These were his heroes. There remained his childhood play-mate, the little girl with the long, dark brown hair and sparkling eyes: little Olga. He called her little because she was a year younger and he felt protective towards her. Yet at times she was like an extension of himself. Each always knew what the other was thinking.
How lucky, how supremely blessed by God he was, to be one of such a family.
Sergei and Olga sat each side of Arina. As usual, she had been telling them a story. How comforting her dear, shiny, round face was! She was going grey, she had lost a front tooth that summer, yet she was always the same. ‘Pretty I never was,’ she would admit cheerfully. How old was she? The two children often tried to guess, or to trick her into telling them. But all she would ever say was, ‘I’m as old as my tongue, my dear, and a little older than my teeth.’ Perhaps she didn’t even know herself.
And she was just about to start a new tale when, suddenly, they heard a commotion downstairs and then his mother’s voice was crying out: ‘Alexis!’
How handsome he looked. How utterly splendid in his fur-lined coat. In the grey light of the hall, with his dark, brooding features and deep-set blue eyes – like some warrior from another age, a bogatyr from the days of ancient Rus. Sergei was beside himself with excitement to see his hero.
Alexis even smiled at him. ‘Here,’ he called out, and to Sergei’s surprise produced a musket ball. ‘This is a French bullet. Just missed me and hit my supply wagon.’ Sergei took it with delight.
‘Did you see Napoleon?’ he cried.
‘Yes.’ Alexis grinned. ‘He’s nearly as fat as Ilya.’
Soon, round the dining-room table, he gave them all the news. After the Battle of Borodino, he proudly told them, old General Kutuzov had actually complimented him in person. Since Moscow fell, he had been specially picked to carry out sorties against the French. And now he came to the most exciting news of all.
‘Napoleon’s leaving Moscow. The French are going home.’ Alexis nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s too late, though. Napoleon’s supplies are already low and he must think he can make a dash for the border before the snow comes.’ He smiled at Sergei. ‘If so, Seriozha, he’s forgotten one thing.’ He paused. ‘Our Russian mud. He’ll get bogged down. Our Cossacks will destroy every sortie he sends to find food. Then winter will get him long before he even reaches Smolensk.’
‘And will we engage again?’ Tatiana asked anxiously.
‘Yes. Probably. But if there’s another big battle like Borodino, we’ll crush him this time.’
Soon Alexis had to hurry on. He could not even stay the night. The family watched as he and his father embraced and Alexander Bobrov gave his brave son his blessing. Then he was gone, and as always happens when a soldier departs, each of them wondered if they would see him again.
It was at dusk that young Sergei came upon his father, standing alone on the verandah, gazing out at the last glow of the sunset. Alexander did not see him. There were tears in his eyes, and he was muttering to himself: ‘A true Bobrov. A true Bobrov.’
And for the first time it occurred to Sergei that perhaps his father might love Alexis more than him; and he wondered what he could do to be worthy of this greater love.
Three weeks had passed; the first snows had fallen, and the shattered Grand Army of Napoleon was already reduced to a dark, straggling mass, leaving corpses along its route as a snail leaves a trail, when the Bobrovs were surprised to receive a very different sort of visit.
It was young Savva Suvorin.
Alexander Bobrov had decided that he really did not like the Suvorins. Perhaps he felt a little guilty for the way he had treated them over the substitute recruit. But there was something dark and calculating behind their reserve that made him feel uneasy. An instinct told him that they neither feared nor respected him. He was not inclined to help them, even though his wife would laugh and remind him: ‘They’re the best source of income you’ve got.’
Now he stood before Bobrov, this solemn twenty-year-old serf, with a strange gravity already in his walk, calmly making a most extraordinary request.
‘I wish, lord, to ask for a passport. To visit Moscow.’
As a serf, Savva could not travel anywhere without a passport from his owner. He even needed one to go to the regional city of Vladimir. It did not seem a matter of great significance, but Bobrov looked at him with suspicion.
‘What the devil for? The whole city has just burned down!’
Savva permitted himself a half-smile.
‘Exactly, lord. So if there’s one thing the people there will need, it is warm clothes. We should get a good price for our cloth just now.’
Bobrov snorted with disgust.
How typical. Here they were, in the middle of the great patriotic war, and all this fellow could think about was profit.
‘That’s profiteering.’
‘Just business, lord,’ the serf replied calmly.
‘Well, I won’t have it,’ Alexander snapped, and then, casting about for another reason: ‘It’s unpatriotic.’ With which he waved the serf away.
And why, he always wondered afterwards, had Tatiana decided that evening to interfere on this trivial matter? Perhaps it was some instinct, or just that she felt sorry for Savva. But as soon as he told her about it, she had begun to plead: ‘I beg you to reconsider.’ Until at last he had given way and signed a passport. It did not seem very important.
1817
The plan that young Sergei Bobrov had hit upon was daring – but with careful timing it should work. Two friends would answer for his whereabouts, a third would answer his name at roll call. By bribing one of the school servants he had secured horses for each stage of the journey out and back.
The school at the Tsar’s summer residence of Tsarskoe Selo, near St Petersburg, was both strict and elite. It adjoined the great blue and white Catherine Palace, and not only had the Tsar given its pupils the use of his own library, but the imperial family would come to watch the chapel services from a private gallery above. Alexander Bobrov had had to pull some strings to get young Sergei in there.
The illicit journey would not be easy. It was April. The snow was melting and everywhere the ground was sodden. The roads were like a quagmire. And if he got caught…
From under his bed he pulled out the box in which he kept his personal papers. There was the letter to his parents he had begun the previous evening. And there was the letter from his little sister, smuggled in three days before. Written in her large, childish handwriting, it was quite brief and to the point.
Dear Seriozha,
I am very unhappy. I wish I could see you.
He read it again and smiled. Life at the prestigious Smolny School for Girls in the city of St Petersburg could be grim. He was not surprised that his lively, bright-eyed little sister was hating her first year. And though the risks might be great, he had only asked himself one question when he received the letter: what would Pushkin do? For Pushkin would have gone to her. Pushkin was his hero.
Sergei Bobrov was happy at Tsarskoe Selo. He was quick, intelligent, and even had talent. He could draw well and make up a verse in French or Russian better than any other boy in his class. ‘But if only I could do these things like Pushkin,’ he would sigh. Pushkin: the boy writer of daring verses; the cartoonist. Pushkin with his mop of curly hair, his soft but brilliant eyes, his wayward humour. He was always getting himself into scrapes – and always after women too. That year was his last at the school, and though some of the masters thought he was a mischief-maker, to the boys he was already a celebrity.