Russka

Fathers and Sons

1874

With a slow hiss and clank the train approached the ancient city of Vladimir, and the two unexpected visitors gazed out with curiosity.

It was spring. The snow had mostly departed, but here and there they saw drifts, or long greyish slivers, across the terrain. All the world, from the peeling white walls of the churches to the brown fields by each hamlet had an untidy, blotchy look. There were huge puddles everywhere; rivers had overflowed their banks and the roads, turned into quagmires, were almost impassable.

Yet if, upon earth, all movement had temporarily ceased, the skies were full of traffic. Over the woods where light green buds had appeared, seemingly overnight, on the bare silver birches, the air was full of the raucous cries of birds who came flocking and wheeling over the forest. For this was the Russian spring, and the rooks and starlings were returning.

The journey had been long, but the two travellers were in good spirits. The train conductor – a tall, thin man with round shoulders, large ears, flat feet, and a strange habit of cracking his knuckles – had engaged their attention; and long before they reached Vladimir, young Nicolai Bobrov had refined his imitation of this man until it was a fine art.

Nicolai was twenty; a handsome, slim young man with the Bobrovs’ regular faintly Turkish features, a small, neatly trimmed moustache, a soft, pointed beard, and a mass of dark brown, wavy hair. His blue eyes and pleasant mouth looked manly.

His companion, though only twenty-one, looked a little older. He was a thin, rather sulky-looking fellow about two inches taller than Nicolai, with a shock of bright ginger hair. His face was cleanshaven. His mouth was thin, his teeth small, rather yellowish and uneven. His eyes were green. But the thing one noticed most, after the first glance, was the area around the eyes, which was slightly puffy, as if he had been punched at birth and never quite recovered.

When the train arrived at Vladimir, the two men got out and Nicolai went in search of transport. Horses were not enough, for they had a considerable quantity of heavy luggage, and he was gone over an hour before he eventually returned with a grumpy peasant driving a carriage so battered it was little more than a cart. ‘Sorry,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It was the best I could do.’ And a few minutes later he and his companion set off.

Mud. Everywhere he looked, it seemed to Nicolai Bobrov, there was mud. Brown mud that stretched to the ploughland’s horizon; mud that stretched down the road like an endless penance; mud that took hold of the carriage wheels and dragged them down like some evil spirit trying to drown a stranger in a pool. Mud splattered their clothes, mud caked the carriage, mud said to them, plainly and without fear of contradiction: ‘This is my season. None shall move, because I do not allow it. Neither horse nor man, rich nor poor, strong nor weak, neither armies nor the Tsar himself have any power over me. For in my season I am king.’ It was not the snow that first broke Napoleon on his retreat from Moscow, Nicolai remembered: it was the mud.

Yet despite their slow progress, young Nicolai felt elated. For it seemed to him that perhaps all his life – and certainly the last year or two – had been a preparation for this journey and this spring.

How he had prepared! Like all the other students in the house they shared, he had read, listened, debated week after week, month after month. He had even practised mortifications like a monk. One month, he had slept on a bare board, which he covered with studs. He generally wore a hair shirt. ‘For I am not yet as strong and as disciplined as I should be,’ he would confess to his friends. And now, at last, the hour was approaching at which, he hoped, both he and all the world would be born again.

And what luck, Nicolai considered as he glanced at his companion – what incredible luck that he should be undertaking his mission with this man above all others. He knows so much more than I do, he thought humbly. Nicolai had never met anyone like him.

As they made their way, at a snail’s pace, through the endless mud, only one thought secretly troubled Nicolai. His unsuspecting parents. What would become of them?

Of course, he realized, they would have to suffer: it was inevitable. But at least I’ll be there, he thought. I dare say I can keep them from the worst.

Slowly the little carriage made its way towards Russka.

Timofei Romanov stood by the window of the izba on that damp spring morning and stared at his son Boris in disbelief.

‘I forbid you,’ he cried at last.

‘I’m twenty and I’m married. You can’t stop me.’ Young Boris Romanov looked round his family. His parents’ faces were ashen; his grandmother Arina was stony faced; and his fifteen-year-old sister Natalia was looking rebellious, as usual.

‘Wolf!’ Timofei roared. And then, almost pleadingly: ‘At least think of your poor mother.’

But Boris said nothing and Timofei could only look outside at the clamorous birds wheeling over the trees and wonder why God had sent the family all these troubles at once.

The Romanov family was small. Over the years, Timofei and Varya had lost four children to disease and malnutrition; but such tragedies were only to be expected. Thank God at least Natalia and Boris were healthy. Arina too, though she had never quite recovered her health from the terrible famine of ’39, was a source of strength: small, somewhat shrivelled, sometimes bitter, but indomitable. Together with Boris’s new wife, they all lived together in a stout, two-storey izba in the centre of the village. And Timofei, now fifty-two, had been looking forward to taking things more easily.

Until a month ago when, to his astonishment, Varya had told him that she was pregnant again. ‘I couldn’t believe it at first,’ she said, ‘but now I’m sure.’ And in reply to her uncertain look he had smiled bravely and remarked: ‘It’s a gift from God.’

Or a curse, he thought now.

For Boris had just announced that he was going to ruin them.

The Emancipation of the Serfs had changed the lives of Timofei and his family, but not much for the better. There were several reasons for this.

While the peasants on land owned by the State had received a moderately good deal, the serfs of private landlords had not. For a start, only about a third of the land had actually been transferred to the private serfs, the rest remaining with the landlords. Secondly, the serfs had had to pay for this land: a fifth in money or labour service, the other four-fifths by means of a loan from the State, in the form of a bond, repayable over forty-nine years: so that, in effect, the serfs of Russia were forced to take out a mortgage on their holdings. Worse even yet, the landlords managed to have the prices of land set artificially high. ‘And it’s not only those damned repayments,’ Timofei would complain. ‘It’s us peasants who still pay all the taxes too. We’re supporting the landowners as much as ever!’

It was perfectly true. The peasants paid the poll tax, from which the nobles were exempt. They also paid a host of indirect taxes on food and spirits, which were a greater burden on the poor. The net result of this was that, after becoming free, Timofei the peasant was actually paying ten times as much to the State for each desiatin of land he held as Bobrov the gentleman did for his. No wonder then if, like most peasants, Timofei often muttered: ‘One day we’ll kick those nobles out and get the rest of the land for ourselves.’

He did not hate the landowner – not personally. Hadn’t he and Misha Bobrov played together when they were children? But he knew that the nobleman was a parasite. ‘They say the Tsars gave the Bobrovs their land,’ he had explained to his children, ‘in return for their services. But the Tsar doesn’t need them any more. So he’ll take their land away soon, and give it to us.’ It was a simple belief which was shared by peasants all over Russia: ‘Be patient. The Tsar will give.’ And so he had waited for better times.

Young Boris Romanov was a pleasant-looking boy – square and stocky like his father, but with hair that was lighter brown and already rather thin at the front. His blue eyes, though defiant, were gentle.

He did not want to hurt his family; but in the last few months since his marriage, life had become impossible. The arrival of his wife – a lively, golden-haired young girl – in the household had produced a new pecking order. While Arina and Varya had previously expected obedience from his sister Natalia, they rather ignored her now and concentrated their attention on Boris’s wife. ‘They think they own me,’ she would furiously complain.

But it was his mother’s unexpected pregnancy which really brought about the crisis. ‘We shall be starting a family also,’ the girl protested to Boris. ‘And where will that leave us, when it’s her new child who’ll be the important one?’ His father Timofei, too, always moody and feeling the strain of the new situation, had taken to shouting at him on the slightest pretext. ‘Call that a way to stack wood, you Mordvinian?’ he would bellow; and to Boris’s wife he had promised: ‘I may have failed with my son, but I’ll thrash some sense into my grandchild when you give me one – you can be sure of that!’ By the time the spring thaw came, Boris had decided it could go on no longer.

And this was why, that very morning, he had made the fateful announcement that he was moving out.

He had several friends who had done the same thing in recent years. ‘It’s hard when you start with your own izba,’ they had warned him. ‘But then it gets easier. And it’s better really once you’ve done it, because you don’t quarrel with your family so much.’ He was sure it was a good idea.

Indeed, he would have made the break sooner but for one consideration: his sister Natalia. For what would become of her? What would the family do to the fifteen-year-old girl with the pouting mouth and the air of secret defiance? ‘They’ll break her,’ he told his wife ruefully. ‘They’ll work her into the ground to make up for us.’ He had suggested taking Natalia into their house, but his wife had refused. Natalia, too, had been adamant. ‘Go, Boris,’ she told him. ‘Don’t worry about me.’ And when he asked her how she would manage: ‘I’ll be all right, you’ll see.’ She grinned: ‘I have a plan.’ He wondered what it was.

It was an hour later that Timofei Romanov, rather pale, stood staring across an open field. Beside him was the man who would now decide his fate.

The village elder was a small, grey-bearded peasant with a loud voice and a decisive manner, whom Timofei respectfully addressed in the old-fashioned way, by his patronymic only, as ‘Ilych’.

Nervously Timofei explained the situation, scarcely daring to look at the elder; but when he had done, unable to bear the suspense, he turned to him abruptly and asked: ‘Well, Ilych, am I ruined?’ Whatever the other said, he knew it would be final; and there would be nothing in the world he could do about it.

Timofei Romanov was free: and yet he was not. In this he resembled most of the former serfs in Russia. For when the Tsar’s advisers had given the serfs their land, they had encountered one other, most difficult problem: what if these peasants, no longer owned by their masters, started wandering about doing what they liked? ‘How will we control them? How can we ensure that the land is tilled and taxes collected?’ Freedom was all very well, but one couldn’t have chaos. And so, in their wisdom, the authorities had devised a simple solution. The peasant, though legally free, would still be tied to his place. The land taken from the landlord was not given to the peasant individually, but to the village commune, which was made responsible for taxes and everything else. If, for instance, Timofei wanted to travel to Moscow, he would have to apply to the village elder for a passport, just as he had formerly applied to Bobrov. Even minor matters of justice rested with the commune. And above all, it was the village elder who periodically redistributed the scattered strips of land – so many good, medium and poor for each family. In short Timofei Romanov was now, in effect, a member of a medieval village without a feudal lord, or, to use a modern term, a compulsory peasant cooperative. The terms do not matter for, in reality, they are one and the same.

And this was the problem: if Boris left home and set up on his own, the land would be repartitioned. Timofei’s share would probably be reduced. The land he had now was not enough to support the family and its obligations. How would he manage?

‘I’ll have to cut your holding,’ Ilych said brusquely.

‘How much?’

The elder considered. ‘By half.’ It was even worse than Timofei had feared. ‘I’m sorry,’ the elder went on, ‘but there are more young people in the village now. There isn’t enough land for them all as things are.’ Then he shrugged irritably, and left.

Yet whatever his troubles that morning, Timofei Romanov would have been dismayed had he known what was passing through his mother-in-law’s mind.

Arina was sixty-three. She was the senior woman in the family, and she let no one forget it. And above all, she loved her daughter Varya. ‘I didn’t nearly kill myself for her in thirty-nine,’ she would say, ‘to see harm come to her now.’ As the years went by, it became clear that the mark left by that terrible time was never going to leave her. And she herself would often remark: ‘I lived on one turnip for a month that year and my stomach’s never been the same. That’s why I’m older than I should be.’ And it was true that though she was still at first glance a comfortable, round little babushka like any other, there was an inner hardness concealed within a ruthless instinct for survival that made her formidable.

And now her daughter was going to have another child. She had watched quietly as the little family drama began to unfold. Several times, poor Varya had turned to her miserably and said: ‘God knows, it’d be a blessing if I lost the baby before it was born.’ And now, as she saw how events were shaping, Arina came to her own private conclusion.

If things don’t improve, she decided, the child will have to die. Such things were not uncommon. She had known a woman who had drowned her child; exposing them was easier and less obvious. If it has to be, then I shall do it, she thought. That’s what grandmothers are for.

But she kept this decision to herself. And when he returned gloomily from his talk with the village elder and told them the news, Timofei had no idea of the meaning of his mother-in-law’s grim look. Instead he remarked to his wife: ‘We may have to put Natalia in the factory. Send her to me.’

As Peter Suvorin followed in the wake of his grandfather Savva, a new idea took shape in his mind: Perhaps I should kill myself.

For some reason the thought had an extraordinary beauty. How would he do it though? That was something else to ponder. Whatever he did, one thing was certain: he must escape from this terrible trap.

If only his father had not died. Remembering his own harsh upbringing by Savva – and also because, when Peter was only ten, he had lost his wife – Ivan Suvorin had been a kindly father with the wisdom to let his two sons be themselves. Vladimir, five years the older, was a born businessman and Ivan had let him manage one of the Moscow plants when he was only seventeen. But Peter had intellectual leanings and – to old Savva’s disgust – had even been allowed to go to university.

Then, six months ago, Ivan had suffered a massive stroke, and Peter’s sunlit world had abruptly come to an end.

I’m completely in his power, he realized. For old Savva had asserted himself with extraordinary force. Within a week, he had taken personal control of everything. Peter’s studies were cancelled at once; and while young Vladimir was left to manage the factories in Moscow, Savva had curtly ordered Peter to accompany him back to Russka. ‘For it’s time,’ the old man told his wife, ‘that we took this one in hand.’

To Peter, it had been a revelation. As a child in the comfortable Moscow house, his grandparents had been distant figures whose occasional visits were treated with a kind of religious respect. His grandfather was the tallest man he had ever seen: with his thick shock of hair, his huge grey beard and piercing black eyes he was as terrifying as he was silent. Ever since he had gained his freedom, Savva had dressed in a long black coat and an immensely tall top hat: so that once, as a little boy, Peter had dreamed that the great tower in the Moscow Kremlin had turned into his grandfather and gone stalking across the city like an avenging fury. Many times, with a wry smile, Ivan had told his sons how Savva had broken a violin over his head. Peter avoided the old man as much as possible.

But now that he had been forced to live in his grandparents’ house, Peter’s feelings had changed. The childhood fear still remained, but it was accompanied now by something else: and this was awe.

Savva Suvorin was something more than a mere mortal. He was a law unto himself and unto God: fixed, immutable, and merciless. He was eighty-two and stood as straight as he had at thirty. He strode everywhere, on foot. The Theodosian community to which he had belonged had been broken up by the authorities in the 1850s and, like many other merchants, he had found it necessary to subscribe, nominally, to the Orthodox Church. But he remained an Old Believer in private and still ate alone out of a wooden bowl, with a little cedarwood spoon with a cross on it. The break-up of the Theodosians also removed any last chains that community might have had upon the Suvorin enterprises. Now they belonged entirely to Savva and his family. And they were huge.

Peter knew the holdings at Moscow: the dye factory by the river; the plant for printing calico; the glue factory; the starch factory; and the little printing press his brother Vladimir had set up. But never, until now, had he really understood what had taken place at Russka.

Russka had never been beautiful, but now it was hideous. On the steep slope down to the river, the huddled huts, lean-tos and straggling fences seemed to topple into the water as though they had been tipped out of the town like so much refuse. Inside the walls, the huge brick cotton mill with its rows of blank windows dwarfed the church, and its belching octagonal chimney out-matched even the ancient watchtower by the town gate. The cloth mill was nearly as big; there were long, barn-like buildings containing the linen factory. People were drawn there from miles around and old Savva Suvorin ruled it all.

The force of will that had built this place up was frightening to contemplate. And it’s all there, in his face, Peter thought. The great square head, the smouldering eyes, the heavy brows, and that mighty, shapeless promontory of a nose. Did they still make noses like that? His father’s had been large, his own inclined to heaviness; but history itself might have paused, he thought, before Savva’s features, like a sculptor before a stubborn granite rockface. My God, he realized, he’s like one of those elders of ancient times, from beyond the Volga – only turned into a merchant. Such was Savva Suvorin.

At first, life had not been too unpleasant. His grandparents lived in a simple stone house, not a tenth the size of the big Moscow house. It was furnished simply, with heavy, rather ugly furniture, which was impressive for being solid and highly polished. But what did the old people want with him? When he took Peter with him on his rounds, Savva gave no indication of what he expected; and after a few weeks Peter supposed the old man was bored with his company and would soon send him back to Moscow.

It was his grandmother, soon after Christmas, who had actually dealt the blow.

‘We’ve decided you should start work in the linen factory,’ she calmly announced. ‘You’ll get to know the village too, that way.’

Maria Suvorin’s face was still, in old age, perfectly round; her nose, if anything, even more pointed; her compressed mouth, despite her huge riches, never smiled. And behind narrow slit lids resided the same pair of hard grey eyes. Like most simple Russian women, her white hair was parted in the middle, drawn tightly round her head and fixed at the back. The only luxuries she allowed herself were the rich silk brocade dresses which ballooned out to the ground like a bell. Over her head she liked to wear a big shawl that spread over her shoulders and upper arms and was pinned under her chin so that she exactly resembled one of those brightly painted little Russian dolls – a comfortable image which was quite contradicted by her ruthless character.

‘But I’m quite unsuited to this kind of work,’ he protested.

‘We think it’s best,’ she calmly replied.

‘But what about my studies?’

‘That’s all over now,’ she said placidly. And then, not unkindly: ‘You surely can’t expect your eighty-year-old grandfather to do all your work for you, can you?’

And now, on this cold, damp spring morning, as the starlings wheeled over the rooftops, it seemed to Peter that he could bear it no more.

He had tried to take an interest and find something to excite his imagination. When Savva told him, ‘The American Civil War hit our cotton supplies for a while’ or: ‘We can get cotton from Asia now’, Peter conjured up images of distant ships from the New World, or caravans across the desert, and told himself that the Suvorin enterprises were part of some larger, exciting adventure. But each day as he was faced with the same grim chimneys, the endless lines of spinning machines, and the monotonous, grinding work of the factories, he knew in his heart: Russka was a prison.

That morning they were doing what he hated most of all: they were inspecting the workers’ living quarters.

Life was not so bad out in the villages, where the flax for the linen was grown and every peasant izba produced its own handicrafts. But the living quarters in Russka were completely different. There were three long rows of wooden houses for worker families, which might not have been so bad except that three to five families were crammed into each house. ‘We are all one family,’ Savva would remind these people as he moved amongst them like a grim Old Testament patriarch. ‘We live together.’

And then there were the dormitories. Why was it that, as the two men entered one of these, Peter’s heart sank?

It was not that the place was squalid. It was spotlessly clean, light, airy and well heated. The long room was painted white, with a line of wooden pillars running down its centre and beds on each side. The beds consisted of a wide, shallow wooden tray divided in two so that in each half there was room for a narrow mattress and a few other possessions. Two people therefore, separated by a low partition, slept on each bed, and there were thirty people on each side of the dormitory. Under the bed was a wooden box that could be locked; and above, hanging from the wooden ceiling, was a rack over which the rest of the worker’s clothes could be hung. Men slept in one dormitory, women in another. It was all very orderly.

And yet depressing: and Peter knew exactly why. It was the people.

There was, as yet, no urban working class outside Moscow and St Petersburg – and scarcely there. The people who lived in the dormitories mainly belonged to two types. There were the children of peasant families from distant villages, who returned periodically to their families to give them their modest wages; and there were the former household serfs who had been given their freedom at the Emancipation but who, having no land to claim in any village, were cast loose and were entirely homeless. These were the wretched creatures who now cringed as he and his grandfather passed. They are just peasants, he thought, who are lost. And the very tidiness of the place made it seem even more inhumane.

And I am supposed to live here, he considered, and continue this terrible system. These people and these hideous factories, will feed my family. It was all so terrible. He did not know quite what he wanted out of life, but with a kind of desperate urgency he muttered under his breath: ‘Anything, anything – I’d even haul barges up the Volga, but not this.’

It was just as they were leaving the dormitory that Peter Suvorin chanced to glance back, and caught sight of something he was not meant to see.

At the far end of the dormitory, with his back to Peter, a youth of about his own age was doing an imitation of Savva Suvorin for his friends. Considering that he was small and pinched in appearance, it wasn’t bad. Seeing Peter watching, however, the others made warning signs, and the young fellow stopped and turned.

It was a shock to Peter. He had seen most kinds of expression on men’s faces, but he had never seen naked hate before. The youth either did not know it showed, or didn’t bother to conceal it: either way, it was unnerving.

My God, he thought, this fellow thinks I’m like Grandfather. If only he knew the truth! And then, even worse, he realized: But why would he even care that I sympathize with him, when I’m a Suvorin? And he fled.

He knew the young man slightly. He seemed harmless enough. His name was Grigory.

Natalia walked briskly along the path towards Russka. As soon as she had seen her father returning glumly from his interview with the village elder, she had slipped away. No doubt he would be looking for her by now.

She knew exactly what was in store for her. She would be sent to the Suvorin factory, and expected to stay there as long as the family needed her wages to make ends meet. She dreaded it. I’ll be a spinster and a slave all my life, she calculated.

She was determined to do better than that. When she was a little girl, because Misha Bobrov had always been friendly towards her father, both she and Boris had been sent to the little school in Russka for three years, where they had learned to read. Poor though she was, this unusual accomplishment had given her a secret pride, a belief that somehow – she had no idea how – she would amount to something.

But although she had guessed what it would mean for her, she had encouraged Boris to go. She loved him. She knew it had to be. At least he may be happy, she thought. And her plan – the plan of which she had spoken to Boris?

There was no plan. She had no idea what to do.

She pushed her scarf more tightly round her head as the damp air made her face smart. She could only think of one possible way out.

She was going to see Grigory.

Misha Bobrov and his wife Anna were beaming with pleasure.

It was just as dusk was falling that day that the little carriage arrived at the Bobrovo estate; and to their amazement, Nicolai jumped out, ran to embrace them, and announced: ‘I got leave from the university to come home early – so here I am.’ And when he added that he had brought a friend, Misha happily replied: ‘The more the merrier, my dear boy.’ And, taking his son by the arm with that gentle Bobrov gesture, he led the way inside.

Misha Bobrov always counted himself a lucky man that he got on so well with his son. He still remembered the brooding atmosphere that surrounded his stern old father Alexis and had always resolved never to allow such bad feeling at Bobrovo again – which came naturally to him anyway, for he was a kindly, easy-going man.

Above all, he was always delighted to let the boy argue with him. ‘Just like dear Sergei and old Uncle Ilya,’ he’d say. Indeed, he was rather proud of his own skills in debate; and even if – as one expected with young people – Nicolai sometimes became heated, Misha never minded. ‘The boy’s basically sound,’ he’d tell his wife afterwards. And when she thought he’d let Nicolai go too far he would reply: ‘No, we must listen to the young people, Anna, and try to understand them. For they are the future.’ He congratulated himself that this strategy had clearly proved correct.

The two travellers were tired after their journey, and after eating they both expressed a desire to retire early. ‘But I can see we shall have some splendid discussions with these young men,’ Misha remarked to Anna, as they sat in the salon afterwards. ‘One may not always like what goes on at universities, but our young people always come back full of ideas.’ He smiled contentedly. ‘I shall have to be on my mettle.’

Only one thing puzzled him. It was absurd, really, but he had a curious sense, the moment he had set eyes on him, that there was something vaguely familiar about Nicolai’s friend. Yet what the devil was it?

Yevgeny Pavlovich Popov. That was how the ginger-haired fellow had been introduced: it was a common enough name. ‘Have I seen you before?’ Misha had asked.

‘No.’

He had not pursued the subject. Yet – he was sure of it – there was something about the fellow… And that night, as he lay for many hours, too excited to sleep, this little conundrum was one of many matters the landowner turned over in his mind.

The arrival of his son always made Misha Bobrov think about the future. What sort of estate would he be able to hand on to the boy? What sort of life would Nicolai have? Above all, what did the boy think about things. I must ask him about such-and-such, he’d think. Or, remembering some pet project of his own: I wonder if he’d approve of that? So it was that, in the darkness, a host of subjects crowded into his head.

And it was typical of Misha Bobrov that, although for him personally things had gone rather badly, he remained convinced that, in general, they were going well. ‘I am optimistic about the future,’ he would declare. It was one of the few matters upon which his wife could not agree with him.

In fact, on the Bobrov estate, things were going extremely badly. For if the Emancipation had disappointed the peasants, it had hardly been any better for the landowners either.

The first problem was old and familiar. By 1861 Misha Bobrov, like nearly every landowner he knew, had already pledged seventy per cent of his serfs against mortgages at the State bank. In the decade after Emancipation, half the money he received as compensation went straight to the bank to pay off these debts. Furthermore, the State bonds that he was given in part payment – the bonds which the peasants were struggling so hard to pay off – were slowly losing their value as Russia suffered a mild inflation. ‘Those damned bonds are already worth two-thirds of what they were,’ he had remarked to Anna just the week before.

Because he was in debt and short of cash, Bobrov found it hard to pay for labour from his former serfs to cultivate the land he had left. Some had been rented out to peasants; some leased to merchants; and some, he feared, would soon have to be sold. Most of his friends were selling land. Each year, therefore, he grew a little poorer.

Why then should he be optimistic?

There were several reasons. The Russian Empire was certainly more settled and stronger than when he was a young man. After centuries of conflict, the vast empire seemed to be reaching out, at last, to its natural frontiers. True, the huge territory of Alaska, in 1867, had been sold to the United States. ‘But it was too far away,’ Bobrov would say. And meanwhile, Russia was consolidating her hold on the distant Pacific rim of the Eurasian plain where the new port of Vladivostok, opposite Japan, gave promise of a vigorous Far Eastern trade. Down in the south, after the débâcle of the Crimea, Russia had once again secured the right to sail her fleet in the warm Black Sea; and to the south-east, she was gradually absorbing the desert peoples beyond the Caspian Sea, with their fierce ruling princes and rich caravans. In the west, the last uprising of the Poles had been crushed and Russia – closely allied now with Prussia – was at peace with her western neighbours. And if, some said, the Prussian kingdom and its brilliant Chancellor Bismarck seemed a little too hungry for power, what was that to the empire of the Tsar, which covered a sixth of the land surface of the globe?

But the real reason why Bobrov was optimistic was because of what he saw inside Russia itself.

‘We’ve seen more reform in the last fifteen years,’ he would point out, ‘than at any time since Peter the Great.’

It might be that, in private, Tsar Alexander II only wanted to maintain order in Russia; but having decided that reforms were needed to do so, he had made amazing progress. The creaking, ancient legal system had been totally reformed. Now, for the first time in eight hundred years of Russian history, there were independent courts, with independent judges, professional lawyers, open to all men and conducted, not in secret, but in the open. There was even trial by jury. The military had been reformed: all men, noble and peasant, were liable to be chosen by lots for service – but six years only, not twenty-five. And in all but the elite regiments, a man of humble birth could even become an officer. ‘God knows, we can only do better than we did in the Crimea,’ Misha liked to say to fellow gentlemen who complained of this mixing of classes.

But the reforms which pleased Misha Bobrov the most were the new local assemblies.

For these were the bodies known to history as the zemstvos – zemstvo meaning: ‘of the land, the community’ – in the country; and the dumas – the duma being the ancient Tsar’s council – in the towns. And Russia had seen nothing like them before. In every district, town and province, these assemblies for local government were elected by all taxpayers, whether gentry, merchant or peasant. ‘So now,’ Misha cheerfully claimed, ‘Russia has entered the modern world of democracy too.’

True, the zemstvos and dumas had only modest powers; and key posts like that of governor and the police chiefs were all appointed by the Tsar’s government.

True, there were also some special features in the election. In the towns, for instance, the votes were weighted by how much in taxes was paid: the great majority of the people therefore, who only contributed a third of the taxes, could only elect a third of the council members. In the country, similar weighting, and a series of indirect election, ensured that in the provincial zemstvos, over seventy per cent of the members belonged to the gentry. ‘But it’s the principle of the thing that matters,’ Misha declared. ‘And all the classes have a say.’

Besides – and this was, perhaps, the thing Bobrov liked best of all – these zemstvos gave men like him a role in society. As a service class, the nobles might have been passed by; their serfs might have been taken from them; but in these local zemstvos, however modest their power, a noble like himself might still preserve the illusion that he was important and useful to his country. ‘We have always served Russia,’ he could still say, with a trace of satisfaction.

It was just before he fell asleep that a possible solution to the puzzle concerning his familiar guest occurred to Misha Bobrov.

Devil take it, he thought. Didn’t the young fellow say his patronymic was Pavlovich? And didn’t that horrid old priest at Russka, with the red hair, have a son called Paul Popov – a petty official of some kind in Moscow. Could this ginger-haired fellow be the priest’s grandson, then?

It was an amusing thought. He decided to ask him in the morning.

Yet when morning came, and Misha descended to the dining room where he expected to find the two young men at breakfast, he was greeted by his manservant with a most curious bit of news.

‘Mister Nicolai went out with his friend just before dawn, sir,’ the fellow said.

‘Before dawn? Where to?’

‘Down to the village, Mikhail Alexeevich.’ And then, with obvious disapproval: ‘They were dressed as peasants, sir.’

Misha looked at the man. He was not usually given to inventing stories.

‘Why the devil should they be doing that?’ he demanded.

‘I can’t understand it, sir,’ he replied. ‘They said,’ he hesitated for an instant, ‘they said, sir, that they were going to look for work.’

And Misha Bobrov could only wonder what on earth this could mean.

Grigory was nineteen, with a pinched face and long, oily black hair which was parted, rather sadly, down the middle. He was not strong physically, and God had cursed him with teeth which gave him pain almost every day. But he was determined, in his quiet way. Determined to survive.

He was also frightened of Natalia Romanov, who loved him.

He had been one of a family of eight. His father had been a household serf who had drifted into casual labour in Vladimir and who, as soon as they were ten, had sent his children out to work. About once a month he had tied Grigory to a wooden bench and flogged him with birch twigs which he had thoughtfully wetted first. Yet, despite this, Grigory had been fond of him.

His father had not minded when, at the age of thirteen, Grigory had said he wanted to leave home. Indeed, Grigory had the impression that his parents were rather glad to get rid of him. But before he left, his father had given him one piece of advice to take with him on his road through life.

‘Take what you can from women, Grigory. But watch out. Sometimes they seem kind, but deep down, they want to hurt you. Remember that.’

He always had.

And now this girl. What did she see in him? She was pretty, lively; her father had his own holding: by Grigory’s standards, the Romanovs were rich. He could make her laugh: but then, with his sharp, rather cruel humour, he could make almost anyone laugh. He could make people laugh who hated him, and whom he hated.

So what could she want with him?

And why, in the name of the Lord, had she, that last night, asked him to marry her? He had looked at her with suspicious astonishment before gruffly replying: ‘I’ll have to think about that.’

When the two young men dressed as peasants appeared in the village that morning, nobody at first knew who they were – until Arina, coming out of the house took one look and called out: ‘Holy Master Nicolai, how you’ve grown!’ And a moment later, at the old woman’s insistence, they were inside the Romanov izba sitting by the big warm stove and eating sweetmeats.

When the family heard that Nicolai and his friend wanted to work in the village, they were mystified. Who could fathom the mind of a noble? But when Timofei cautiously enquired if they wanted to be paid, and was told they did not, his eyes opened wide at this stroke of good luck. ‘Go no further, Nicolai Mikhailovich,’ he said. ‘I can give you just what you want.’

And so it was, two hours later, that a puzzled Misha Bobrov encountered his son and young Popov quietly helping the peasant at the edge of a large field and, wise enough not to interfere, shook his head in amusement at the strange eccentricities of young people and returned to his house. ‘They’ll be hungry tonight,’ he remarked to his wife, and went to read a book.

Natalia watched the two visitors with curiosity too. She had been a little girl when Nicolai Bobrov went away to school and the landlord’s son was hardly more than a name to her. He was handsome, she thought, with his neatly trimmed moustache and beard and his bright blue eyes. Very handsome. But his friend with the ginger hair was different: she did not know what to make of him. He didn’t say much to Natalia and her family, leaving Nicolai to do the talking, and Natalia decided he must belong to some class of person that she had never seen before. Still, she considered, he’s nothing to do with me. She had other things to think about.

Especially Grigory.

Natalia loved her family. She did not want to hurt them. But when Boris said he was moving out, something had snapped inside her. She felt suddenly very lonely. She knew her father and mother needed her; yet when the previous evening Timofei had told her, as she feared, that she might have to go to the factory, she couldn’t help feeling resentful. If I do that for them, she decided, then I want something to make me happy too. Strangely, that meant Grigory.

Why him? The fact was, her prospects in the village were not good. The Romanovs were poor: with this new baby, her father certainly had nothing to give her as a dowry. And as she wasn’t a particular beauty, she would be lucky to get one of the better village boys. But in any case, it was the little fellow in the factory, with his sly wit, who had captivated her. There was something about him, an inner drive, that fascinated her. None of the village boys had that. When they had first struck up an acquaintance, she had started to teach him to read, and been astonished by his quickness. He did not seem to study things like other people: he attacked each subject, devouring it ferociously until he had mastered it. He’s like a tiger, she thought wonderingly. And yet, he was also vulnerable: he needed looking after. It was a combination she found attractive, compelling; and by the spring she had concluded: He may not be perfect, but there is no other man on earth like this.

Her plan was simple enough: Either he can come and live with us in the village, and then there’ll be two wages to bring home. Or if they won’t take him in, then I’ll go and live with him in Russka and they’ll get nothing. It was a way of asserting her independence, at least.

And so, all day, while Nicolai and Popov worked with her father, she thought about him.

She was quite surprised when, at dusk, Nicolai announced that he and his friend would be back again the following morning.

Nicolai was pleased. The first day had gone well. Yevgeny seemed to be satisfied too. We’ll get their confidence,’ he said. ‘But remember,’ he added sternly, ‘we mustn’t say anything for the time being. That’s the plan.’

‘Of course.’ The plan was everything.

How lucky he was, Nicolai thought, to be with Popov. Admittedly, he could sometimes be rather mysterious, so that you felt he was withholding information; but he seemed so certain about things, so definite. And now they were partners in this all-important business. He supposed that, one day, their names might even be listed with the others in the history books.

Meanwhile, he was looking forward to this evening. He had seen Yevgeny in action many times, and he wondered with amusement what his friend would do to his parents.

As Misha Bobrov waited in the salon for the two young men to come down for supper, he tried to conceal his excitement.

Not only did he long to find out what they were up to, but, as he told his wife: ‘You can be sure we have a great many things to discuss.’ He believed that he would give a good account of himself. Indeed, he thought that the students might be rather impressed.

The salon was a long, pleasant room, simply furnished with chairs and sofas of French design, and was graced with heavy blue curtains, parted at the centre and tied at the sides with large tassels. A fine mahogany glass-fronted bookcase, its decorative panels carved in the shape of classical lyres, stood handsomely at the far end of the room; on the mantel over the fire, a black marble clock, shaped like a rather stolid little Greek temple front, stared out into the room with confident self-satisfaction. In one corner, a round table was covered with a bright Turkey rug. And everywhere a mass of family pictures, from large oils to tiny cameos, were hung around the walls in no particular order.

As well as these conventional furnishings, however, there were several indications that Misha Bobrov was a gentleman somewhat out of the ordinary.

On each side of the bookcase was a picture – not the classical scenes his grandfather would have favoured, but bright, informal studies, one of a country landscape at sunset, the other of a wrinkled peasant’s face. These paintings by the new school, known as The Wanderers, gave him huge pleasure. ‘They are the first truly Russian painters since the makers of icons,’ he would say. ‘These young fellows paint Russian life as it really is.’ Indeed, in his study, he even had a little sketch by the best of these, the brilliant Ilya Repin, which showed a humble barge-hauler on the Volga, straining on his harness as if he were trying to be free. And when young Nicolai had shown some talent for drawing at school, Misha had urged him: ‘You try to draw like these young men, Nicolai – just as you really see things.’

Further evidence of the landlord’s character lay on the round table, in the form of several thick periodicals. These were the so-called ‘fat journals’ which had become such a feature of Russian intellectual life at that period. In these might be found, in serial form, the latest works of the great novelists of the day: Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky and Turgenev. But they also carried political commentaries and essays of the most radical kind, so that their presence in the salon was a declaration by Misha Bobrov that said: ‘You see, I keep abreast of all that is going on.’

It was by this table that the landowner, with a great show of cheerfulness, greeted the two young men when they came down. It was clear to them both that he was holding himself in. As if nothing unusual had happened he conversed idly about the capital, the weather, the fact that his wife would be down shortly. And only after several minutes, with a show of nonchalance that almost made Nicolai burst out laughing, did he remark: ‘I hope you enjoyed your time in the fields today; but might one inquire what exactly you were doing?’

To which the young men answered just as they had agreed they would.

It seemed to Misha that the meal was going well. The red wine was excellent. In the warm light of the candles, under the gaze of his ancestors on the walls, he sat at the head of the table, happy and flushed, and doing most of the talking. His wife Anna – tall and dark, not clever but with decided opinions – graced the other end.

So the young men wanted to study village conditions. It was a novel idea, to work side by side with the peasants like this, but to Misha it seemed rather commendable. And when young Popov added that he was collecting folk tales, Misha was delighted. ‘I know most of Krylov’s fairy tales by heart,’ he told his visitor. ‘But my old nanny Arina is the one you should really talk to. She knows hundreds.’

Misha Bobrov believed he got on well with students. For a start, he was interested in education. He had been busy all that year with the district zemstvo trying to improve the local schooling. ‘We now give a basic education to one boy in six and one girl in twenty at Russka,’ he told them proudly. ‘And it would be twice that if Savva Suvorin didn’t place every obstacle in our way.’

He also let them know that he hated the Minister of Education. For some reason the Tsar was devoted to this man, a certain Count Dimitri Tolstoy – a distant kinsman of the great novelist – whose regime at the Education Ministry was so reactionary that he was known as ‘The Strangler’. And when Misha learned that Popov had studied at the medical school, where there had been a huge student strike some years before, he was quick to declare: ‘With that cursed Tolstoy at the Ministry, I can understand any student who wants to revolt.’

He spoke easily of literature, the latest radical essays in the journals, and politics: where he even took the line – highly unusual for a provincial landowner – that as well as the local zemstvos there should also be a Constituent Assembly, freely elected by the people, to advise the Tsar on national affairs. In short, Misha Bobrov gave such proof of his progressive views that he felt sure that, although the two young men did not say much, he must have impressed them.

It was towards the end of the meal that he received a surprise.

He had been watching Yevgeny Popov with some interest during these conversations. In his day, nearly all the university students had come from his own gentry class; but since the mid-century, a new generation of educated people had begun to appear; sons of priests, minor officials and merchants – men like young Popov. Misha was all in favour. The doctors, teachers and agricultural experts whom the local zemstvos were employing mostly came from this class. But Popov, he sensed, was more intellectual than most. What kind of fellow was he? Another thing Misha noticed was that when Popov spoke, he was rather abrupt, as though scorning useless civilities. So much the better, Misha thought. He’s direct. And he took care to be direct himself whenever he addressed him.

But he could not quite restrain his original curiosity about the ginger-haired student’s family; and so it was, when they were well into their second bottle of wine, that he politely enquired: ‘I noticed, my dear sir, that your patronymic was Pavlovich. Would you by any chance be the son of that Paul Popov whose father was once the priest at Russka?’

It was a perfectly polite question, but Popov scarcely bothered to look up from his food when he answered: ‘Yes.’

Fearing that he might have offended him in some way, Misha graciously added, though with flagrant untruth: ‘A most distinguished man.’

‘Was he? I’ve no idea.’ Popov continued to eat.

Slightly puzzled, still curious, and feeling vaguely that, having begun to ask after his family, it would be impolite not to follow through, Misha ploughed on. ‘I hope your father is well.’

Still Popov did not trouble to look up. ‘He’s dead.’

‘I’m sorry.’ It was Anna Bobrov who, scarcely thinking, had spoken. After all, it was only common courtesy. But to her amazement, Popov now looked up at her calmly.

‘No, you’re not.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You’re not sorry. How could you possibly be sorry if you never even met him?’

Anna looked confused; Misha frowned; and Nicolai smiled with amusement.

‘Yevgeny hates shams. He believes one should only tell the truth.’

‘Quite right,’ said Misha, hoping to smoothe over the little awkwardness. But to his surprise, young Popov only turned to look at him with a mild contempt.

‘Then why did you say that corrupt old idiot my grandfather was distinguished?’

This was gross impertinence; yet, to his astonishment, Misha Bobrov felt himself blushing guiltily. ‘You’re my guest,’ he muttered. Then, irritably: ‘One should show some family respect.’

‘I can’t see why, when there’s nothing to respect.’

There was an awkward pause. Then Anna spoke. She was not sure if she understood any of this, but one thing at least she knew. ‘Family feeling is the most important thing in the world,’ she said firmly.

‘Nonsense. Not if the feeling is insincere.’

Her mouth opened in astonishment; but Nicolai smiled at her, then at his father, and explained: ‘Popov is the most sincere fellow in the world. He believes we must strip away falsehood from everything. Destroy it, no matter what it is.’

‘You mean,’ Anna tried to fathom this, ‘that anything, even kindness to others, good manners, should be destroyed? What on earth would you have if everyone did that?’

And now, for the first time since he had arrived, Popov smiled.

‘Truth,’ he said simply.

Misha Bobrov also smiled. Now he understood the fellow. ‘You’re what they call a Nihilist,’ he said. Every educated Russian knew something of these radical fellows after they had been described in Turgenev’s famous novel Fathers and Sons a few years before. They followed the Russian philosopher Bakunin who urged that all society’s falsehoods must be destroyed and that this destruction of outworn ideas, no matter how painful, was creative. ‘I am with you absolutely, my dear sir,’ he declared. ‘I understand.’ He felt rather pleased with himself.

‘No, you don’t.’ Popov was looking at him with a calm disdain. ‘You’re just typical of your generation. You talk endlessly, make a few half-hearted reforms, and actually do nothing.’ And he shrugged contemptuously.

Misha Bobrov gasped. His fist clenched. For a moment he said nothing, but forced himself, very carefully, to drink the rest of his glass of wine. As he did so, he noticed that his hand was shaking. It really was outrageous: this rudeness in his own house. And yet – this was the awful thing – could it be that there was some truth in what the young man said? Misha suddenly had a vision of dear old Uncle Ilya, sitting in his chair, as the weeks, months and years passed, reading, talking – and doing nothing, just as Popov had described. Surely he was not like that himself, was he? ‘The reforms of the present reign have been real,’ he said defensively. ‘Why, we abolished serfdom before the Americans abolished slavery.’

‘In name but not in fact.’

‘These things take time.’ He paused and looked seriously at the young man. ‘Do you really believe that everything in Russia is rotten?’

‘Of course. Don’t you?’

And there, of course, was the problem. As Misha Bobrov gazed at Popov, he could not honestly deny the charge. Russia was still pitifully backward. The bureaucracy was famous for its corruption. Even the elected zemstvo assemblies, of which he was so proud, had no influence at all on the central government of the empire, which was the same autocracy as in the days of Peter the Great or even Ivan the Terrible. Yes, of course, his beloved Russia was rotten. But wouldn’t it improve? Weren’t enlightened, liberal-minded men like him making a difference? Or was this rude and frankly unpleasant young man right?

Only now, as he silently pondered this question, did Anna Bobrov suddenly speak up. She had listened to their exchange. Of the philosophical content she had understood not a word. But one statement she had clearly grasped. ‘You say that the state of Russia is rotten, Mr Popov,’ she declared, ‘and you are absolutely right. It’s a disgrace.’

Nicolai turned to his mother in surprise. ‘And what should be done about it, Mother?’ he enquired.

‘Done?’ She looked astonished. ‘How should I know?’ And then, speaking unconsciously for the vast majority of the Russian people, and in a tone of voice which proclaimed that the statement was obvious: ‘That’s for the government to decide!’

‘Madame,’ Popov smiled ironically, ‘you have just solved the entire problem.’

And it was clear to them all that – God bless her – she certainly thought she had.

The discussion ended after that. But, as well as feeling hurt by Popov’s words, Misha Bobrov was left with the sad and uncomfortable feeling that a gulf had opened between him and his son: that there was something about Nicolai and his friend that he did not understand.

In the days that followed, the weather swiftly grew warmer. In the Bobrov house, everything seemed very quiet. The two young men went out, each day, to work with the villagers and returned home tired. Everyone avoided further discussions, and when Misha occasionally asked if their researches were progressing well, they assured him they were. ‘Young men do get strange enthusiasms sometimes,’ he remarked doubtfully to his wife. ‘I suppose there’s no harm in it.’

‘Being out of doors is very good for Nicolai,’ she replied. And Bobrov had to agree that the boy looked uncommonly fit. Young Popov, he thought, sometimes looked rather bored.

For his part, Nicolai was delighted with everything. He enjoyed the physical work and the company of the peasants who, though he could never really be one of them, seemed to get used to him; indeed he was delighted when, after a week, Timofei Romanov actually forgot for a moment who he was and cursed him as thoroughly as his own son for digging a trench in the wrong place.

Above all, though he had moved amongst the peasants since his childhood, it was only now, he realized, that he really understood what their lives were like – the crippling payments, the shortage of land, young Boris’s need to get out from the nagging claustrophobia of his parents’ house, and the resulting, miserable prospect of the Suvorin factory for Natalia. And it’s our fault, the gentry’s, that they have to live like this, he thought. It’s true that we are parasites upon these people, who have nothing to gain from the way that Russia is run.

Yet as he observed the village, he noticed other things too. He had learned a little from books about agricultural methods in other countries; and so he now understood that the practices followed at Russka, as in most of Russia, were medieval. The ploughs were wooden, since iron ones were too expensive. The ploughlands, moreover, were still arranged in strips, with wasteful ridges of unploughed earth between them. And since these strips were regularly redistributed, no peasant ever had a personal holding he could call his own, which he might have cultivated more intensively. When Nicolai once suggested this solution to Timofei, however, the peasant only looked doubtful and remarked: ‘But then some people might get better land than others.’ Such was the immutable way of the commune. ‘Anyway,’ Timofei confessed to him, ‘our greatest problem now is that every year, the crops we sow yield less and less. Our Russian soil is exhausted and there’s nothing you can do.’

It was this statement that, for the first time, led Nicolai to question his father in detail about the village. Was Timofei correct? To his son’s surprise, the landowner’s answer was remarkably informed.

‘If you want to understand the Russian village,’ he explained, ‘you have to understand that many of its problems are of its own making. This soil exhaustion is a perfect example. Six months ago,’ he went on, ‘the provincial zemstvo hired a German expert to study the question. The basic problem is this: our peasants use a three-field system of crop rotation – spring oats or barley, together with potatoes; winter rye; and the third field fallow. And, quite simply, it isn’t efficient. In other countries they’re using four-, five-, six-year rotations and growing clover and ley grass to replenish the land. But in our backward Russia we don’t.

‘However, the greatest problem here,’ he continued, ‘is Savva Suvorin and his linen factory.’

‘Why so?’

Misha sighed. ‘Because he encourages the peasants to grow flax for making linen. It’s a valuable cash crop. The trouble is, they substitute it for oats or barley in the spring sowing and the flax takes more goodness from the land than anything else. So – yes – the land here is getting exhausted, and flax is the main culprit. It’s the same all over the region.

‘But do you know the two greatest ironies of all? First, our people do grow ley grass, which would replenish the land: but they grow it in a separate field instead of putting it into the rotation. So it does no good. Second, in order to compensate for the lower yields, they take more pasture land and put it under the plough; and by doing that they reduce the livestock they can graze – the livestock whose manure is the only other thing they have to put goodness back into the exhausted land!’

‘But that’s a cycle of insanity,’ Nicolai said.

‘It is.’

‘And what’s to be done about it?’

‘Nothing. The peasant communes won’t change their customs, you know.’

‘And the zemstvo authorities?’

‘Ah,’ his father sighed. ‘I’m afraid they’ve no plans. It’s all too difficult, you see.’

And Nicolai could only shake his head.

Yet there were cheerful times too. Nicolai and Popov would often sit in the izba with the Romanov family, and Anna would relate the very folk tales she had told Nicolai’s father as a child. Popov usually sat quietly to one side – he had not become close with the family – but Nicolai would happily sit beside her and encourage her to tell him not only tales, but stories of her own life too. She several times told him of the awful famine of ’39. And she would happily relate her life as a serf girl in the Bobrov household.

‘I see you have that same gesture,’ she once remarked to Nicolai, imitating the Bobrovs’ gentle, caressing motion of the arm, ‘that your father has. Ilya Alexandrovich had it too. And your great-grandfather, Alexander Prokofievich.’

‘Really?’ Nicolai was not even aware of this family characteristic. ‘And Uncle Sergei – did he have it?’

But for some reason this set the old woman off into a high cackle of laughter. ‘Oh, no. He had something else, Master Sergei did!’ And she went on laughing for several minutes, though nobody there knew why.

It was after one of these pleasant conversations however, when Popov had gone out, that Arina one evening drew him aside. She seemed unusually agitated. ‘Master Nicolai, forgive a poor old woman, but I beg you, don’t you get too mixed up with that one.’ She gestured to the door.

‘You mean Popov? He’s a capital fellow.’

But she shook her head. ‘Stay away from him, Master Nicolai.’

‘What’s he done?’

‘That’s what I don’t know, see? But please, Nicolai Mikhailovich. He’s…’ she looked confused. ‘There’s something wrong with him.’

Nicolai kissed her and laughed. ‘Dear Arina.’ He supposed Popov must seem strange to her.

Many subjects went through Popov’s mind as he had made his way, one afternoon, along the lane that led through the woods to the little town of Russka. One of them concerned a hiding place.

What he needed, he thought, was a small but private spot. A shed would do. But it would have to be somewhere that could be locked up and where nobody ever came. There was nowhere like that at Bobrovo.

The article in question, carefully dismantled, was packed in pieces in a locked box in his room, which he had told his host contained only books. Soon, he judged, it would be time to use it.

Well, no doubt something would turn up.

Generally speaking he was pleased with his progress. Though he had some doubts about young Bobrov’s character, it seemed to him that Nicolai would serve his purpose here quite well. He had also kept his eyes open for others who might be useful. Young Boris Romanov, for instance, had engaged his attention: a fierce spirit, he thought. Popov had spoken to him several times in a general way, but given the young man no inkling, as yet, of what was afoot. One had to be careful.

There was only one thing, really, which had taken him by surprise when he arrived at Russka: and this was the influence of the nearby factories and the Suvorins who owned them. Clearly they were important; he needed to learn more about them; and so, leaving Nicolai at work in the fields that day, he had come past the monastery, over the bridge and into the busy little town.

For some time he wandered about looking at the grim brick cotton mill, the warehouses and the sullen rows of workers’ cottages. And he was starting to become rather bored, when he suddenly caught sight of a lone figure, walking dejectedly along by some stalls in the market place, who instantly engaged his attention.

He moved towards him.

It seemed to Natalia that she was making progress.

Grigory had let her kiss him.

The kiss had not been very satisfactory, it had been salty; and she had felt him grow tense, uncertain what to do with his lips; she realized he had never kissed before. But it was a start.

Though Natalia had not been sent to the factory yet, she was sure it was imminent. Boris had not changed his mind, and, since there was nothing to be done about it, the family would all help him to build a new izba at the far end of the village. Once he left, her own fate seemed inevitable. And though she had not yet told her father anything about her young man or her plans for him, she continued discreetly to meet Grigory every few days and to work on him patiently.

She often talked to him about life in the village. She also told him about the two strange young men.

Grigory enjoyed hearing about Nicolai and Popov. He was not able to understand why anyone would go and work in the fields if they did not have to, and he tried to imagine what they were like.

So it was with great curiosity, early one evening, that he turned when Natalia suddenly pointed across the market place in Russka and declared: ‘Well, I never! There he is – the ginger-headed one. I wonder what he’s doing.’

And so indeed did Grigory. For the curious stranger was deep in conversation with young Peter Suvorin.

A month had passed; the ground was dry; spring was giving way to early summer and at Bobrovo all was quiet.

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.

And then Nicolai came to his extraordinary message.

‘My father will not help you, my friends,’ he declared. ‘None of the landowners will. They are parasites – a useless burden from a former age.’ Now that he was getting into his stride, Nicolai became quite carried away.

‘My dear friends,’ he cried out, ‘we are entering a new age. An age of freedom. And it is in your hands – this very day – to bring the new age to pass. The land belongs to the people. Take, then, what is rightfully yours! We are not alone. I can tell you that all over Russia, at this very moment, the people in the villages are rising up against the oppressors. Now is the time, therefore. Follow me – and we shall take the Bobrov estate. Take it all – it is yours!’

He had done it.

Few events in Russian history have been more curious than the occurrences of the summer of 1874.

Nicolai and his friend were not alone: their strange mission amongst the peasants was being repeated in other villages all over Russia, in the movement known to Russian history as The Going to the People.

The young people – both men and women – were nearly all students. Some had studied abroad. About half were the children of landowners or high officials; the rest came from families of merchants, priests or minor bureaucrats. Their politics followed the ideas of those who believed, like the French philosopher Fourier, that the peasant commune in the countryside was the best kind of natural socialism. ‘Indeed,’ many claimed, ‘Russia’s very backwardness is her salvation. For she is scarcely corrupted by the evil of bourgeois capitalism at all. She can move straight from feudalism to socialism, thanks to the natural communism of the village.’ And though few of them knew much of peasant life at close quarters, they believed that after working in the villages and gaining the peasants’ confidence, they had only to give the word for a natural revolution to take place. ‘The peasants will rise and establish a new and simple order where the whole empire of Russia will be freely shared amongst the peasant brotherhood,’ they told themselves.

It was not surprising that Nicolai was drawn to this movement. Many of his most idealistic friends were volunteering. What was amazing was that, at first, the authorities did not realize what was happening. Some two and a half thousand students quietly slipped out into hundreds of villages that summer: some to their own or nearby estates; many others across the Volga or to the old Cossack lands by the River Don. Even now, some of these last were telling the Cossack peasants: ‘The time of Pugachev, and of Stenka Razin, has come again.’ And out of this, they all hoped, a new world would be born.

Nicolai looked at the faces before him. He had done it. At last, after all these months of preparation, the die was cast.

The way had been hard: how could it be otherwise? He had never minded the sacrifice of his own inheritance – he cared nothing for that – but his parents were going to be dispossessed. And it will destroy them, he thought. Whatever their faults, he still loved them. How close, when they took the walk along the ridge, he had come to explaining everything to his father. Until he had seen the ruined woodlands and decided that Misha was past saving. And he supposed it was better he had kept silent: his father would never have understood. Anyway, he told himself, soon nobody will have estates. His parents’ way of life was finished. At least, after the revolution, he thought, I’ll be there to show them the way.

For this was it. The word had been spoken and there was no going back. It was the revolution. And now that it had finally begun, he felt a sense of exaltation. Flushed and excited, he waited for the villagers to respond. ‘Well,’ he called, ‘are you with me?’

And nobody moved. There was absolute silence. They just gazed at him. Had he convinced them? It was impossible to say. What was in their minds? He suddenly realized he had no idea. Wasn’t anyone going to say anything?

It was only after a long pause that, at last, a small, black-bearded man stepped forward. He looked up at Nicolai with suspicion. Then he asked his question.

‘Are you saying, young sir, that the Tsar has given us the rest of the land?’

Nicolai stared at him. The Tsar?

‘No,’ he replied truthfully. ‘It’s yours to take.’

‘Ah.’ The man nodded, as though his suspicions had been confirmed. ‘Well then,’ he stepped back, ‘the Tsar has not given.’ And there was a sympathetic murmur which said, more plainly than any words: ‘This young fellow doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’

Nicolai felt himself go rather pale. Was this the revolution – the spontaneous uprising of the commune? What had gone wrong? Had his arguments been defective in some way? He scanned their faces for a sign. But they continued to watch him placidly, as though curious to see what this young eccentric might do next. He glanced questioningly at Popov, who only shrugged. Almost a minute passed, awkwardly, until some of the villagers started to turn away. ‘I shall speak again tomorrow,’ he announced, with what he hoped was a calm smile, and got down off his stool.

In front of him now was a group of about ten people, including the Romanovs. Nicolai wondered what to do next. It seemed, however, that his words had had some effect upon Timofei Romanov, for the peasant was looking agitated and was clearly anxious to speak.

‘Have I got it right, Nicolai Mikhailovich,’ he asked with a worried frown, ‘that you want your father to lose his land?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what’s got into all the young people nowadays. My own son is doing the very same thing to me. Why is it?’

‘But you don’t understand,’ Nicolai protested. ‘The land would go to the commune so that there would be plenty for everyone. It’s what you’ve always wanted.’

‘And this is to happen all over Russia?’

‘Yes. Right now.’

Timofei shook his head again. ‘That is terrible,’ he said. ‘There will be bloodshed.’ And seeing Nicolai look confused, he took him by the arm. ‘I expect you mean well, Nicolai Mikhailovich,’ he explained kindly. ‘And one day, when God decides, we shall be given all the land, just as you say.’ He smiled. ‘Yes, it will all be so natural. The Tsar will see that we have need, and he will give. Perhaps even in my poor lifetime. And then he will say to me: “Timofei, the land is yours.” And I shall say, “I thank Your Highness.” And that will be all.’ He looked at Nicolai earnestly now. ‘But we must be patient, Nicolai Mikhailovich. That is God’s will, and it is our Russian way. We must suffer and be patient, until the Tsar decides the day has come.’ And satisfied that he had said all that could possibly be said, he let go of Nicolai’s arm with a friendly pat.

Nicolai sighed. If his speech had failed to enlighten the older man, perhaps he had done better with his own generation. He turned to young Boris. ‘Well, Boris, what do you think?’

Boris looked thoughtful. The motives of this young nobleman were a mystery to him. But then, what sort of madman deliberately went to work in the fields when he could be sitting comfortably in the manor house? Boris knew the size of the Bobrov estate though, and he knew how to calculate.

‘If we shared out all your father’s land,’ he estimated carefully, ‘then I’d have enough to take on two, maybe three, hired labourers of my own.’ He grinned. ‘Why, a few years like that, a few good harvests, and I could even get rich.’ He nodded. ‘If that’s the revolution, Nicolai Mikhailovich, then I’m all for it – if you and your friends can really pull it off.’

Nicolai gazed at him in astonishment. Was this all the young fellow had in mind – personal gain and the exploitation of others? What had become of the spontaneous revolution? ‘I’m afraid,’ he said sadly, ‘that wasn’t quite what I meant.’

As Nicolai and Popov walked up the slope to the manor, both were lost in their own thoughts. Perhaps, Nicolai considered, he had just expected things to happen too soon. A few more speeches, a few more days, weeks, even months, and the message would begin to get through. He would try again tomorrow, and the next day. He’d be patient.

It was Popov who finally broke the silence.

‘We should have told them the Tsar was giving them the land,’ he said gloomily. ‘I could even have forged a proclamation.’

‘But that would be against everything we stand for,’ Nicolai objected.

Popov shrugged.

‘It might have worked, though.’

Yet if Nicolai thought he had failed to win any converts, he was wrong; and he would have been surprised indeed to see into the mind of one member of the Romanov family the following morning. Natalia’s mind was in a whirl. It had not occurred to anyone to ask her opinion about the speech the evening before, but it had deeply moved her. Now, as she made her way out of the village in the early morning, the phrases were still echoing in her head: a new age, the end of oppression. Until that day, she had believed her father and put her faith in the faraway Tsar. Didn’t everyone? But as she had listened to Nicolai, it seemed to her that a whole world had opened up.

He was so beautiful. He’s like an angel, she had thought as the sun caught his face. Despite his peasant’s dress, he was so obviously a noble from another world. He was educated. Surely he must know many things that her poor father could not possibly understand.

She knew that what he said about the land was true. But recently she had experienced another kind of oppression, as bad as any in the days of serfdom: that of Suvorin and his factories. That was where the peasant was truly enslaved. Already she had come to hate it: and as for Grigory, she knew that his loathing of Suvorin was almost an obsession. Is there really a new age dawning, she wondered, where we shall all be free? And if so, won’t the peasants in the factory benefit from this revolution too? If she could just ask young Nicolai.

It was just as she started along the path into the woods that she saw Popov.

He had gone for an early stroll. He was ambling along, wearing a wide-brimmed hat like an artist’s, and as she approached, he gave her quite a pleasant smile. Normally, she would not have spoken to him; for though she had nothing against Nicolai’s friend, she had always felt rather shy in his presence. However, encouraged by the smile, and anxious to find out, she asked him: ‘This revolution and the new age that Nicolai Mikhailovich spoke of – will it change things in the factories too?’

He smiled again. ‘Why, certainly.’

‘What will happen?’

‘The factories will all be given to the peasants,’ Popov promptly replied.

‘We wouldn’t have to work such long hours? And Suvorin would be kicked out?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I have a friend,’ she said hesitantly, ‘who would be interested to hear of this, Nicolai Mikhailovich. But he is at the factory.’

And now Popov looked at her with interest. ‘I shall be in Russka this afternoon,’ he said, ‘if your friend would like me to speak to him.’ And seeing a trace of doubt on her face, ‘I know somewhere very private.’

Nicolai did not go to work in the fields that day; but in the late afternoon, when he went down to the village and mounted the stool in front of the Romanov izba, he noticed that the crowd assembling was much bigger than it had been the day before. This pleased him. He had not really wanted to speak again so soon. Popov had deserted him to go into Russka for some reason, and he might have waited for another occasion to speak if his friend had not urged him on. ‘Courage, my friend. They’ve had time to think about what you said yesterday. You may have made more converts than you think. Go to it, Nicolai.’

Not only was the crowd bigger, it was excited. Several of the senior men were in the throng and the village elder himself was standing at the back. They had been waiting for him.

It had not occurred to Nicolai that the villagers were planning to arrest him. Indeed, some of the men had wanted to go and fetch the local police officer from Russka beforehand, but the elder, bearing in mind that this was the landowner’s son, had refused. ‘I’ll hear what he says myself before I take action,’ he had decided. And now, as Nicolai prepared to address them once again, the elder listened carefully.

‘Once again, my friends, I stand before you with good news. I stand before you at the dawn of a new age. For today, all over our beloved Russia, great events are occurring. I speak not of a few protests; not of a hundred riots; not even of a huge uprising such as we have seen in the past. I am speaking of something more joyful, and more profound. I am speaking of the revolution.’

As the crowd gave a little gasp of anticipation, Nicolai saw the village elder start. But he did not notice Arina, hurrying out of the village.

Yevgeny Popov gazed calmly into the agitated face of Peter Suvorin. What a kindly, sensitive face it was, despite the over-large nose. How strange that grim old Savva Suvorin’s grandson should be such a poetic fellow.

For the document he had given Popov to read was almost a poem. Not that poor Peter Suvorin realized it, of course. He thought he had written a call to revolution.

They had a strange relationship. It had not taken Popov long to become Peter’s mentor. He had soon discovered Peter’s hatred of the Suvorin factory, his guilt about the workers there, his vague, poetic longings for a better world. Popov had given him a copy of What Is To Be Done and talked to him about his responsibilities for the future. More recently, Popov had indicated that he was part of a larger organization with a Central Committee. He could see this had intrigued Peter. He had dropped other hints about future action and hinted at the existence of the little printing press. And above all, he had achieved mastery over Peter by the simple art of giving or withholding approval. It was amazing how people needed approval. But though the heir to the huge Suvorin enterprise was obviously an important catch – potentially far more important than Nicolai Bobrov – he was so confused and idealistic that Popov had concluded: Although I can do what I want with him, I’m not sure how to use him.

The composition he had now brought Popov, sheet after sheet in his nervous handwriting, was the passionate distillation of all his thoughts. It was a cry for social justice, an almost religious invocation of human freedom; it spoke desperately of the oppression he saw in Russka – not so much of the body as of the spirit. And it concluded with a call to revolution. A gentle revolution.

It had taken him many hours to produce and now, with an anxious frown, he awaited his mentor’s verdict.

‘You mean,’ Popov asked, ‘that the people can take power peacefully, without bloodshed? That their oppressors will just give up without a fight when the people refuse to cooperate?’

‘Exactly.’

‘It would be like a sort of pilgrimage,’ Popov remarked.

‘Why, yes.’ Peter’s face cleared. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

Popov looked at him thoughtfully. He couldn’t imagine how he was going to use him, but he’d think of something. ‘I’ll keep this: it could be important,’ he said. ‘I shall report it to the Central Committee. In the meantime, hold yourself in readiness.’

Peter Suvorin flushed with pleasure. Popov put the paper in his pocket and turned to go. He was due to meet the girl Natalia and her friend in a short while. He wondered if that would be any more interesting.

By the time he arrived at the village, Misha Bobrov was red in the face. Arina had been so insistent, that he had come on foot straight away, almost at a trot. If he hadn’t known Arina all his life he would not have believed what she had told him. Yet now, arriving just in time to hear Nicolai’s final words, he went completely pale. Those terrible words. Spoken by his own son.

‘Rise up! Take the Bobrov land and all the other estates. For this, my friends, is the revolution!’

It was true, then, what she had said. Yet even now he could scarcely take it in. His only son a betrayer. He means to ruin me and his own mother. Is that how much he cares for us? For a second this was all that Misha Bobrov could think of. Then he felt Arina tugging urgently at his sleeve.

‘Look.’

He suddenly realized that the villagers were quite silent and that they were turning to look, not at Nicolai, but at the village elder who was making his way grimly towards him, accompanied by two of the senior men. ‘They’re going to take him to the police,’ Arina whispered. ‘He’ll be arrested. You must do something, Master Misha.’ And he realized she was right.

It was not often that Misha Bobrov had to think quickly; but now he did. And in a flash he saw what he must do.

‘Nicolai!’ His voice rang out. The crowd turned in surprise. ‘Nicolai, my poor boy!’ He strode forward, Arina just behind him.

He was an impressive figure when he wanted to be. The crowd parted before him. Even the village elder and his two men hesitated as the landowner marched up to his astonished son. When he reached Nicolai, Misha turned to the villagers angrily. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me sooner?’ he thundered. Then, with a peremptory nod to the elder: ‘Quickly now. Help me lift him down. The poor boy.’

Nicolai was so taken aback by the entire proceedings that he let them lift him to the ground almost before he knew what was happening; and he was even more surprised when his father, giving him a pitying smile, swiftly mounted the stool and addressed the little crowd.

‘My friends, the fault is mine. I should have warned you.’ He looked a little embarrassed. ‘My poor son has been suffering from a nervous disorder. The doctors in Moscow recommended country air and heavy exercise. That is why he has been working in the fields.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It seems the treatment has not worked and the fits of delusion have returned.’ He raised his hand and let it fall, helplessly. ‘A family tragedy. We can only pray for his recovery in time.’ He turned politely to the elder. ‘Perhaps your men would help me get him back to the house?’

There was a moment’s pause. Had it worked?

‘We were going to arrest him, sir,’ the elder began, uncertainly.

‘My good man,’ Misha retorted sharply. ‘It’s not a policeman he needs but a doctor.’

The elder seemed to hesitate. The crowd looked confused. And then, dear Arina’s voice, a clearly audible cackle from just behind him: ‘He used to have those fits when he was a boy. I thought he’d growed out of them.’ Thank God she had taken her cue.

There was a murmur in the crowd. This explained it all: no wonder the young man’s behaviour had seemed eccentric. There were even one or two chuckles.

Only the village elder looked thoughtful. Quietly, now, he came to Misha Bobrov’s side. ‘I shall still have to report this to the police, sir,’ he said softly.

Misha looked at him. ‘That will not be necessary,’ he said calmly. ‘The boy needs rest. He’s quite harmless and I don’t want him agitated.’ Then, with a sidelong glance: ‘Come and see me tomorrow and we can discuss it.’

The elder nodded. They both understood that a little money would change hands. Moments later, two of his men were helping Bobrov and Timofei lead poor Nicolai away.

He went quietly. Indeed, he scarcely knew what else to do. The indifference of the peasants the first day had come as a shock, but the discovery that they were about to arrest him… He could scarcely believe it. And now, he thought miserably, they actually believe I’m mad. He hung his head. Perhaps I am. He had not himself realized the strain that the last few days had been. Now, suddenly, he felt strangely depleted: unable to do anything. Silently they all went up the slope.

It was when they were halfway to the house that Timofei Romanov was struck by a thought. He turned to Misha Bobrov.

‘The other young man, sir, with your son – the quiet one. Would he be a doctor then?’

At which Bobrov smiled grimly. ‘A sort of doctor. Yes,’ he muttered, ‘I suppose you could say that.’

An hour later, in the privacy of the house, Misha Bobrov was beside himself.

The two young men were standing before him. And they did not even seem to think they owed him an apology.

‘You sir,’ he addressed Popov, ‘I hold you equally responsible. Whatever your beliefs, you have abused my hospitality. As for you,’ he turned to Nicolai, ‘you have just incited the peasants to attack your own parents. Have you nothing to say?’

Nicolai looked pale and exhausted. As for Popov, it was impossible to know what he was thinking. The insolent young man seemed slightly bored.

‘You have both lied to me, too,’ Misha went on furiously, ‘with these stories about collecting folklore. Yet you dare to preach to me about morality!’ He glowered at them. ‘Well?’

Yet whatever response the landowner expected, it was not what he got.

For now Popov laughed. It was a dry, contemptuous sound.

‘Poor Mikhail Alexeevich.’ His voice was quiet, deadly. ‘What a fool you are.’ He sighed. ‘But you liberals are all the same. You talk about liberty and reforms. You praise your ridiculous zemstvos. And it’s all a lie – a dirty little compromise to hold on to your own power and wealth! And you don’t even realize we all see through you. We know what you really are: you’re even worse than the autocrat, because you want to corrupt the people into thinking they are getting somewhere. But you will be completely destroyed, and there’s nothing you can do about it. The march of history is inevitable. So there’s nothing for you to get excited about.’

For a moment, Misha thought he was going to strike this loathsome Popov; but he contained himself. If nothing else, he was determined to get to the bottom of this young man’s ideas, which had such an influence on his son.

‘Your real reason for being here is to foment a revolution that will usher in a new age – this heaven on earth of yours, without a God. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘The revolution will destroy everything – the Tsar and the landowners – for the good of the peasants?’

‘For the common good.’

‘Would you have the peasants kill the landowners?’

‘If necessary, certainly.’

‘But the peasants don’t follow you. They almost arrested Nicolai. Where does that leave you?’

‘The peasants aren’t politically aware yet. They don’t understand the common good.’

‘That’s the new world of perfect equality?’

‘Yes. The peasants still need to be educated.’

‘By you?’

‘By the new men.’

‘Who understand what is really good for them. And to achieve this end – for the common good – will new men like yourself use any means?’

‘Possibly. Why not?’

‘This means that the new men are superior to all of us. They are above the ordinary rules because of their higher mission and understanding. You’re a sort of superman.’

Popov smiled faintly. ‘Perhaps.’

Misha nodded. Now he thoroughly understood. ‘You’ll leave my house tomorrow morning,’ he said drily. ‘At dawn. As for you,’ he turned to Nicolai, ‘you will stay in the house for the time being. Your nervous illness is the only thing protecting you from the police. You understand?’

But if Misha thought he had settled matters, he had not reckoned with Yevgeny Popov; and it was with atonishment that he now turned as the red-headed student calmly addressed him.

‘Actually, I shall be staying here for some time.’

What new impertinence was this? ‘You’ll do as you are told and be gone at dawn,’ Misha snapped.

Yet still Popov only gazed at him imperturbably. ‘I think not,’ he replied. And as Misha started to grow red, he went on quietly: ‘Consider, Mikhail Alexeevich, your true position. Your son has incited the peasants to revolution. I didn’t. In the eyes of the authorities, it is Nicolai who is a criminal now. So your position is very weak. For myself, I care nothing about the authorities or anything they can do to me. But if you force me to, I could certainly make things very unpleasant for you and your son. If I say, therefore, that I wish to stay here for a while, it would probably be wiser of you to let me.’ And then he smiled.

Misha was dumbfounded. He looked first at one, then another of the young men. ‘And you call this man your friend?’ he said to Nicolai with disgust. And then, furiously, to Popov: ‘Do you really suppose you can get away with this?’

‘Yes.’

Misha was silent. He supposed it was true that the young troublemaker could be a danger to Nicolai. I wish to God I had more information – something I could pin on this Popov, he thought. Perhaps something would turn up. In the meantime, though he hated to show any weakness before this loathsome interloper, he decided to be cautious. ‘You can, perhaps, be useful,’ he said at last. ‘You can remain here a while on the following conditions: you are to refrain from any political activities; and you will tell people that Nicolai is sick. But if you start any trouble, or implicate Nicolai in any way with your activities, then you may find I have more influence with the authorities here than you think. Do you understand?’

‘That suits me very well,’ Popov said blandly, and strolled out of the room.

It was half an hour later that Nicolai came to Popov’s room. He found his friend in a calm but thoughtful mood.

‘That was a brilliant trick of yours, telling Father that you’d expose me,’ Nicolai said. ‘He didn’t know which way to look.’ He had never admired his clever friend more.

‘Yes. It was, wasn’t it?’

‘But what shall I do now?’ Nicolai asked urgently. ‘I can’t just give up. Should I go to another village, do you think, and try to raise the peasants there?’

To his disappointment, however, Popov shook his head. ‘For the moment, Nicolai,’ he said, ‘I want you to stay in the house and do just as your father asks.’ And when Nicolai began to protest, he stopped him. ‘The fact is, my friend, I have some business to attend to at Russka and your being here gives me just the cover I need. So do cooperate, there’s a good fellow.’

‘If you think that’s best,’ Nicolai said reluctantly. He looked at Popov curiously. ‘What are you up to?’

For several moments Popov did not answer. Then, rather thoughtfully, he remarked: ‘He’s right of course, your father.’

‘Is he? What about?’

‘The peasants. They won’t follow us.’

‘Perhaps in time,’ Nicolai suggested.

There was a silence.

‘God, how I despise them,’ Popov murmured.

Which left Nicolai rather confused.

Two weeks had passed since Nicolai’s attempt to start the revolution, and in the village of Bobrovo everything was quiet.

No one had set eyes on Nicolai Bobrov. It was known that he was up at the manor house. The serfs up there said he sometimes went for walks in the woods above the house; the rest of the time he seemed to rest or read books.

As for his friend Popov, he was often to be seen nowadays, wandering about with a notebook and sketch pad. Somewhere in the Bobrov house he had found an ancient, wide-brimmed hat that had once belonged to Ilya and which gave him the look of an artist; the people at Bobrovo would often see him wandering over the little bridge to sketch the village from the footpath on the other side of the river. Frequently, too, he would take the lane through the woods to Russka and draw the monastery or the town. And if anyone asked him about Nicolai Bobrov he would shake his head sadly and say: ‘Poor fellow. Let us hope he will recover soon.’

If the village was deceived, however, Arina was not. She said nothing, but she knew very well that Nicolai wasn’t ill. As for Popov: What is he up to, that evil one? she would ask herself. As the days went by, Arina several times confided to her daughter: ‘Something bad’s going to happen, Varya.’ But when asked what, she could only shake her head and say: ‘I don’t know.’

Perhaps, she realized, it was her own family troubles that gave her a sense of foreboding. Things were looking bad for the Romanovs. Young Boris and his wife were gone, and already she could see the strain was telling on Timofei. All alone now, the peasant’s simple face looked pale and abstracted, as if he were suffering pain. The money Natalia brought from the factory was a help, but there was something about the girl recently which made Arina wonder if she was reliable. I don’t like the look of her, she thought. She’ll run away or do something stupid. Varya’s pregnancy was not agreeing with her either. She was looking pale and unwell; and once when the two of them had gone into the woods to pick mushrooms, and the younger woman had tripped on a root and fallen face down on the ground, she had just lain there instead of getting up and moaned: ‘This baby’s going to kill me, Mother. I know it.’

As she considered these matters, it seemed clearer than ever to Arina that when it was born, the baby must be disposed of. It’s easier to be hard when you get old, she considered. You see things as they are. And if anything confirmed her in this view, it was the interview which took place between Natalia and the family one evening.

Natalia was rather proud of herself when she made the announcement.

In a way, she had reason to be: for her courtship of Grigory had been successful.

Right up to the end, it had been hard work. His reluctance and shyness had remained a constant challenge. Overcoming them had become a game she played with herself each day, and even Natalia was not fully aware how much this game had turned into an obsession. How slowly they had progressed from that first kiss, as she patiently cultivated the small flower of his trust and affection; how hesitantly it had grown from the cold, bare ground of his barren life. And what a sense of excitement it gave her to hold his small, bony form in her arms and feel him gradually spring into life. What was it, this result of her careful labours? Was it love? Was it affection? She supposed that, being life where before there was nothing, it must be. Above all, it gave her a strange and wonderful sense of possession. This, she thought, is mine. And since the completion of this process, the flowering, must be marriage, it seemed to her that when that took place, it would be the solution to everything.

As for Grigory, he allowed himself to be persuaded. Gradually, their innocent embraces became, for him, full of a new excitement. As his confidence grew he began to want, urgently, to explore her body and to possess her. And since she would only let him go so far, he understood well enough that they must be married if this new world of wonder was to be opened and revealed to him. All right then, I’ll do it and have her, he thought. We’ll get married.

And what then? He would lie with her. Her whole body would be his. The thought had become so thrilling that it made him laugh. What else would happen? He could hardly see beyond this except for one thing. As soon as we’re married, I’ll hit her in the face and give her a beating, he thought. That way I’ll be master in my own house. It wasn’t much, but it was the only thing he knew about marriage.

So it was that, one sunny evening, Natalia told her parents the good news. Now that Grigory had proposed, she felt such a sense of achievement that she almost forgot that they might not be pleased. It was a shock, therefore, when instead of smiling, her father went pale and then roared: ‘Never!’

‘But why?’ she stammered, taken aback.

‘Why? Because he’s a penniless factory labourer, that’s why! He hasn’t a yard of land. He hasn’t a horse. He’s got nothing but the clothes on his back! What the devil do you mean by asking me to accept such a son-in-law?’ He pounded his fist on the table. Then, turning to his wife: ‘Varya, Varya. First the child; then my son leaves; now this. What the devil am I supposed to do?’ And he buried his face in his hands.

Natalia looked at her mother. She too was pale, and shaking her head. ‘But he could help us,’ she explained, and told them her plan for having Grigory live with them. ‘It would mean we’d get his wages too.’

But after only a short pause her father went on, with a groan: ‘Yes, and then you’ll produce a brat of your own, and then where will we be?’

‘There are young men in the village who’d have you, you know,’ Varya said gently. ‘It’s better if you have your own place, Natalia. You’d find that out quite soon.’

‘You’re not to see this boy any more,’ Timofei interrupted. ‘I ought to take you back from that cursed factory, except…’ He threw up his hands helplessly. Except that he couldn’t afford to.

There, they all knew, lay the real point. But it was only because she was hurt that Natalia suddenly decided it was time to speak the truth.

‘The fact is,’ she said quietly, ‘that you don’t want me to marry at all because you need me here to support you. As for your talk of finding me a peasant with land, you can’t give me any dowry, so who’d have me? The boys in this village have enough girls to choose from. But I shall get married, whether you like it or not – and Grigory is the best chance you’ve got.’ It was humiliating, but true. She turned to walk out.

‘You’re only fifteen. I can refuse my consent,’ Timofei shouted after her. ‘I forbid you to see him.’

She went outside and started to walk out of the village. Only when she got to the river bank did she start to cry.

Inside the izba, Timofei put his head in his hands, Varya shook her head sadly, and Arina, who had said nothing, looked thoughtful and grim. She was sure of it now. Whatever happened, there was no room for this baby.

How easy it was, Popov discovered, to go about his business unmolested. With his hat and his sketch book – and his careful references to Nicolai’s malady – no one seemed to suspect him of anything. It excited no suspicion if he loitered in Russka market, sketching. Even old Savva Suvorin had seen him near the cotton mill, and done no more than give him a bleak stare. And this last was important to Popov. For he was starting to make remarkable progress.

There was no question: young Grigory was a wonderful find. Who’d have suspected, Popov thought, that a chance encounter would lead to such a treasure? The fellow was intelligent, quick: and above all, he was bitter. He has judgement, Popov considered. He wouldn’t do anything rash like Nicolai Bobrov or Peter Suvorin. But no one who had heard Grigory speak his true mind about old Savva Suvorin and his factories could be in any doubt: if he needed to, he would kill. It seemed to Popov that there might be an important future awaiting Grigory – perhaps even a great one.

The girl was not bad, either. Natalia didn’t have her young man’s cold fire. But she was a rebel too, with a mind of her own. She hated the old order. And it appeared that she was determined to marry young Grigory. They’ll make a good team, Popov judged. He could see himself working with them for a long time, as things developed.

For the moment, however, until he was sure he could trust them, he was cautious. Though it was clear that Grigory would gladly burn down the factories and slit Suvorin’s throat, if he thought he could get away with it. Popov kept their conversations general. He would speak vaguely about the better order that was to come; he dropped faint hints about his friend Nicolai Bobrov’s connection with the mysterious Central Committee; he told them that he himself was only a new disciple of the cause. ‘Bobrov hasn’t told me much, and unfortunately he’s sick,’ he explained. And so, over two weeks, he found out far more about them than they did about him.

It was on the day after Natalia’s quarrel with her parents, when they were meeting in the storeroom where he had hidden away the printing press, that Popov told them in a confidential tone: ‘I have a message for you from Bobrov. He is impressed with what he hears of you and he wants to entrust you with a mission.’ He paused and, seeing they were interested, lowered his voice. ‘There is someone else in Russka who has contacts with the Central Committee. Tomorrow he will give you some leaflets, which you are to distribute selectively – to people you can trust – in the factories and in the village.’ He looked at them carefully. ‘But one thing is of the greatest importance. You must not speak to this person, and you must never reveal his identity to anyone.’ He looked grave. ‘The Committee knows how to deal with those who betray them.’

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 arrest 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.

‘Hello, Nicolai,’ he called. ‘They’ve locked me in. You’d better let me out.’

At first, it seemed to Misha, it was clear what they should do. And so it would have remained, but for Boris.

It had only taken a few words, whispered by his son, to make the confused Timofei fully understand the danger Natalia was in from the leaflets; and once he understood, he was ready to do anything.

Certainly it was in all their interests that they should take care of the whole business themselves. ‘I don’t want him talking to outsiders, or even my own coachman,’ Misha frankly confessed, ‘because there’s no knowing what this accursed Popov might say about any of us.’ It was agreed, therefore, that before dawn the two Romanovs would come in their cart, collect the red-headed student, and take him all the way to Vladimir. ‘I’ve a stout club,’ Timofei remarked, ‘and we’ll strap him to the cart if necessary.’

‘When you get to Vladimir, you’re to put him on the Moscow train. And don’t go until you’ve watched it out of sight.’ This would complete Suvorin’s instructions and after that, Misha fervently hoped, he would never see the loathsome young man again.

At this point, it had occurred to Misha that perhaps he ought to lock Popov in his room. Fetching the key and going upstairs had taken several minutes. He was surprised, however, when he came down, to find both the Romanovs looking as if they had decided something separately between themselves.

It was Boris who took the lead.

He had a sharper mind than either of the older men. He had not given up hope of making some money from the landowner; and he also saw some real danger to all of them in the plan. His reasoning was simple. ‘After all, Mikhail Alexeevich, we’ve all seen what this fellow’s like. Even threatened with the law and Savva Suvorin, he refused to go. And if that’s so, then what’s the use of us putting him on a train to Moscow when he can just get off at the next station and be back here in a day or two?’

Misha couldn’t deny this. ‘But what can we do?’ he asked.

Boris paused, thoughtfully. ‘The fact is,’ he said coolly, ‘I’m worried about my sister, sir. She’s mixed up with this Grigory because she’s no dowry. And that’s because of my father’s debts.’ He looked at Bobrov politely but with meaning. ‘You’ve always been very good to our family, sir. You gave Natalia and me our education. Do you think you could see your way to helping us again?’

Misha frowned. ‘What did you have in mind?’

‘Maybe I could arrange for this Popov to make a long journey, so he’d be sure not to bother us again, sir.’

‘A long journey?’

‘Yes, sir. Very long.’

Misha felt himself tremble. The proposition was unthinkable. Yet – it was useless to deny it – he was tempted. At this moment there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to be rid, for ever, of Popov’s evil presence.

‘I could never countenance…’ he began.

‘Of course, sir, we’d just be doing what you said,’ Boris said calmly, ‘taking him to Vladimir.’ He looked at Misha carefully. ‘No one’s waiting for him, are they?’

‘No.’ There was a long pause. Then Misha shook his head. ‘Just put him on the train,’ he said. ‘Come back before dawn.’ And though Boris looked doubtful, he waved them away.

After they had gone, he sat in the salon for several minutes. Boris’s argument had worried him. It was perfectly true: there was nothing to stop Popov returning and no knowing what new troubles he might start for them if he did. And what of the young revolutionary? As far as Misha knew, no one was expecting him to turn up anywhere. The fellow was a wanderer. He might just go off into the country, of his own accord, for the rest of the summer. If he disappeared, it could be months before any enquiries were made about him. And by then…

He shook his head. It’s people like me, he reflected, decent people, who are always helpless when faced with vicious beasts like this Popov. In my place, I don’t suppose he’d hesitate for a second.

And it was just at this moment that Boris Romanov suddenly reappeared.

‘Popov’s gone, sir,’ he said. ‘He was seen going through the village towards Russka. What shall we do?’

Misha leaped up. ‘Impossible!’ He rushed upstairs, but unlocked the door to find the room empty. The devil! Suvorin had told him to keep Popov in the house. Now he’d probably gone to warn his associates or start some new trouble, and then what would Savva Suvorin do? Was there no limit to the danger this red-headed fiend could cause them? ‘You’ve got to stop him,’ he cried. ‘Quickly!’

But Boris did not move.

‘If we catch him today, he’ll be back tomorrow,’ he pointed out quietly. ‘What’s the point, Mikhail Alexeevich?’

‘Just stop him, for God’s sake,’ the landowner almost pleaded.

Still Boris did not move.

‘About my sister, sir,’ he said gently. ‘And my father.’

For a long moment both men were silent. Then at last, staring down at the floor, Bobrov murmured: ‘I’ll give your sister a dowry. As for your father – I’ll help. Will that do?’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’

‘And…’ Misha did not know how to go on.

‘Don’t worry, sir. We’ll take the young gentleman to Vladimir. You won’t be troubled with him any more.’ He turned to go, only pausing for a moment to remark: ‘He’ll be needing his luggage if he’s travelling. If you could pack his bags, sir, we’ll collect them before dawn.’

Then he was gone.

It was unfortunate that, though they hurried, the two Romanovs were just too late. By the time they came to the end of the wood opposite the monastery, Popov had vanished. The path leading across the fields and over the bridge into the town was empty.

‘God knows where he is,’ Timofei muttered. There was nothing to be done. But one thing was certain. ‘We’ll catch him on the way back,’ the peasant said.

Timofei had a club, Boris a knife. Their plan was easy enough. ‘When we’ve killed him,’ Boris had explained, ‘you hide with him in the woods while I go and bring his luggage in the cart. Then we just put him in the back, like he’s sleeping, and drive off towards Vladimir. Later we’ll bury him and his luggage somewhere.’ It should be straightforward. There was nothing but forest and a few hamlets on the way. ‘Plenty of room in which to bury him,’ Timofei remarked cheerfully.

The spot where they chose to wait was the little clearing by the old burial mounds, with its clear view to the monastery. Even if Popov chose to return after dark, they would be able to see him by starlight as he came along the path.

They settled down to wait.

Yevgeny Popov waited patiently by the old springs along the path to the skete. He had not wished to go into Russka by daylight, but fortunately he had met a boy by the monastery and given him a few kopeks to deliver the note. He had only waited an hour before the young man he had summoned came in sight.

Peter Suvorin was in a state of some excitement. What could the urgent summons mean? But when Popov gravely told him, he positively trembled. ‘The message from the Central Committee was very clear,’ he explained. ‘We have only hours. Are you ready to suffer for the cause?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Very well.’ They ran over all the details together. Young Suvorin had money. He quickly made a plan. Indeed, faced with a crisis, Popov noticed with interest that the young idealist was surprisingly practical. ‘How will you leave?’ he asked.

Peter considered. ‘My grandfather has a boat he uses for fishing. I’ll take that.’

‘Excellent. Go at dusk.’ Popov embraced the young man. ‘We shall meet again,’ he promised.

The light was just fading as Yevgeny Popov made his way back along the path from the springs towards Russka. When he found a good vantage point, he sat down in the warm shadows and watched the river. The pale stars had begun to shine in the turquoise sky. He waited as the turquoise deepened to indigo. There was no one about.

Then he saw the little boat. It was scudding along, hugging the bank. He watched as it slipped away, southwards, with the gentle flow of the stream. It would be at the River Oka in the morning. And as he watched, he smiled to himself. He had judged young Peter Suvorin well. He had fallen completely for the story that the police were coming to arrest them all the next day. He had genuinely supposed that the invented Central Committee wanted at all costs to preserve him. And he had at once volunteered to go into hiding for a few months. But underneath all this was another motive, of which perhaps young Peter himself was not fully aware. I just gave him his excuse to escape from his grandfather, Popov thought. He was seldom wrong about people.

And now that Peter was safely gone, it was time to begin.

Popov moved carefully. Pulling his hat well down on his head, he did not enter the town by the main gate, but skirted it and came in by the open lane on the side away from the river. There were a few people about, but no one paid any attention as he walked quietly by in the darkness.

As he expected, the narrow street by the warehouse was deserted. When he reached it, he first unlocked the little storeroom where he had hidden the printing press and then entered the main warehouse. After moving about for a while, lighting a match now and then, he found exactly what he wanted: against one wall, bales of straw were piled high; in a corner were some empty sacks; and on some shelves were a dozen lamps in which, heaven be praised, there was still some oil. Carefully, without hurry, he took bales of straw from the pile and arranged them round the walls. Then he twisted the sacks into several large torches and collected the oil into two containers. Finally, just for good measure, he carried half a dozen bales of straw round and placed them against the walls in the storeroom. Even taking his time, he was done in under half an hour.

Now, however, came the daring part of his plan. Inside the little storeroom, he carefully unearthed the parts of the printing press and the packet of leaflets. Then, checking to make sure the street was empty, he went outside.

The streets were silent. Keeping to the shadows, he made his way past the church by the market place and into the broad avenue that led to the little park and the esplanade. Three houses lay on the right-hand side, behind fences. The first of these was Savva Suvorin’s.

There were no lights at the window. The Suvorins did not retire late. Gingerly, looking about him, Popov opened the gate in the fence and went into the yard. Though the house was made of stone and masonry, the entrance, on one of the end walls, consisted of a stout wooden staircase, covered over, which rose some six feet up to the main floor. It was to the space underneath these stairs that Popov went, and deposited his things.

It was necessary to make this journey twice. The second time, as well as the leaflets and part of the hand-press, Popov brought with him a trowel from the storeroom.

Then, on his hands and knees beneath Suvorin’s staircase, he set to work.

So far, all was going to plan. Indeed, he had only made one mistake that evening, of which he was not aware. For when he left the storeroom for the second time, he did not pause to lock the door, but only pulled it to. He did not look back, a few moments later, and did not therefore see that the door, improperly fastened, was swinging open again.

Popov worked silently. The earth under the staircase was not too hard. In a few minutes he had made a hole nearly a foot deep. Steadily, careful to make no noise, he went on. As he did so, he smiled to himself.

It was the perfect symmetry of this business that he liked. By the end of the evening, Savva Suvorin and Misha Bobrov would neutralize each other. He would be in the clear. Young Peter Suvorin would be the criminal. And the printing press and revolutionary leaflets would have been buried, apparently by Peter, under the house of Suvorin himself. This last, he had to admit, was an artistic flourish; but he could not resist it. I have completely outmanoeuvred them all, he thought.

True, there were a couple of loose ends. Young Grigory and Natalia for instance. He had no special plan for them. But they were harmless. All they knew was that Peter Suvorin gave them the leaflets.

No, his scheme was perfect: he was infinitely superior to them all.

It was when the hole was nearly two feet deep and he was about to stop, that the trowel struck something hard and that, reaching down, Popov felt a smooth, rounded surface. Curiously, he scraped the earth away from it and after a minute or two he was able to pull it up. The object looked pale.

It was a skull. God knew what it was doing here. He examined it. He had enough knowledge of medicine to notice that the shape suggested it might be Mongolian rather than Slav. A Tartar perhaps? He shrugged. He couldn’t imagine what it was doing buried by Suvorin’s house.

Soon afterwards the printing press and the packet containing the leaflets were in the ground. He spread earth on top and patted it down. Then, taking the skull with him, he slipped out and made his way back towards the warehouse.

A little before he got there, he passed a street corner where a small well had been sunk. He paused only a second to drop the skull into this, hearing it splash into the water far below. And so it was that the skull of Peter the Tartar, the unknown founder of the monastery, found a new resting place in the waters under the town.

Natalia and Grigory had lingered by the dormitory until after dark, talking. She had warned him about her father’s attitude but told him: ‘He’ll soon get over it.’ And anyway, as far as she could see, Grigory did not care about her father’s opinion. Her campaign had been so successful that indeed the young man had only one thought now – how to enjoy her body. When, therefore, some time after dusk, she suggested that they go somewhere to be alone, he raised no objection.

It was the custom of young couples seeking privacy, in the warm summer months, to walk in the woods outside the town. They were just making their way towards the lane that led out of Russka when, passing the warehouse, they noticed that the door of the little storeroom was open. Looking inside, they saw to their surprise that it contained a number of bales of straw; and it occurred to Natalia that this was a fine and private place. It was the work of only a few seconds to make a little bed of straw in one corner. Then, motioning to her lover, she closed the door. Soon, she promised herself, very soon, she would be pregnant, and married.

When Popov reached the warehouse he went straight to the main building. Quickly he poured the oil over the torches he had made out of the sacking. Lighting one of them, he put it against the main pile of straw. One after another he lit the rest of the torches and put them against the bales he had prepared round the walls. Then, when he had just two torches left, he ran round to the storeroom.

He had not realized how quickly the fire would take. He had only put the straw in the storeroom because, since it was locked, it would be hard for anyone to put a fire out in there. Yet even as he reached it, the flames were licking the rafters in the main building. He must hurry. Quickly he opened the door, lit the two tapers and tossed them on to the nearest bales of straw. Then he pulled the door shut again and locked it. Since it had never occurred to him to look, he did not see the two young people in the corner who, a few minutes before, had sunk into sleep.

Rapidly, he sped away through the shadows and out of the town. It was time to return to Bobrovo.

Misha Bobrov sat in the salon alone. Upstairs, Nicolai was fast asleep, and the landlord thanked God that he was. For if his son had come into the room just then, he was not sure he could have faced him.

The landlord had spent a terrible few hours. He had done as young Boris suggested and packed up Popov’s things. Then, by himself, he had brought them downstairs and placed them in the yard. Now he was waiting.

What had he done? Nothing, he told himself. The Romanovs were just going to seize Popov and take him to Vladimir. That was what they had said, wasn’t it? For nearly half an hour he had clung to this absurd pretence until finally, disgusted with himself, he gave it up. He had paid them to murder the young man: that was the truth. No doubt, by now, he was dead.

Murder. He recalled that time, almost twenty years ago, when he had been tempted to kill Pinegin at Sevastopol. He had been a murderer in his heart then; but he had not done it. Was he a less moral man now? Or was it just that, this time, he had others to do the deed for him? Filled with fear, and with self loathing, he at last put his head in his hands, and murmured: ‘Lord my God, what have I done?’

It was with a mixture of astonishment, relief and terror therefore that, some time after midnight, he heard a sound, glanced up, and saw Popov standing before him, staring at him curiously.

Misha opened his mouth, but could not speak.

Popov had had an uneventful journey back. Not wishing to be seen, he had once again slipped out through the rear exit from the town. By the time he reached the river, he could see a red glow over the roofs and hear shouts within. Instead of crossing the main bridge and the open ground by the monastery, therefore, he had decided to take the path by the springs, follow the winding river downstream, and finally cross the little footbridge at Bobrovo. It was a long way round, but completely deserted.

As he approached the manor house, it had been impossible not to feel a sense of satisfaction, even glee. Everything was in place. And in his pocket he had the two letters.

It had not been difficult to copy Peter Suvorin’s handwriting. He had a talent for that sort of thing anyway. But it was the tone of the two little compositions that he was so proud of. From the long revolutionary essay that Peter had given him, he had caught not only the young man’s turns of phrase, but the way his mind worked. I’ve got his very soul, he had thought with a smile, as he wrote the two letters. Their authenticity was wonderful.

The letters themselves were very straightforward. One was to Nicolai Bobrov, his supposed fellow conspirator. It told him that he was leaving, that he was going to try to burn down his grandfather’s factory and that the printing press and the leaflets were safely hidden in Savva Suvorin’s house, where no one would find them.

All that was needed was to give this letter to Misha Bobrov. As soon as the landowner threatened Suvorin with it, the angry old industrialist would be completely neutralized. If he threatens to arrest Nicolai, his own grandson goes too. This was the perfect symmetry he was so pleased with.

The other letter was just a piece of extra insurance for himself, for possible future use. It was from Peter to Popov, telling him that he was about to leave and thanking him for his kindness. Above all, it delivered Popov a wonderful exculpation.

Having outwitted them all and proved his superiority, it seemed to Popov that he would probably stay a few more days at Russka, shake down the Bobrovs for some money, and then depart.

Only two things had surprised him. Upon entering the yard at the manor house, he had found all his luggage outside the door. Why should Bobrov be so confident he would leave that night? And now, having gone inside, here was the landowner staring at him speechless, as if he had seen a ghost. Yet Bobrov must have known he’d gone out, since his luggage had been packed up.

Popov stared at Misha thoughtfully. His mind was working quickly.

‘Surprised to see me?’ he enquired.

‘Surprised?’ Misha looked flustered. ‘Not a bit, my dear fellow. Why should I be?’

‘Why indeed?’ Why, for that matter, should the landowner be blushing scarlet and calling him ‘my dear fellow’?

And now, as his own mind raced, it occurred to Misha that if the Romanovs had missed Popov, they might turn up at any time now. And then what? Drag him off in their cart and butcher him? No. He couldn’t face that any more. Yet what the devil should he do? Anxiously, without realizing he even did so, he glanced at the door.

It was all Popov needed. He did not know the details but the sense was clear. Someone was coming to get him, and the landowner was terrified. Very well, he would stay ahead.

‘If I could completely neutralize Suvorin for you, what would you give?’ he mildly enquired. And in answer to Misha’s look of desperate hope, told him about the existence of the letter from Peter Suvorin to Nicolai and explained its contents.

‘You have this letter?’ Misha asked eagerly.

‘It’s hidden, but I can get it – for a price.’

‘How much?’

‘Two thousand roubles.’

‘Two thousand?’ The poor man looked flabbergasted. ‘I haven’t got it.’

He was so nervous that Popov thought he was probably telling the truth. ‘How much have you?’ he asked.

‘About fifteen hundred, I think.’

‘Very well. That will do.’

Misha looked relieved; then anxious again. ‘There’s one other thing,’ he said nervously. ‘If I give you money, you must leave right away.’

‘What, you mean now, in the middle of the night?’

‘Yes. At once. It’s essential.’

Popov smiled faintly. It must be as he had guessed, then. Fancy this fool having the courage to have me killed, he thought. And how typical to panic afterwards. Aloud he said, ‘You’ll have to give me a horse. A good one.’

‘Yes, of course.’

That would be worth some money too. It was amazing what power someone’s guilt gave you over them.

‘Go and get the money,’ he commanded.

A quarter of an hour later, he was ready to go. He was riding Misha Bobrov’s best horse. He had fifteen hundred roubles in his pocket, and Misha had the precious letter. Before leaving the house, Popov had paused for a moment, wondering whether to go and wake Nicolai, to say goodbye. But he had decided against it. His friend had served his purpose. He had nothing to say to him. He looked down at the anxious landowner.

‘Well, goodbye until the revolution,’ he said pleasantly. Then he was gone.

It was an hour later that the two Romanovs appeared at Bobrovo to ask if Popov had been there. To make sure they didn’t try to follow Popov, the landowner told them he had not seen him.

The fire at Russka took both the warehouse, another next door, and four of the little row-houses in whose roofs flying embers had lodged. Only the following morning did anyone realize that Natalia and Grigory had gone missing; their charred remains were found hours later.

Because of an interview which took place in the early morning between Savva Suvorin and Mikhail Bobrov, no police investigation of the fire ever took place. It was declared an accident. How Natalia and Grigory came to be trapped inside was never explained. It was remarked, however, that the local police chief and his family all had new clothes a few weeks later.

Varya Romanov had her baby at the end of the year. It was a little girl whom they decided to call Arina. Varya was so attached to the baby, which replaced her only daughter, that the little girl came safely through the winter, entirely unaware that her grandmother and namesake had more than once stood over her cradle and murmured: ‘I know I ought to leave you out there, but I haven’t the heart.’

Nor was the child ever aware of another minor event that had taken place just a week after winter ended.

It was the habit of Misha Bobrov, each spring, to sort out his papers. Since this was a yearly event, there were always plenty to sort. Letters, notes he had made to himself, memoranda from zemstvo officials, unpaid bills… the papers accumulated on the big table in his study, on top of the books that lined the walls, and in the drawers of his desk. He enjoyed this business: it allowed him to survey the previous year of his life and, proceeding in a leisurely fashion, the review often took him three or four days. The letters, in particular, he liked to read over; and many of these he would then tie up with ribbon and store in boxes in the attic. When his wife suggested this was a waste of time he would calmly reply, ‘You never know,’ and continue happily with his work.

There had been much to read and ponder this last year. He had even considered writing up an account of the extraordinary events of the last summer. How strange and interesting for Nicolai’s grandchildren to read about one day, he had thought. However, he had put this task off for the time being – ‘until I’m not so busy’ – and so the only memorial of those days amongst the papers was the letter from Peter Suvorin which Popov had given him. I must certainly keep that, Misha considered. After all, one never knew when it might come in handy against the Suvorins in the future. And since the strange document did not belong with anything else, he tied a piece of red ribbon round it, labelled it ‘Suvorin Fire’, and put it up in the attic with the other letters.

It was the day after he had finished this task that he received an unexpected visitor – young Boris Romanov. The landlord had not seen the young peasant for some time and was surprised that he was not accompanied by his father; but he had him shown into his study, smiled at him pleasantly enough, and enquired: ‘Well, Boris, what is it?’

The speech that Boris had prepared was so slow and convoluted that at first Misha could not make out what he wanted; but there was a look of sullen awkwardness on the peasant’s face that made the landowner uneasy. Carefully Boris reminded him of the family’s poverty, their need for more land, and their loyalty to the Bobrovs. Then, finally, he came to the point. ‘I was thinking about last summer, sir,’ he said.

So that was it. Misha was cautious. ‘Well?’

‘We had an agreement then, sir. About helping my father and giving my sister a dowry.’ Still Misha said nothing. ‘My sister’s dead now, sir.’

‘God rest her soul.’

‘But as you know, we have a new baby in the family.’ He looked at the floor. ‘So I wondered if you could see your way to helping us like you said, sir? Natalia’s dowry could go to the baby Arina, you see.’

Misha gazed at him thoughtfully. In truth, the young man’s speech had touched a raw nerve. Since that terrible night the previous summer, no word had ever been spoken about the evil bargain he had made with the Romanovs; after all, the murder had not taken place, poor Natalia had died, and Misha had tried to blot the whole episode from his mind. Apart from some help with his repayments, Misha had not thought it necessary to give any substantial sum of money to Timofei Romanov, nor had the peasant dared to ask. Yet more than once Misha had secretly thought to himself: It’s we, really, who brought misfortune on the Romanovs. I ought to do something for them one day. Young Boris’s suggestion of a present of money for the child appealed to him. Perhaps, quite soon, he would give one… And because he was turning the matter over in his mind, he did not trouble, at first, to reply to the peasant.

It was then that Boris Romanov made his great mistake. For misunderstanding Misha’s hesitation, he suddenly looked up and announced: ‘After all, sir, what with my sister being killed in the fire, we wouldn’t want you getting into trouble now, would we?’ With which he gave the landowner a nasty grin.

Misha stared at him in amazement, then he blushed. What the devil did the fellow know?

In fact, young Boris knew nothing at all. But had Misha possessed any idea of what the young peasant suspected, he would have been shaken indeed.

For if the authorities had dismissed the fire at Russka as an accident, Boris certainly had not. The memory of his poor sister Natalia seemed to haunt him; and the more he brooded on it, the more sure he was that the whole business was suspicious. Time and again that winter he had challenged his father. ‘If it was an accident, then how come Natalia and Grigory were locked inside?’ he would demand. Why would anyone want to kill them? ‘Maybe they knew too much.’ And the identity of the killer? ‘That redheaded devil, Popov. It must have been.’ Even old Timofei conceded that this last was possible. But it was the next step in Boris’s logic that his father was unwilling to take.

‘For,’ Boris reasoned, ‘there’s still more to this than meets the eye. Think about it.’ He would jab his finger down on the table. ‘Bobrov let us go after Popov, but we never caught him. Who tipped that devil off? Must have been Bobrov himself. Sent a servant, or even Nicolai, round to warn him. And how come Popov escapes – vanishes? And nothing’s ever said about either the fire or Nicolai Bobrov? There has to be something going on that we don’t know about. And that landowner’s hiding it. He knows who lit the fire; he knows who killed my sister – and maybe a lot more besides.’

To which Timofei would only listen sadly, shake his head and reply: ‘I still don’t believe it. But even if it is so, what can you do about it?’

And here Boris was stuck. He had no proof. The authorities would never listen to him. He’d only get into trouble. Yet as the winter months went by, his sullen conviction became an obsession. He could not let it go. And finally, just as the snows were melting, he decided: I’ll shake down that damned landlord, anyway. I bet I can frighten something out of him.

Though he had blushed, Misha collected himself quickly. In a moment, he was outwardly calm. His mind, however, was working rapidly.

The fire… the peasant was insinuating something about the fire. Yet Misha’s only crime lay in concealing the letter that Popov had given him which revealed the culprit. Was it possible the peasant knew about that? It seemed unlikely. With a face which, he hoped, was completely serene, Misha gazed at Boris and remarked: ‘I don’t think I understand you.’

‘I just mean, sir, you and I know who did it,’ Boris said boldly.

‘Do I? And who might that be?’ It was said with a faint smile, but to his annoyance Misha could feel his heart pounding. Could the fellow really know?

‘That red-haired devil Popov,’ Boris replied with confidence.

Thank God! He knew nothing. The insolent young peasant was bluffing.

‘Then you know more than I do,’ Misha replied blandly. ‘And now, since you are being impertinent, you’d better get out.’ He glowered at Boris. ‘If I hear another word of this, I’ll lodge a complaint with the police,’ he added, then turned his back while, crimson and furious, Boris departed.

This interview marked the beginning of an unspoken but permanent coolness between the Bobrovs and the Romanovs. No further help came from Misha Bobrov even to Timofei: the landlord preferred to ignore them. Timofei regretted this, but as he said to his son: ‘After what you did, I can hardly look him in the eye.’

As for Boris, though he had been humiliated, the interview had done nothing to shake his suspicions. Indeed, as time went on and he brooded about the subject further, he found more and more reasons to confirm his belief. I saw him blush, he remembered. He knew something, all right. And it seemed ever clearer to him that – even if he could not fathom the business – there had been a conspiracy. That red-head, those damned Bobrovs, maybe even the Suvorins too for all I know – they’re all in it somehow, he concluded. They killed Natalia.

And in his rage he came to two decisions which he would never alter as long as he lived. The first, which he shared with his father, was very simple: One day, I’ll meet that accursed red-head Popov again: and when I do, I’ll kill him.

The second decision he kept to himself, though he was no less determined to carry it out. I’ll ruin that landowner who sits on the land that should be ours, he promised himself. Before I die I’ll see those damned Bobrovs thrown out. I’ll do it for Natalia. And so, in the village below their house, the Bobrov family acquired a mortal enemy.

But these undercurrents caused no ripple on the placid surface of the village’s life. By the following year, it seemed that the events of 1874 had receded into obscurity. The red-headed student Popov was apparently forgotten; and in the town of Russka, only occasionally did anyone trouble to ask: whatever became of young Peter Suvorin?