In March, Andrei had returned to Moscow and attended the marriage of Nikita Bobrov to an heiress. And it was then that the Russian did his Cossack friend a great favour: he arranged for Andrei to join him when the Muscovite army went on campaign against the Poles.
The war with Poland – which the Tsar’s annexation of the Ukraine had made inevitable – was part of a greater and longer process. The foreign officers Andrei noticed in Moscow were part of this general preparation. For this new war with Poland was really little more than an excuse for Russia to strike a still greater blow. As Nikita gleefully told his friend: ‘We’re going to attack White Russia.’
The campaign was successful. In the south, the Cossacks of the Ukraine struck across the Dniepr; further north, the Russian army advanced westward from Moscow to the ancient city of Smolensk.
Before it was over, Andrei had twice been addressed personally by the fair, blue-eyed Tsar; and when they returned to Moscow he was informed that Alexis had granted him a new estate as well.
Andrei and his friend did not return to Moscow until July.
Nikita had asked Andrei to remain in the capital in the new and much larger house which he and his wife now occupied, but on their return to the capital they learned that an outbreak of plague had begun. At first they hoped that it would die down; after a few days, however, Nikita came home with grim news. ‘The rumour is that they’re going to seal the royal family’s apartments in the Kremlin. The Tsaritsa and her household are leaving the city. I should get out, Andrei. Go and enjoy your new estate in Little Russia.’
Andrei had taken his advice. And so it was that late in July he had left the city to return home.
He decided to go by way of Russka.
He had not been able to discover anything about the fate of Maryushka. Nikita, who had not been near the estate for a year, had an idea that the steward’s young wife might have had a child, but he was not sure. So it was with some curiosity that he rode out eastward towards Vladimir and then turned south.
He was in a strange mood. Things had gone very well for him. He was becoming rich. Yet his friend’s marriage, and a few close brushes with death on campaign, had reminded him vividly that, even well into his twenties, he was still alone. This child, if it exists, will be all I have given to the world, he mused, as he made his way through the late summer countryside. Even if I cannot claim the child, I’d like to see it.
He brought some presents with him.
Often, he felt melancholy. Once, just past a village on the River Kliasma, he saw a raft moored in midstream. It had a single mast from the top of which hung a rope; and at the end of the rope, with a large iron hook under his rib-cage, hung the body of a man. Obviously he must be a robber of some kind, for this kind of death was the standard Muscovite punishment for river pirates. But as he drew closer Andrei saw from the man’s baggy trousers and long moustaches that he had been a Cossack. He had obviously hung there for a week already.
A Cossack: a brother. Yet not, of course, a brother.
‘He was poor. I am rich.’
For some reason even his own good fortune, compared to this fellow’s, filled Andrei with a sense of desolation.
It was three days later that he came in sight of Russka.
He was still half a mile from the little town when he met Elena. She was walking through the woods.
She recognized him at once, but her stolid, sturdy face gave no sign of pleasure or even of interest at the meeting.
After a brief greeting he asked: ‘Did Maryushka have a child?’
‘Yes.’
‘A boy?’
‘A girl.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘The baby is at the village. Maryushka – who knows?’ And Elena explained her daughter’s departure.
He was appalled.
‘She just walked off?’
‘Into the forest. Or the steppe perhaps. She’ll be dead now.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he suggested.
‘Perhaps.’
He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I must see the child.’
‘What for?’
It was hard to say. But he knew he wanted to.
‘Stay away,’ the older woman said. ‘He knows about you – the steward. You can only make things worse for us, and the child, if he sees you.’ And reluctantly Andrei realized that she was probably right.
He drew out a purse of money. He had brought it for Maryushka. There was also a little golden bracelet – rather fine – in which was set a large amethyst. ‘Give the little girl these, when she gets married.’
Elena took them without comment. ‘Goodbye,’ she said bleakly.
He paused, looking down at her, feeling awkward. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally.
She glanced at him, but there was no hint of forgiveness in her eyes. Then she spat.
‘For what?’
He was silent.
‘Leave now, Cossack,’ she said in a voice that was full, not of hatred, but of a dull contempt.
Andrei returned her sullen gaze. For a second, that word – Cossack – and the way it was said, annoyed him. Am I to be despised by a Russian peasant, he thought irritably.
It seemed that old Elena had read something of his thoughts, for now she decided to speak again. ‘Do you know, Mister Cossack, what the difference is between you and a Russian man?’ she asked quietly. ‘Just one thing: that you can ride away.’ She spat again. ‘The steward gets drunk and beats Maryushka. You get her pregnant and ride into the steppe. And we women, who suffer, we remain, like the earth. You trample us, yet without us you are nothing.’ Then she shrugged. ‘God made us want you. Our eyes make us despise you.’
Andrei nodded. He understood. It was the eternal voice of Russian womanhood.
Slowly he remounted, and without another word rode quietly away. He did not expect that he would ever see his daughter. Only when he was several miles away did he realize that he had forgotten to ask her name.
Elena never told Arina about her father’s visit, though she carefully hid the money and the bracelet under the floor. Why cause trouble, she thought. If the steward gets to know about the money, he’ll want it. As for the Cossack – better Arina shouldn’t think about him. And, as the years went by, and she saw how plain the girl was, she thought: The poor child will never get married, anyway. What use has she for a dowry?
And so she had given the money to her son, and he had used it to bribe the steward.
1677
Her life had been blameless. Of what, then, should Arina be afraid?
She was twenty-three and had not married, nor even been close to it. She knew very well that she never would be. Womanhood had only made her plainer. The wart on her chin had grown larger. It was not absolutely disfiguring; she was not unsightly; but when one came near her, it was impossible to overlook it. This, she told herself, was God’s way, in His infinite wisdom, of ensuring that she would be always humble. She prayed each day. She made herself useful. She had no enemy in Russka or Dirty Place. Yet always there was a nagging fear in her mind. She was afraid that they would take her church away from her.
This fear was not unreasonable. For she was one of the Raskolniki.
The development of the religious Schism at Russka had been typical of many provincial settlements: which is to say, it had been slow.
It had taken two years for the Patriarch’s new prayer books to reach the monastery. When they had, the abbot put them quietly away in his room and refused to acknowledge that he had even received them. The monks were never told about it.