He could see they were impressed.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll do it,’ Grigory said with a grin.
It was the next day that young Peter Suvorin went to a quiet place near the dormitory where Grigory lived and, finding the young man and Natalia waiting there, gave them a package wrapped in plain white paper.
Peter followed his instructions precisely. He had no idea what the package contained. He spoke no word to Grigory or the girl; nor did they address him. But as he left the astonished couple, his heart was singing.
As well it might. For hadn’t Popov told him that this Grigory was in touch with the Central Committee? And were not these – the very young people who had good reason to hate and despise him – now his comrades? He was accepted. He was breaking free of his terrible inheritance at last. For the first time in weeks, he smiled.
Boris gazed at his sister with affection, and also with guilt. They had found a quiet spot by the river where they would not be disturbed, and only as they sat down did he suddenly realize that weeks had passed since they had last been alone like this.
Was it all his fault? When he and his wife had not asked her to live with them, they had not meant to desert her. But somehow they had always been so busy in the last few weeks. As he thought about it now it occurred to him: She must have felt so alone. Was that why she was running after this Grigory?
He listened carefully, though, as she poured her heart out to him. ‘I won’t let them stop me,’ she told him. ‘I’m going to marry.’ And, finally, his heart sank when she said: ‘They may not like Grigory, but when I get pregnant by him they won’t have much choice, will they?’
‘Do you love him?’ Boris asked.
‘Of course I do.’
He said nothing, but he was not convinced.
If only, it seemed to Boris, they had more money. Then his sister would not have had to work in the factory, and she could have had a husband from the village. And who had made everything so difficult? He had, by moving out. If I’d realized, he thought, maybe I’d have acted differently. Yes, he was to blame, and money was the problem. But what could he do now? I’ll think of something, he promised himself.
He put his arm around her. ‘Don’t do anything unless you’re sure,’ he said. And the two of them remained that way for some time, enjoying their renewed intimacy and the peace of the little river.
Boris was surprised therefore when, after about twenty minutes, Natalia suddenly reached into her shirt and pulled out a leaflet. ‘Read this,’ she said, with a faint smile.
It was a remarkable document: brief and to the point. Using some of the same phrases that Nicolai Bobrov had employed, it urged the peasants to prepare for the coming day when a revolution would usher in the new world. It was aimed at the landlords, of course, but it was particularly scathing about the new class of exploiters, the factory owners like Suvorin, ‘who use you worse than animals’. These were the people who must be utterly destroyed, the leaflet said. ‘Organize,’ it urged. ‘Be ready.’ It was a telling composition, and as he read it, Boris’s heart sank.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘Never mind.’
‘But this is dangerous, Natalia.’
‘I thought you were in favour of the revolution. That’s what you said to Nicolai Bobrov.’
‘I want more land. But this,’ he shook his head. ‘This is different. You stay out of it. You could get in a lot of trouble.’ Then, as she only shrugged: ‘Did Nicolai Bobrov give you this?’
‘No.’
‘Who then?’
‘You’d never guess in a million years.’
‘Promise me you’ll drop all this.’
‘I promise nothing. But keep quiet yourself. Don’t tell anyone I showed it to you.’
‘You can be sure of that.’ He had a sudden thought. ‘Is this Grigory in this business with you? Did he get you into this?’
‘Maybe yes, maybe no. Maybe I got him into it.’
He handed the leaflet back to her.
‘I never saw this, Natalia. You burn them if you’ve any more.’ And he got up.
It was his fault, he knew it: his fault that his sister had gone to that accursed factory; that she had decided to marry Grigory; and that now she was getting mixed up in God knew what danger. He must do something – if only he knew what.
Savva Suvorin was a thorough man. When he walked around the workshops each day, his sharp old eyes missed nothing, and he was proud of the fact that he never used spies. True, his foreman told him everything that was going on. ‘But only because they’re afraid I’ll find it out anyway,’ he would say. And no doubt by some similar logic, he was informed about everything that passed in the village of Bobrovo too.
Savva was also in a good temper. Two weeks before, he had been seriously worried about his grandson. The boy had become so morose and moody that both Savva and his wife had feared for his health. But just in the last few days, for some reason, a change had come over Peter: his face had cleared; he seemed to be taking an interest in life again; he was almost cheerful. ‘I dare say,’ old Maria said, ‘it took him a while to get used to things here, after the big city.’ And Savva looked forward to better days.
It was one morning, just three days after the change in Peter, that he noticed young Grigory pass a piece of paper to a fellow worker. At first, he thought nothing of it. When he happened to see the man slip the paper under his machine a little while later, he still did not imagine it could be anything important. And it was only idle curiosity that made him push his stick under the machine that evening, pull out the paper, and so discover one of Popov’s leaflets.
The spasm of fury that passed through Savva Suvorin caused him to break his heavy stick over his knee. For a moment, he wanted to confront young Grigory and break him as completely as he had broken his stick. But it was one of the great strengths of the old man that a lifetime of hardship had taught him never to act rashly. Where, he wondered, had Grigory come by the leaflet? Was it likely that the impoverished young peasant could have instigated such a thing by himself? For a time he became deeply thoughtful.
Then he put the leaflet in his pocket.
Just a few hours later, by the side of a field of barley, Timofei Romanov was looking at his son in puzzlement. For the proposal that Boris had put to his father had taken the older man by surprise. ‘You’re saying we should go to Bobrov for money? Enough to give Natalia a dowry?’
‘And to pay off your debts too.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Let’s say his friendship for you. Didn’t you play together as children? Hasn’t he helped you before?’
‘He’s also short of money himself,’ Timofei objected. ‘I don’t want to ask, and he’ll certainly refuse.’
‘Maybe he can’t refuse.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because I think he’s vulnerable. Remember how Nicolai was nearly arrested?’
‘But he’s sick.’
‘So they say. But he isn’t, you see. They really are preparing a revolution. I’m sure of it.’
‘How can you know?’
‘I just think so, that’s all. But if I’m right and Bobrov’s just pretending Nicolai’s sick, and he thinks we know something, he may decide to help you – see?’
‘You mean, blackmail him?’
Boris grinned. ‘More or less.’
Timofei shook his head in perplexity. ‘I couldn’t,’ he repeated. It was against his entire nature.
‘I’d come with you,’ Boris suggested. ‘You don’t have to be blatant. Just feel him out. You’ll see if he’s nervous soon enough.’ And as Timofei still looked unhappy: ‘Just think it over, Father. That’s all,’ he suggested.
The noon sun was high the next day when the villagers of Bobrovo trembled to see the tall figure of Savva Suvorin, in his high top hat and black coat, and carrying a new walking stick, come striding down the lane towards them. He passed straight through the village, however, looking
neither to right nor to left, and made his way up towards the manor house.
He was going to see the landowner.
The journey brought back many memories. It was sixty-two years, the old man remembered grimly, since he had walked up that very path with his father to ask permission to visit Moscow. Forty-seven years since Alexis Bobrov had brought him back after his recapture and ordered him to be flogged as a runaway serf. And every detail of those events was as fresh in his mind now as on the day they had happened. Savva never forgot.
Nowadays, of course, his wealth could have bought the Bobrov estate twenty, a hundred times over. The landlords who had treated him like a dog were frightened of him now. And today, they had given him the means to destroy them.
For having reflected on the matter, there was little doubt in his mind about the basic facts. He had heard, of course, about the incidents concerning young Nicolai Bobrov in the village – how he had worked with Romanov, then preached revolution. The story that Nicolai was sick had struck him as unlikely. He had also observed the ginger-haired student hanging around near his factory and once seen him with Grigory, the boy who was sweet on the Romanov girl. Now, suddenly, Grigory was distributing revolutionary leaflets. The coincidences were too many. He had no doubt that the police would easily discover a link between the two. ‘So young Bobrov and his friend are revolutionaries,’ he muttered. He could have them both in jail. And then the Bobrovs would be destroyed – it would be a final and terrible revenge. He had thought about it with pleasure for some time.
Misha Bobrov was surprised indeed when the tall figure of the factory owner appeared at the house. As it happened, Nicolai had retired to his bed with a headache that day, and Anna was visiting a friend near Vladimir, and so the landowner was alone. He ushered Suvorin into the salon at once, where the old man glanced around him with grim curiosity. He refused the seat Misha offered him, so that the landlord was left standing rather awkwardly himself, until he finally decided to sit down anyway, staring up at the industrialist with a vague sense of misgiving.
Savva never wasted words. He came straight to the point. ‘Your son,’ he said simply. ‘He’s a revolutionary.’ And when Misha began to protest that Nicolai was unwell: ‘I found this in my factory. It comes from your son and his friend.’ Taking out the leaflet, he gave it to the landowner. ‘Read it,’ he ordered.
As Misha Bobrov did so, his face went pale. There before him were the very phrases he had heard his son speak. Word for word. Only with one difference: they called for violence. Kill Savva? Burn down his house? ‘Oh, my God! Are you sure? … I mean, I had no idea …’ His voice trailed off miserably. His face alone was all the confirmation that Savva needed. ‘What will you do?’ Misha asked helplessly.
And it was now that Savva Suvorin showed his greatness and the source of his power. He was eighty-two. For fifty-two years of his life he had struggled to get free of the tyranny of the Bobrovs, and for thirty more he had kept a grudge. Now, at last, he could destroy them.
But he was not going to. Not yet. For Savva Suvorin, better than anything else, understood power, and the Bobrovs, though he hated and despised them, were no use to him destroyed. Misha might be a fool, but he still had influence in the zemstvo and he had irritated Savva with his activities there more than once. With this information, however, Savva could control him for ever. Suvorin does not revenge himself on small men, he thought proudly. He uses them.
Calmly therefore, and very quietly, he told the unhappy landowner what he should do. ‘Firstly, you will tell this Popov that he is to leave Russka for ever. He is to remain in your house, communicate with no one, and be gone by dawn tomorrow. Can you organize that?’
Misha nodded miserably.
‘You will also speak to Timofei Romanov. His daughter is always with this Grigory whom I caught distributing the leaflets. You can be sure, therefore, that she is in this too.’ He glowered at Bobrov. ‘Didn’t you have that girl sent to your damned school once? Now perhaps you see what that leads to.’ He shook his head at the folly of educating working peasants. ‘You will also instruct your friend Romanov to keep his daughter at home until further notice. She is not to be told why; and she is to have no contact with Grigory of any kind. I shall have him watched for a few days to find out what else he is up to. Then, I’ll deal with him.’
He gazed down coldly at Misha. It occurred to him with some satisfaction that their roles had been reversed now – he was the master, a Bobrov the servant.
‘If any of you disobey these instructions in even the smallest way,’ he concluded, ‘then I shall turn the entire matter over to the police who will quite certainly be able to prove a conspiracy involving your son, Popov and the Romanovs. They will all go to Siberia, or worse.’
And with that he turned his back on the shaking landlord and stomped out of the house.
Several times in the last twenty-four hours, Timofei and Boris Romanov had returned to the subject of approaching Misha Bobrov for money; but so far Timofei had not been willing to do so. He was surprised therefore, in mid-afternoon, to be summoned urgently to the manor house. And as soon as the summons came, young Boris announced: ‘I’m going with you.’
When they arrived, it was to find Misha in a frightened but thoughtful state. He had spent half an hour in the sickroom with his son. Though Misha was not quite sure whether to believe him, it seemed that Nicolai was not aware of Popov’s recent activities in Russka. But he admitted to knowing his friend had a hand-press for printing. And that’s quite enough to send him to Siberia, Misha thought.
With the two Romanovs before him, Misha proceeded cautiously.
‘Tell me Timofei,’ he asked, ‘is your daughter friendly with a boy called Grigory?’
‘Ah, Mikhail Alexeevich,’ he cried, ‘if only she were not.’ And he would have started upon his litany of woes if Misha had not cut him short.
‘This is what young Grigory has been distributing,’ he said, and showed him the leaflet, reading out a few sentences from it for the illiterate peasant. During this, he noticed that poor Timofei looked first confused, then horrified and lost, but that young Boris, the moment he set eyes upon the leaflet, went pale as a ghost.
It was true then. Suvorin was right.
Calmly he outlined Suvorin’s instructions. Though he made no direct reference to his own son’s part in the conspiracy, he let them know: ‘The person behind this is Popov. It seems he has abused my hospitality and duped us all. He leaves at dawn, never to return.’ Then, looking at Boris carefully, he remarked: ‘You’ll agree that, regarding Natalia, we should do exactly as Suvorin asks?’ To which the young man, looking glum, replied: ‘I agree.’
And it was at this moment that Yevgeny Popov walked cheerfully into the room.
In fact, Popov had had a disquieting day. He had received a letter that morning which let him know, in carefully disguised language, that the peasant revolution was failing. Everywhere, the villagers had behaved like those at Bobrovo. Several hamlets had called the police, and news of the movement was spreading to the provincial authorities. Several young idealists were already in custody: a general clamp-down was expected.
The letter had worried Popov, but it was his habit to disguise his thoughts and so now he smiled, almost pleasantly, at the three men in the room.
Misha Bobrov did not waste time. With undisguised loathing he snapped at Popov: ‘Your game’s up. Suvorin’s found your leaflets.’ And in a few words he summarized what the old man had said. ‘I won’t bother to ask for your comments,’ Misha remarked contemptuously, ‘since I know you will lie. But you’re to leave here by dawn, so I suggest you prepare for your journey.’
How cool the young monster was. He did not flinch: indeed he was still, faintly, smiling. Yet even Misha was astounded when Popov quietly replied: ‘Not at all. I already told you I shall leave when I choose.’
‘You go tomorrow.’
‘I think not.’
‘You’ve no choice. Suvorin will arres
t you.’
‘Perhaps.’ He shrugged. ‘I can see that all of you are frightened. But you really needn’t worry. Nothing will happen.’ He yawned. ‘I’m too tired to eat supper tonight. Besides, I have letters to write. But I shall be famished tomorrow evening, I’m sure.’ He turned to Bobrov. ‘I really shall be here for some time,’ he said blandly, and he went upstairs.
For several seconds all three men were speechless. It didn’t make sense. Then Timofei Romanov looked at Misha and asked helplessly: ‘What do we do now?’
Yevgeny Popov sat in his room and considered. His calm refusal to leave had been partly a bluff. There was no doubt, after the disquieting letter this morning and Suvorin’s threat, that it was time to move on. But he was not going to let that stupid landowner and those damned peasants – or even Savva Suvorin – think that they could push him around. He was a revolutionary, infinitely their superior.
So, what should he do? Whatever he did, Popov always left himself escape routes: it was his nature to deal in ambiguities; and whatever these people planned, he felt sure he could outwit them. For several minutes he pondered, then a smile appeared on his face. Going over to the locked box by the foot of his bed, he took out a handwritten document. Then, sitting at a little table by the window, and making constant reference to the document, he began to form letters and words on a fresh sheet of paper until, after a time, he became confident. And then, taking a new sheet, he began, very carefully, to write.
He had been writing for several minutes when he heard someone creep along the passage and pause outside his door. Then he heard a key being inserted in the lock and softly turned. He shrugged. So they thought they could make him a prisoner. He continued to write.
Twenty minutes passed. He wrote two letters, then a short note. Having read them all carefully and satisfied himself that they were perfect, he got up.
Next, he went to the cupboard and took out the peasant’s clothes he had worn when working in the fields, together with a peasant’s hat that covered his red hair. Only when he was fully dressed in this did he bother to try the door. As he expected, it was locked. He went to the window and looked out. It opened wide enough to get his head and one arm out; if he wanted to leave that way, he would have to force the window out of its frame, and then take a fifteen-foot drop on to hard ground. As he looked round, however, it occurred to him that the window of Nicolai’s room was only the third along from his. He took a small coin out of his pocket and tossed it; then another. After the fourth coin had rattled against the glass, the tousled head of his friend appeared.