In a way, of course, he felt sorry for Suvorin – even though he was determined to believe him guilty. But then, he thought, these sudden and arbitrary reversals of fortune must be expected by any man. After all, it had happened to him, too, when Catherine had thrown him in jail. That was how things were and how they had always been, in Russia.
The very next day, wearing chains, Suvorin was taken to Vladimir from where, quite regularly, little parties set out on the long, long road to Siberia.
And the same day, Tatiana sat down to write a letter.
Savva took the little blackened object in his hands. And for once, he smiled. He had promised himself this treasure for a long time and now at last he felt he could afford it.
For they were home and dry. Two more weeks in Moscow and he would have the money for his and his father’s freedom. All I have to do now, he thought with a grin, is get out of this store.
‘It’s good,’ the grey-bearded seller said simply. ‘Very old. Before Ivan the Terrible, I think.’ Savva nodded. He knew.
It was a little icon – nothing to look at. There were dozens of bigger and brighter ones in the store. As with many ancient icons the paint had grown dark with age, been overpainted, grown dark again. In its long life this icon had probably gone through this process two or three times; and even now, the solemn figures of the Mother of God and Child could only dimly be made out against their darkening amber background. Why then should Savva value it so much?
It was because he knew the art of the icon was only visible to the trained eye, and even then, could only be apprehended by the spiritual sense. The icon was not just a painting, it was a prayer. The intimate little forms in their receding world were revered for their simplicity and grace – and this came from the religious intention of the hand that painted them. Most icons, therefore, were false, impure: only in a few, a very few, did the invisible fire of the spirit – as pure as in the dawn of Christianity in the ancient Greek and Roman world – show through. Painted and over-painted by religious hands, these icons were to be venerated by those who understood. Like Savva.
With a deep sense of satisfaction, Savva paid the old man. And now it was time to leave.
But, as usual, that was not so easy. The old fellow had somehow managed to get between him and the door. Two other younger men, with friendly but solemn faces, had joined him. ‘You would receive a warm welcome, you know,’ the old man reminded him for the twentieth time, ‘if you were to join us.’ And then, very seriously: ‘I would not sell this icon to most men.’
‘I thank you, but no,’ he replied, as he had done so many times before.
‘We can help you buy your freedom,’ one of the younger men remarked. But still Savva did not react. He had no wish to join them.
They were Old Believers. This was, nowadays, the name usually given to the sectarians – the old Raskolniki, – who had split off from the Church a century and a half before. There had been none in Russka since the burning of the church, and most had fled to the outer provinces during that period of persecution. But during the reign of Catherine they had been officially tolerated and there was now a sizeable community in Moscow. There were several rival groups: some who had their own priests, some who did without. And of all these there were none more remarkable than the group to which the fellows who ran this store belonged.
The Theodosian sect was rich and powerful. Its headquarters were by their cemetery in what had once been the village and was nowadays the outlying suburb of Preobrazhensk. They had numerous communes inside and outside the city. They owned public baths. They engaged in manufacturing and trading enterprises, and thanks to monopolies granted them by Catherine, it was the Theodosians who sold all the best icons. But the most striking thing about the sect was its curious economic organization.
For the Theodosians ran what were, in effect, cooperatives. Members of the sect could obtain loans from their coffers at low interest rates to start businesses. In all their enterprises – some of which were quite large textile factories – the poor were cared for by the community. And though some successful members grew extremely rich in their lifetimes, their assets at death were taken over by the community. Puritan, upright, its stricter members even celibate, this strange, almost monastic mixture of capitalist factory and village commune was a uniquely Russian solution to the challenges of the early industrial revolution.
Many times, since he had encountered them in Moscow, the Theodosians had urged Savva to join the sect. They could certainly have financed him. But each time he passed the high walls of the community’s compound he had thought: No, I do not want to give all I have to them. I want to be free.
He left the Theodosians in their store at last and made his way across Moscow to his own modest lodgings. This was a pleasant wooden house in a dusty street. On the door was a little sign with a name upon it – not his own, for being still a serf he could not legally own anything, but that of his landlord: Bobrov. Soon, he thought, that sign will say: Suvorin. And he went inside contentedly.
It was five minutes later that a messenger arrived with the letter from Tatiana.
She told him everything. That his father was already on his way to Siberia in chains; that he had lost all he had; that Bobrov was sending a man to take him back to Russka where, once again, he would be a poor serf. It ended with an act of generosity and a none too subtle hint.
Whatever you think fit to do, the money I lent you is yours – I do not wish to be repaid and will be glad only to know that you are well.
His landlord’s wife was telling him to run away and keep the money. It was, he knew, an astonishing act for a member of the gentry towards a serf.
But he only sighed. It was no use. If I take the money and I’m caught, they’ll only say I stole it. Her letter won’t do me any good. Carefully he wrapped up notes to the value of her loan. He would leave them with a merchant he could trust who would get them to her. Then he considered what to do.
He would not go back. Not to the Bobrovs after what they had done. He would sooner die. As I dare say I shall, he thought. No, he would run away. There were ways of doing it. Men pulled the barges down the Volga. Backbreaking work. Several thousand men died at it every year. But you could get away like that – far away to the south and east with few questions asked. Or perhaps head east, for the distant colonies of Siberia where they wanted men, no matter who. Perhaps he would even try to find his father. It’s lucky, he considered, that I’m strong.
It seemed that, after all, he had lost his duel with the Bobrovs. But even so, he would not give up – not in a thousand years.
One thing at least was certain: he would never see that cursed place Russka again.
It was on the very day his father sent poor Suvorin away from Russka that, far away in the north-eastern province of Novgorod, Alexis Bobrov made a remarkable discovery.
The day was bright, with a sharp, damp wind blowing when he arrived at the place. The three young officers who rode with him were in cheerful spirits. ‘Though I’m sure I shall hate anything devised by that oaf,’ one remarked scornfully. But Alexis, as he passed through the gates and along the well-kept road, was filled with curiosity.
The oaf was the famous general Arakcheyev.
It was one of the strange features of the reign of the enlightened, even poetic, Tsar Alexander that he should have come to choose General Arakcheyev as his closest adviser. Perhaps it was an attraction of opposites. The general was half-educated and bad-tempered; his face was coarse, his hair close-cropped, his body perpetually stooped forward as though under the weight of the stern tasks he set himself. Alexis had come to admire him for the brilliant way he had directed artillery in the great campaign of 1812. ‘He may be crude,’ he told his companions, ‘but he is loyal to the Tsar and he gets things done.’ Like many straightforward soldiers – that was how Alexis liked to see himself – he had been delighted when the Tsar made Arakcheyev his closest councillor.