so I’d know him another time.’

  They continued to walk. They strolled to the little park by Suvorin’s house and gazed down from the parapet over the woodlands and river below. Then they went back, past the church, into the market square. And then they saw him.

  He was standing about a hundred yards away talking to a group of men and, for a moment, he was not aware that Suvorin and the boy were watching him. He was an unusual figure. One might have guessed he was in his late forties. His face was clean-shaven and marked by two deep lines that curved down his cheeks from the outer corners of each eye. There was a slight puffiness around the eyes themselves. And his head was covered with close-cropped, orange-red hair. ‘So that’s him,’ Suvorin murmured. ‘What a curious-looking fellow.’ He would certainly know him again.

  A moment later, the stranger caught sight of them and slipped away.

  Alexander, too, took careful note of the face. So this, he thought, is the face of the enemy. For some reason he had a feeling that he might see him again.

  Little Ivan watched his Uncle Boris, fascinated. His uncle had not seen him enter the passage and was unaware of his presence.

  Only a few minutes had passed since Boris had been talking to the man from the Suvorin factory outside. He had seemed quite casual then. ‘A ginger-haired fellow, eh? Well I never. About my age. Who did you say he was? Ivanov, eh? Never heard of him. And where did you say this fellow was staying? Out of Suvorin’s way, I suppose. Ah, yes. Just outside the town. Well, well. Good luck to him, and to you all.’

  Yet there was nothing calm about his Uncle now. Little Ivan had never seen him so excited as he paced up and down the big storeroom muttering to himself.

  ‘Ivanov indeed. It’s that devil. That ginger-headed devil. Murderer! This time I’ll get you, though. I’ll not miss you this time. Ah, my poor Natalia.’

  He was muttering so vehemently that little Ivan was rather frightened. After a minute or two he slipped out again. But whatever could it mean?

  It was unusual for Uncle Boris to go out hunting on a summer night, and especially to walk for miles. But tonight, for some reason, was an exception.

  ‘I’m going down south to the marshes,’ he remarked blandly. ‘Find myself a good spot and see what the dawn brings.’ The nights were short and warm. All kinds of game came over the marshes in the early morning. Dusk saw Boris preparing his gun cheerfully. Before he went, Ivan saw him slip a large hunting knife into his belt. ‘Can’t I come too?’ he had begged, but Boris had just ruffled his hair and remarked: ‘Next time.’ Then as night fell, he had taken his boat, and paddled away towards the south.

  It was only some time later, when she was putting him to bed, that the little boy had told his mother Arina about Uncle Boris’s strange behaviour and asked: ‘Who was Natalia?’

  How oddly people were behaving that evening. Why had his mother turned so pale, then tried to hide it? And why, having told him to go to sleep and that she was going to join the rest of the family at a neighbour’s, had she instead slipped silently out of the village?

  He had watched her out of the window. She had gone up the slope, towards the Bobrov house.

  But if all these things were puzzling to little Ivan, the scene the next morning was terrible.

  The dawn had just been breaking when he had awoken and gone outside; and he had just been enjoying the first, tentative sounds of the birds when Boris had appeared, walking through the gloom. He could see that his Uncle was furious about some
thing, but it seemed that the fury was not directed at him, for Uncle Boris had even smiled as he paused to exchange a few words.

  ‘Anyone go up to the Bobrovs’ last night?’ The question was asked so casually, so easily, that the little fellow had not even thought as he answered.

  ‘Only Mama.’

  And now, as the family stood before him in the izba, Boris Romanov was trembling with rage.

  ‘You warned him, didn’t you?’

  Arina quailed; yet even now, there was a hint of righteous defiance in her manner. ‘What if I did?’

  ‘What if you did? I’ll tell you what.’ And with a sudden spring he was upon her, knocking her down and hitting her twice, hard, in the face. ‘You stupid cow! You Mordvinian!’

  ‘Don’t! Don’t!’ the little boy screamed, rushing to protect his mother.

  But Boris picked him up and tossed him across the room so that he crashed into a bench and lay there, half-stunned.

  Damn Arina! Damn the witch! Having taken his boat a little way down-river, Boris had hidden it on the far bank, then doubled back and walked through the darkness into Russka. At dead of night, armed with his long hunting knife, he had crept around the edge of the town to the house where that accursed ginger-headed villain had been staying. It was a warm night. Two men were sitting outside the door of the house opposite; he had waited patiently, in the shadows, for them to go inside. At last they had slowly risen to go. One door had shut. Then another. He had let a minute pass in silence. He had smiled to himself. He would place his hand over Popov’s mouth, then slit his throat, whispering as he did so: ‘Remember Natalia.’ That would be it. Just so the devil knew – just so he understood, as he went down, into the depths. With a bit of luck, they’ll suppose one of Suvorin’s men did it and arrest him too, he thought cheerfully. Revenge – even if one had to wait thirty years – was so infinitely sweet.

  And then, suddenly, two horses were pounding along the little road, one with a rider, the other spare. What the devil? The two horses were pulling up sharply by the very house where Popov lay, the rider springing down and hammering on the door.

  ‘Yevgeny Pavlovich! Popov, damn you! I know it’s you. You’ve got to get out. Listen, it’s Nicolai Mikhailovich. Come quick.’

  Bobrov. How the devil did he know? Who tipped him off? And why should he save the fellow’s skin anyway? Damn them all. They were all in league. And now when would he get his chance at revenge again?

  He turned back to his sister.

  ‘You traitor!’ he bellowed. ‘Do you know what you’ve done?’

  ‘Yes,’ she cried back with equal rage. ‘I asked Bobrov to stop you. What of it? You can’t go round killing people.’

  ‘Not if he killed my own sister?’

  ‘No.’

  He glowered at her. ‘I see you’re a friend of Bobrov and the red-head,’ he said, suddenly quiet. ‘But I promise you one thing: I shan’t forget this.’

  And both Arina, and the terrified little Ivan, knew that he would not.

  It was two days later that an unexplained fire burned down a section of Nicolai Bobrov’s woods. People took it to be one more sign that the revolution was getting very near.

  1906, May

  It was early evening, and in the great Moscow house, preparations were under way. Indeed, there was more than the usual air of expectancy amongst the servants, for this evening, they knew, some very strange guests were due to arrive. But then, they reflected, after the extraordinary events of the last year, anything might be expected.

  In the comfortable upstairs room, however, everything was quiet. Mrs Suvorin, in a long, mauve silk gown, her heavy, rich brown hair only loosely pinned so that at any moment perhaps it might tumble down her elegant back, was sitting writing letters at a little desk.

  Her daughter Nadezhda was sitting on a French empire chair with a tapestry cover. In front of her was a small round table covered with a heavy, tasselled cloth upon which she was resting her elbows while gazing at her mother.

  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.