Russka: The Novel of Russia

For several moments Alexis was quiet while he considered this. But when at last he spoke, he did so not in any anger but in genuine puzzlement.

  ‘Do you really mean then,’ he asked, ‘that each individual in society should act for himself, considering his own interest paramount? Do you mean that the peasant should strive to get as rich as he can and rely only upon his own hard work?’

  ‘Yes. Pretty much.’

  ‘And if his fellow peasant, who is weaker, falls behind, is he to be allowed to suffer?’

  ‘He may be helped, but, yes.’

  ‘And what about families like ours? Our whole role in history has been to serve the Tsar and our country. Should I be at home looking for profit like a merchant instead?’ He shook his head sorrowfully.

  ‘We all want to serve a cause, Alexis,’ Ilya explained, ‘but I am speaking of money and of markets.’

  ‘No,’ the other rejoined. ‘You are speaking of men and their actions. And if all men act only for themselves, as you suggest, then where is religion, where is discipline, where is obedience and humility? I see only chaos and greed.’ It was not often that Alexis was brought to such eloquence. It was obviously heartfelt. ‘I’m sorry, Ilya, but if that is your idea of progress, it is not mine. This is the evil, self-centred way of the west – and you are certainly right that it comes from the west. It is what Russia has fought against for centuries. I, and our Church, and even I suspect our serfs, will oppose it as long as we have breath.’

  And sadly he got up, bade them both goodnight, and left them.

  For a long time after he had left Sergei and Ilya continued to talk. They discussed Ilya’s journey, which he planned to begin that very autumn; they discussed literature, philosophy and many other matters. And it was far, far into the night when Sergei finally turned and said: ‘You know, my dear brother, Alexis was not altogether wrong about your ideas. You insult our poor old Russia, yet you are also wrong about her.’

  ‘How so?’

  Sergei sighed. ‘In the first place, you want to bring efficiency to Russia. I tell you frankly, it cannot be done. Why? Because Russia is too big, and the weather is too bad. This is the wasteland the Romans never conquered. The west joins its towns by roads. Yet what have we got? One! One metalled road in the whole empire, from Moscow to St Petersburg – planned by Peter the Great but not executed until 1830 when he’d been dead a hundred years. Europe has railways. What have we? They started building one from the Russian to the Austrian capital last year and the Tsar himself has declared he thinks it is dangerous for people to move about so much. Russia is not the bustling west, my brother, and it never can be. Russia will be slow and inefficient until the Second Coming. And shall I tell you something? It doesn’t matter.

  ‘Which brings me to my second objection. Your prescription for Russia comes from the head. It is logical, reasonable, clear-cut. Which is exactly why it has nothing to do with the case.

  ‘The Russians will never be moved by such things. That is what the west will never comprehend. It is the deep weakness of the west, as we see it, that it does not know that to move Russia, you must move her heart. The heart, Ilya, not the mind. Inspiration, understanding, desire, energy – all four come from the heart. Our sense of holiness, of true justice, of community – these are of the spirit: they cannot be codified into laws and rules. We are not Germans, Dutch, or English. We are part of Holy Russia, which is superior to all of these. I, an intellectual, a European like yourself, say this to you.’

  ‘You are one of this new group then, who claim a special destiny for Russia, apart from the rest of Europe, whom people call Slavophiles, I take it?’ Ilya remarked. He had read a little of this group lately.

  ‘I am,’ Sergei said, ‘and I promise you, Ilya, it’s the only way.’

  And so at last, their minds full of these grand and universal thoughts, the two brothers affectionately embraced each other and retired to their beds.

  At eleven o’clock the next morning, Sergei departed for the Ukraine.

  As he strolled through Vladimir that August morning, Alexis Bobrov was in a rather good temper.

  Just before leaving, he had received a letter from his son Misha announcing that he would be joining his family at Russka for ten days on his way from his regiment to St Petersburg. He should be arriving at the very time I get back, Alexis thought contentedly. How pleasant that would be.

  The summer had gone rather well. That accursed Savva Suvorin had kept quiet. On the estate, despite widespread failures in some areas, prospects for an excellent harvest looked promising. In the village there had been a marriage: Arina’s daughter Varya had married young Timofei Romanov, Misha’s childhood playmate. He liked them both. The Romanovs were always respectful. He had taken a particular interest, let the young couple off a year’s obrok, and thoroughly enjoyed giving them his blessing at the wedding. Whatever Ilya might say, that was how things were meant to be in Russia.

  He had been busy in the district too. He had become an assistant to the Marshal of the Nobility – whose duties largely consisted of keeping up the registers of the gentry in the area. But it gave him a sense that he was participating in the province, and now, with time on his hands, he was making numerous visits to his fellow landowners – ‘To make sure I’m in touch,’ as he put it.

  Above all, he had been pleasantly surprised by Sergei’s wife. It was amazing really, he thought, that such a sensible young woman should have married Sergei. He found they agreed about most matters, and though he was too well-bred to pursue the matter, certain hints she had dropped suggested that she had a sensible view of Sergei’s writing too. ‘I must confess,’ she had confided in him the previous week, ‘I didn’t realize when I married him that he just scribbled all the time. I supposed he did something else as well.’ It must be very trying for her, he thought.

  It was a pity that Tatiana and Ilya didn’t seem to get on with her very well. But she certainly put herself out to be pleasant to him. ‘I really do think it’s too bad of Sergei to leave me in the country like this,’ she said to Alexis, ‘where there’s nothing to think about all day.’ And then she gave him a pretty smile. ‘I’m so grateful to have you for company.’

  Alexis was in Vladimir that morning because he was on his way to spend a few days with a landowner nearby. He had just seen the governor and was planning to visit the great cathedral. And no person, certainly, could have been further from his mind when he suddenly paused, opened his arms, and cried out: ‘My dear fellow! What brings you here? Aren’t you coming to see us?’

  It was Pinegin.

  The house party was delightful. Misha was so happy to be home. He had arrived at Bobrovo a couple of days earlier than expected and been pleased to find Sergei’s wife Nadia there. She was only a few years older than he was and he thought her rather beautiful.

  It was easy to see why young Misha Bobrov was popular in his regiment. Though he looked like his father Alexis, there were some important differences. Physically, he was an inch or two shorter, and more thickset. Intellectually, he was far more advanced. He loved to sit with his Uncle Ilya and discuss life. ‘And though I shall never read a hundredth part of what he has, I like to think a bit of his learning has rubbed off on me,’ he would say pleasantly. And lastly, by temperament he was optimistic and easy-going, so that even Alexis once remarked to Tatiana: ‘Frankly, he’s the best fellow this family has produced for a long time: I’m the first to admit it.’ He had the same little gesture as his grandfather, that gentle, caressing motion of the hand when he touched someone’s arm or ushered them into a room. Even Alexis’s occasional dark moods would usually dissolve at the sight of his son.

  As was his habit, Misha spent the first day visiting all those he loved. He sat with his grandmother for an hour. The rest of the morning he spent with Ilya. He found his Uncle in a strange and excitable state, but put it down to the great book he was writing. He also visited the village, kissed Arina, and called upon his childhood playmate Timofei Romanov and his wi
fe Varya. In short, Misha was home, and all was well in the world.

  He was curious about the stranger, Pinegin. He had a vague memory of this man from his early childhood – a figure then, as now, in a white tunic and usually smoking a pipe. Pinegin was somewhere in his forties now, but scarcely changed except for a few more lines around the eyes, and the fact that his sandy hair had turned iron grey. He greeted Misha with a friendly, if slightly guarded, smile and Misha’s only thought about him was: Ah, there’s another of those quiet, rather lonely fellows from the frontier forts. He was glad to see that Pinegin was making himself pleasant to Sergei’s wife Nadia, sitting with her and Tatiana on the verandah telling them anecdotes, or accompanying her if she wanted to walk in the alley. After all, that was what a house-guest was meant to do.

  And therefore, on the second afternoon, as he strolled up to join them in the alley above the house, Misha was completely dumbfounded when he caught sight of them, standing in the glade just off the park, and saw that Nadia was folded in Pinegin’s arms.

  Misha stood quite silently, hardly able to believe it. And still Nadia and Pinegin kissed.

  How easy it had been. Perhaps in a way, Pinegin thought, it would have been better still if the girl had, at least a little, loved her husband. But it was not so, and so it was futile to concern oneself with that.

  It was strange to be back at Russka. ‘You must come, my dear fellow. I’ll return in a few days to join you. Amuse the ladies at least, I beg you, until then.’ Those had been Alexis’s words. And as he bumped along the road, Pinegin shrugged. How strange that they should have met like that in the street, when he was on his way to take some leave in Moscow. But then, if one believed in fate, nothing was surprising.

  Seventeen long years had passed: seventeen long years of distant campaigns, border fortresses and frontier posts. Often he had been in danger; always he had been cool, protected by fate. A man could be a hero though, but still be forgotten at the centre, where promotions were made. A rich man, the husband of Olga, would find himself promoted: but Pinegin was still a captain. Possibly, one day, he would be a major. But something about him, something distant and rather lonely, made that uncertain. He preferred, it seemed, to remain a law unto himself.

  Seventeen long years. After the Turkish campaign of ’27, he had lost touch with Alexis. But even in distant places, he had received news. He knew when Olga had remarried. He heard of Sergei’s return from exile; read his works when they appeared. Word of Sergei’s marriage to a general’s daughter reached him and a fellow he knew even managed to send him a little miniature picture of the girl. He heard that they had lost a child. And always these little items about the family who had insulted him were filed quietly away in his memory, like a weapon in an armoury, locked up but kept always burnished in case of some future use.

  For to Pinegin, believing as he did in fate, there was nothing to do but wait for the gods, in their proper time, to give him their signal. When it came, they would find him ready. And clearly now, the sign had come; and with icy calm Pinegin had gone about the business. It was very simple, quite inevitable. Tit for tat: humiliation. He would seduce Sergei’s wife.

  For as Alexis had long ago observed, Pinegin was dangerous.

  All the rest of that afternoon, Misha wondered what the devil he should do. He loved his Uncle Sergei. He couldn’t just let this terrible business go on. Besides, since Pinegin had only been here a few days, surely the affair could not have gone too far as yet.

  That evening, therefore, while the others were sitting out on the verandah playing cards, he found an excuse to walk alone with Pinegin, and take a turn up the alley. He was very careful to be pleasant and polite. But when they reached the place opposite where Pinegin had kissed Nadia, Misha quietly observed: ‘I was here this afternoon, you know.’

  Pinegin said nothing, but gave him a thoughtful sidelong glance and puffed on his pipe.

  ‘I hardly know my sister-in-law,’ Misha went on quietly. ‘She has been left alone here all summer, of course. And I probably misunderstood what I saw. But you will understand, I’m sure, that in the absence of my father and my Uncle, Captain Pinegin, I must ask you to make sure that nothing takes place which would bring dishonour to my family.’

  And still Pinegin puffed on his pipe and said nothing.

  He had not counted on this young man. The deed was the key. He had even left to fate the question of whether or not Sergei discovered his revenge. If he did, so much the better: Pinegin had no fear of the consequences. But young Misha was a bystander whom, for some reason, the gods had added to the scene, and there it was. The young man’s speech, of course, was absolutely correct. He found no fault with it at all. And he wondered what to do.

  Slowly he turned and began to stroll down the alley again, Misha at his side.

  ‘I certainly have no quarrel with you, Mikhail Alexeevich,’ he remarked at last. ‘And you have spoken wisely. I will not say whether or not there has been a misunderstanding: but I believe that you should no longer feel any concern about the matter. Please put your mind at rest.’

  And taking this for an assurance, Misha was satisfied.

  It was therefore with stupefaction, on rising early the following morning, that he saw Pinegin quietly come out of Nadia’s room.

  An hour later, he challenged him.

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot accept your challenge.’

  Misha stared at him.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I refuse to fight you,’ Pinegin told him calmly.

  ‘Do you deny sleeping with my Uncle’s wife, in this very house?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘May I ask why you refuse my challenge?’

  ‘I do not wish to fight you.’

  Misha was completely at a loss.

  ‘Then I must call you a coward.’

  Pinegin bowed.

  ‘For that, Mikhail Alexeevich, I will fight you.’ He paused. ‘Are you content to fight at a time of my choosing?’

  ‘As you wish. The sooner the better.’

  ‘I will let you know when I am ready. Next year perhaps. But I promise you, we shall fight.’ And with that he walked away, leaving Misha completely mystified.

  Now, he thought, what the devil do I do?

  At ten o’clock that morning, a small event took place at Bobrovo that went almost unnoticed.

  Ilya Bobrov came slowly downstairs, crammed a large, wide-brimmed hat on his head, took a stout walking stick and left the house without a word to anyone. A short time later, the villagers were surprised to see his cumbersome figure wheezing along, his face red with the unwonted exertion but set into a look of the grimmest determination. Nobody had ever seen him go walking like this before. Once through the village, he took the lane that led through the woods towards the monastery. Several times, as he went along, he muttered nervously.

  No one had taken much notice of Ilya recently. If he had seemed to be more abstracted than usual, if there had sometimes been a hint of desperation in his manner, Tatiana had put it down to hard work and thought nothing of it. She was quite unaware, therefore, that after all his months of labour at this great project, Ilya had reached a point of absolute crisis and near breakdown. He had been up all the previous night; and had anyone met him as he walked through the woods, they would have noticed that his eyes, which usually gazed out so placidly upon the world, were fixed ahead, staring wildly as though the sight of only one object in the universe could satisfy them. He looked like a haggard pilgrim in search of the grail.

  Which in a way he was.

  It was at noon that day, when Tatiana had gone over to Russka, taking Pinegin with her, that Misha, alone with his thoughts in the quiet house, was suddenly disturbed by a clatter at the door and the sound of laughing voices.

  It was Sergei, back from the Ukraine. And he had brought his friend Karpenko with him.

  He bounced into the hall, looking sunburned, rested, full of life and good humour. Encountering Misha in the hall, h
e gave a cry of joy and embraced him. ‘Look at this,’ he called to Karpenko. ‘See what has become of little Misha the bear!’

  In front of Misha now stood a very different man from the nervous youth who had once gazed adoringly at Olga. Karpenko was a charming man at the end of his thirties with a gleaming black beard, wonderful, sensitive eyes, and a reputation of huge success with women – ‘Who always seem to stay his friends, whenever he dumps them,’ Sergei would say with puzzled admiration. Karpenko had reason to be contented. Most of his hopes had been realized. For himself he had three plays to his credit and edited a successful journal in Kiev. Even better, in a way, he had witnessed his beloved Ukraine achieve literary honour. His fellow Ukrainian, the satirist Gogol, had already made an important name for himself in Russia. And best of all – confounding all those who would dismiss it as a peasant’s language – his country had at last found a writer of true greatness, the national poet Shevchenko, who wrote his exquisite lines in the Ukrainian tongue; so that Karpenko could truly say, ‘See, the ambitious hopes of my youth have not been dimmed: they have been vindicated.’

  And Misha stared at this happy pair and wondered what to say.

  ‘We shall go to Moscow tomorrow,’ Sergei gaily announced. ‘Then to St Petersburg. Karpenko and I are full of ideas. We shall take the capital by storm!’ He looked about him. ‘Where the devil’s Ilya? We’re both longing to see him.’ And servants were sent to look for him.

  It was only after running upstairs to see his wife that Sergei returned looking puzzled. ‘That’s the strangest thing,’ he remarked to Misha. ‘I thought she hated the country. Now she says she wants to stay down here another week or two while we go on to Moscow. What do you make of that?’ And then, staring in perplexity at his nephew’s troubled face: ‘Now what’s the matter with you, my Misha?’

  And now, it seemed to Misha, he had to tell him.

  The arrangements were discreetly made that afternoon.

  The place chosen was the little clearing by the burial mounds off the lane that led to the monastery. No one was likely to come by there at dawn. Pinegin having no person to be his second, Karpenko had unwillingly done as Sergei asked, and assumed that responsibility.