Why then should Misha Bobrov be so worried?
It was Nicolai. At first he had looked so well: he had come home each day from the fields, flushed from his work, but relaxed; he had even caught a little sunburn from the spring sun. Misha, though he was still consumed with curiosity about the two young men, had left them alone and carefully avoided any further discussions. So the days had passed: everything had been peaceful, even pleasant. And then something had begun to go wrong.
It was around the end of the second week that Misha had noticed the difference in his son. At first it was a slight pallor; then his face had started to look pinched and worried, and when they spoke together, there seemed to be a barrier between them. Nicolai had sometimes been defiant in the past, but he had never been cold and distant before. Yet now he seemed determined to become a stranger to both his parents. In the last few days he had become increasingly irritable too. What had got into the boy? Was it something about the village, perhaps? Misha asked Timofei Romanov if he had noticed anything; but the peasant told him that Nicolai seemed cheerful enough at his work.
It must be that friend of his, Misha concluded. I wish I knew more about him. Indeed, he confessed to himself, I wish I knew anything about what these two young men were thinking.
His chance came, rather unexpectedly, on a Sunday. It was Anna Bobrov who was the cause.
Misha only went to church on the great feast days, but his wife went every Sunday, sometimes twice; and it had always been the custom for Nicolai, when he was at home, to accompany her. She had been disappointed, therefore, when he had made excuses all this month. But the worst had come that morning when she had asked – ‘Are you leaving me to go to Russka alone again?’ – and Nicolai had turned on her irritably and, in front of Popov, told her in a cruel tone: ‘I’ve better things to do than waste my time on you and your God.’ She had been so shocked and hurt that Misha had put on his coat and gone with her himself; and that afternoon he had resolved: Something must be said.
It was late afternoon when he came upon the two young men. They were sitting in the salon. Outside, the light was starting to fade and Nicolai, who had been making a drawing of his friend by the window, was just closing his sketch book when Misha quietly entered the room, lit the lamp on the round table, and picking up a journal, sat down comfortably in an armchair. He nodded to Popov, who was staring thoughtfully out at the park, and then remarked pleasantly to Nicolai: ‘Forgive my saying so, but your mother was rather hurt by you this morning.’
The rebuke was merited, yet instead of acknowledging his fault, Nicolai only turned and stared at him. Then, quite suddenly, he gave a high-pitched laugh. ‘You mean because I didn’t go to church?’ He shook his head. ‘The church is just a tavern where people get drunk on religion. I can get drunk on vodka if I need to.’
Misha sighed. He was not shocked. There was hardly an educated man since the Enlightenment who had never had doubts about God and organized religion. But why did Nicolai need to be so abusive? ‘You can doubt God without insulting your mother,’ he remarked irritably, ‘and as long as you stay in this house you will show courtesy to her. I hope that is understood.’ Then, having made his point, he turned grumpily back to his journal and assumed the conversation was over.
He was rather surprised, therefore, when Nicolai wished to continue it. Whatever thoughts had been bottled up inside the young man in recent weeks, it seemed that this little incident had made him wish to let some of them out. For now, turning contemptuously to his father, he remarked: ‘You have never heard of the philosophy of Feuerbach, I suppose?’
As it happened, Misha had heard of this philosopher, who was in vogue amongst the Radicals but he had to confess that he had never read him.
‘Had you done so,’ Nicolai said coldly, ‘you would know that your God is nothing more than a projection of human desires. No more, no less.’ He looked at Misha with pity. ‘You need God and the church because they belong to the society of the past. In the society of the future, we won’t need God any more. God is dead.’
Misha put down his journal and looked at his son with interest. ‘If God is dead,’ he asked, ‘what will you replace Him with?’
‘Science, of course.’ Nicolai looked at him impatiently. ‘Science has proved that the universe is material. Everything can be explained, don’t you realize, by physical laws? There is no God pulling the strings – that’s mere superstition. It’s like thinking the earth was flat. But science, and only science, makes men free.’
‘Free?’
‘Yes. Masters of themselves. In Russia, a superstitious church supports an autocratic Tsar and the people live in darkness, like slaves. But science will sweep it all away, and then,’ he concluded impressively, ‘there will be a new world.’
‘What sort of world?’ Misha enquired.
‘Quite unlike yours,’ Nicolai told him bluntly. ‘A world of truth and justice. A world where men share the fruits of the earth together and where one man is not set over another. A world without exploitation of man by man.’
Misha nodded thoughtfully. He recognized that these were noble sentiments, yet he could not help observing: ‘Your new world sounds to me a little like a Christian heaven.’
‘Not at all,’ Nicolai replied quickly. ‘Your Christian heaven is an invention. It exists in a non-existent after-life. It’s an illusion, a cheat. But the new world, the scientific one, will be here on earth and men will live in it.’
‘So you despise my hope of heaven and you think my religion is a fraud?’
‘Precisely.’
Misha considered. He did not object to his son’s desire to build a heaven on earth, even if he could not himself believe in it. Yet it seemed to him that there was a flaw in the whole argument.
‘You speak of a new world where no one will be exploited,’ he ventured. ‘You also say that there is no God. But tell me this: if the universe is material, if I face no threat of hell nor hope of heaven in the life to come – then why should I trouble to be kind to my neighbour and share the fruits of the earth with him? Won’t I exploit him, materially, for all I can get, since I’ve nothing else to look forward to?’
Nicolai looked at Popov and laughed scornfully. ‘You don’t understand anything, do you?’ he remarked contemptuously. And then, coldly: ‘I’m afraid I’ve nothing more to say to you.’
Misha gazed at his son sadly. It was not the argument he minded, nor even the rudeness. He and Nicolai had often had hot disputes before. But something in the tone of this last dismissal worried him profoundly. He could sense that it implied some deeper parting of the ways. He turned to Popov. ‘Perhaps you can enlighten me,’ he said quietly.
‘Perhaps.’ Popov shrugged. ‘It’s quite simple. You can’t understand because you are a product of the old world. Your thinking is so conditioned by your society that you can’t imagine a moral world without a God. In the new world, where society will be organized differently, people will be different.’ He stared at Misha with cold, green eyes. ‘It’s like Darwin’s Theory of Evolution – some species don’t adapt, and die out.’
‘So a person who thinks like me won’t exist any more?’ Misha suggested.
And then Yevgeny Popov gave one of his rare smiles.
‘You’re already dead,’ he said simply.
And why now, Misha wondered, should Nicolai suddenly jump up, his face very pale, and run out of the room?
Misha Bobrov was so disturbed by this conversation that he watched repeatedly for a chance to spend time with his son alone. He had never felt that they could not speak to each other before. And I cannot leave matters like this, he thought. Not until two days later, however, did an opportunity present itself.
It was early evening. Popov had gone over to Russka and Nicolai, having come back from the village, was wandering about alone. Misha had hesitated to approach him in the house for fear that Nicolai might rebuff him and retire to his room. But after a little he saw Nicolai set off for a walk in the woods
above the house, and after giving him a little time, he hurried after him.
He came up with his son just as Nicolai had reached the top of the little ridge and was turning eastwards to walk along it. This was a pleasant path that led for nearly a mile, first eastwards, then curving to the south, until suddenly it ended and one encountered the river again below. By happy chance, it was a walk they had often taken together when Nicolai was a child, though it was several years since Misha had gone that way himself. Nervously he approached the young man; but when Nicolai, having given him a look of slight surprise, said nothing, Misha thankfully fell into step beside him.
They continued together for some minutes before Misha gently enquired: ‘Do you remember, when you were a little boy, I used to carry you on my shoulders along this path?’
Nicolai nodded. ‘I remember.’
They had walked on another hundred yards when Misha added: ‘Just here, if you look north, you can see Russka and the monastery.’ And pausing to gaze over the woods below, they saw the golden domes of the little religious house glinting over forest floor, and the pointed watchtower of the little town opposite. It was warm and very peaceful. After a little while, they went on.
Not until the ridge turned south did Misha remark: ‘I am sorry you cannot speak to me any more. It is sad for a father when that happens.’ And although Nicolai did not reply, it seemed to Misha that he could sense a softening in his son. I’ll say no more, he thought. We’ll come to the end of the ridge, turn back, and then perhaps I’ll try again. And so, hoping that he might still regain his son’s affection, he strolled along while Nicolai, lost in his own thoughts, walked beside him.
In truth, Nicolai was torn by many emotions and his father had not been wrong to perceive a softening in his manner. The walk along the ridge had brought back a flood of childhood memories – of his mother’s simple-minded devotion, of his father’s kindness. Misha had been a good father: he could not deny that. And although, for the last month, he had been steeling himself to hate him, Nicolai found now that he could feel only pity for the landowner. Yet what was he to do? Was a reconciliation possible? Could he even now, at the eleventh hour, save his father from the coming storm? These were the thoughts that chased each other round Nicolai’s mind as the two went along in silence.
Until they came to the end of the path and saw what had happened to the woods.
It had always been a charming spot, a pleasant place to rest. The ground fell away sharply to the river below and there was a delightful view southwards over the silvery water and the forest. This was what both men had expected to find.
Yet the scene that now met their gaze was completely transformed and they could only stare in astonishment. A hundred yards before the end of the ridge, the woods suddenly ceased. Before them, stretching to left and to right, was a huge, unsightly scar of bare ground dotted with rotting stumps. As they made their way to the end of the ridge, they could see that the ground had been picked completely bare, and at the end, where the wooded slope down to the water had been, there was now a large gully and below it a constriction in the river where a landslide had silted up the stream.
Both men stared at this scene of devastation in horror. Then Nicolai very quietly asked: ‘Did you do this, Father?’
To which Misha, after a pause, could only mutter: ‘It seems I must have.’ And then, shaking his head: ‘That damned merchant.’
In fact, as he looked at this terrible sight, Bobrov should not have been surprised. For what he saw was only the result of a practice which had become very common and was already leaving its mark over considerable areas of Russia. This was the practice of leasing.
It was very simple. Like most landowners after the Emancipation, Misha Bobrov had retained a very little ploughed land, rather more pasture, and most of the forest. Short of cash, unwilling to part with his remaining land for ever, he had therefore compromised and leased part of the woodland to a merchant. The provisions of the lease were fairly typical. For a fixed sum, half paid in advance, the merchant received a ten-year lease on the woodland, during which time, he could do as he pleased. Naturally, therefore, to recover his money, the merchant cut down all the trees as fast as he could, and sold the timber. Having only a short lease, however, he had no interest in replanting, but instead grazed livestock on the cleared ground so that, by the time the lease ran out, any chance of natural regrowth was destroyed.
The resulting soil erosion and gullying, in numerous provinces, was one of the most disastrous evils ever to befall the Russian landscape until the twentieth century.
Long ago, Misha had leased the wooded parts of the Riazan estate, and these had now been completely destroyed. A few years back he had done the same with these outlying woodlands at Russka, but then forgotten all about it. Now, as he gazed at the ruins, he felt a deep sense of shame.
It was fortunate for him, however, that he could not, at this moment, see into his son’s mind. For as Nicolai looked at the unsightly gully and pondered what had happened, the issues that had so troubled him of late were finally resolved. Popov is right, he thought. There is nothing that can be done with these landowners – even my own father. They are useless parasites. And once again he dedicated himself to the great task which, he knew, was now almost upon him.
So the two men slowly returned, Misha noting, rather sadly, that they spoke no further words to each other.
As he strolled back from Russka that same evening, Yevgeny Popov considered that, all in all, things were in a satisfactory state.
Young Bobrov was a bit emotional, but it didn’t matter. He would serve his purpose.
Peter Suvorin, too, had been helpful. An artist at heart, Popov judged: an idealist. ‘He’s very confused, but malleable,’ he considered. Above all, the young industrialist felt guilty, just like Nicolai Bobrov, and it was amazing how you could manipulate people who felt guilty. Men like this, moreover, men whose families had money or influence, were especially worth cultivating because one never knew when their resources might come in useful.
He had, as yet, told Peter Suvorin almost nothing. It was better that way. I’ll keep him up my sleeve, he thought. But the young man had been able to provide him with one, most useful, thing: a private place.
It was a storeroom at one end of a warehouse which was little used. The store contained various shovels and other items of equipment used for clearing snow in winter; during the summer months, therefore, no one ever went there. It had a lock, to which Peter Suvorin had given him the key. He had told Peter some foolish story about storing books in this place, which seemed to satisfy him; and then, by mid-May, he had set to work.
The little hand-printing press he kept there was quite sufficient for his needs. In a few days he had produced all the leaflets he needed for the time being, disassembled the press and hidden its parts under some floor-boards.
For now, he decided, it was time to begin.
It was a little book – a novel, in fact – badly written, by an obscure revolutionary; in parts it was absurdly sentimental: and yet to Nicolai Bobrov, as to thousands of his generation, it was an inspiration. Its title: What Is To Be Done.
It told of the new men who would lead society into the new age when all men would be free. It told of their sufferings and their dedication. It created for the reader the image of a new breed of human being – half saint, half superman – who would, by sheer moral force, lead his weaker brethren towards the common good. It was in imitation of this mythic ideal that Nicolai had undergone his ascetic regime as a student and lain on a bed of studs. It was with this valiant new man in mind that he had come with Popov upon this mission to Russka. And so it was, upon the eve of the great day, that he turned to this little novel, reading late into the night, to prepare himself for the ordeal ahead.
Natalia watched young Bobrov with fascination. He was standing on a wooden stool in front of her parents’ izba and a little group was gathered before him.
The evening sun was catching the
side of his face, creating a sheen like a little golden river down the thin curve of his youthful beard. Dear God, how handsome he looked.
Natalia had been working in Russka for two weeks now: long, boring shifts at the cotton factory – ten or twelve hours each shift – which they relieved by singing songs together, above the din, just as though they were women going to mow a field. Quite often, before walking home to her parents, she saw Grigory, who still had not made up his mind about her; but she was usually so tired that she scarcely cared, some days, whether he married her or not.
But now her eyes were fixed upon Nicolai Bobrov. And it was not just because of his good looks. It was because of what he was saying. She could hardly believe it.
Nicolai had started several minutes before. He would not have stood on the stool, where he felt rather foolish and uncomfortable, but Popov had told him he really should. Indeed, despite his preparation, he had suddenly found himself so shy that he would gladly have let his friend do the talking. Popov had pointed out, however, with perfect truth: ‘You’re closer to them than I am, Nicolai. Have courage and do it.’
So here he was. Quite a little crowd – five or six households – had gathered round as soon as he got up to address them; others were coming; and since, despite going over the thing a thousand times in his head, he could never decide how to begin, he found himself unconsciously falling back on the biblical formula he knew they would understand.
‘My friends,’ he began, ‘I bring you good news.’
They listened carefully as he outlined to them the many problems of their lives. When he spoke of their heavy repayments, there were murmurs of assent. When he spoke of the need to improve the yields on their ploughlands and stop the rape of the woodlands, there were nods of approval. When he apologized for the part his own family had played in their miserable lives, there were looks of surprise, several grins, and general laughter when a friendly voice cried: ‘We’d forgive you all, Nicolai Mikhailovich, if you’d just let us string the body of your old grandfather up!’ Which was followed by an even louder laugh when someone else called out: ‘If you want your serfs back, young sir, we’ll surely let you have Savva Suvorin!’ And when Nicolai calmly announced that they ought to have all the land, including everything his father still owned, there was a cheerful roar of approval. ‘So when’s he going to give it to us?’ a woman called out.