‘It’s late,’ Olga then murmured. ‘Let us go home.’ She came to Pinegin’s side. ‘Arina,’ she ordered the girl, ‘you walk with us. The young men can follow behind.’
On the long walk home, they did not say much. After a time, Pinegin lit his pipe. Sergei and his friend had fallen far behind. As they came, at last, in sight of the house at Bobrovo, dawn was almost breaking, and Pinegin felt a trace of dew on his face.
Several thoughts had gone through his mind on the way back. For a short time, he had even considered forgetting the incident. It had been, perhaps, a moment’s madness. But then he had considered: If I were to take Olga now, all my life that young man would be looking at me and thinking… Thinking what? That there was Pinegin, a poor nonentity, acting the husband for his sister and lover. The thought filled his proud nature with icy rage. Whatever Olga’s guilt – and all women, he supposed, were weak – it was Sergei who had made a fool of him. He guessed, Pinegin thought, he saw my interest. Then he did this.
The simplest course would be to challenge Sergei. But a duel, whatever the outcome, is always talked of: and that would lead to Olga’s complete dishonour.
And that, he realized, would be beneath me. But something would have to be done. I shall have revenge, he thought coolly.
For Pinegin was very dangerous.
As dawn was breaking, young Arina waited.
After leaving Olga at the house, she had wandered about by herself, unable to sleep. It had been a magical night. She could hardly believe her luck when she and her aunt had been summoned to join the party. Then, when she was left with Olga and the others, she had been ecstatic.
It seemed to the girl that Olga was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. As for the two young men, she had been studying them, fascinated, ever since they arrived. They were made in heaven, she thought, not upon earth.
And now, after this magical night, all her senses were awakened. She could still feel the Cossack’s arm around her. She remembered his kiss, on the verandah at the dance. She had not understood what was passing in the woods that night – it had never occurred to her. All she knew was that she was warm, and sixteen, and that the night had been enchanted.
She was standing by the bath house. She saw the two men come from the lane and pause at the bottom of the slope. She watched intently. Then they parted, Sergei remaining by the water’s edge while the Cossack started up the slope to the house.
The girl smiled. It couldn’t have been better. The one she loved – alone.
It was a few minutes later that Sergei looked up to see the girl walking quietly along the bank towards him. The first rays of the sun were catching her hair. It did not take long for him to understand what she wanted. And a little while afterwards, in a pleasant clearing in the woods above the house, though the girl was not Olga, he managed, almost, to pretend to himself that she was.
Old Arina was furious. She had seen them, in the early morning, sneaking down from the woods towards the house. She had not even needed to question her niece to guess at once.
Now it was noon and the old woman was alone with Sergei on the verandah. She might be a serf, but she had also been his nanny. She was not afraid of him. And she was giving him a piece of her mind.
‘You are shameless. You write pretty poems, but you’re a selfish monster. And God will punish you, Sergei Alexandrevich, I swear He will.’ She positively glowered at him. ‘And so He should!’
‘I’m sorry, my duck,’ he said with a lame smile. ‘I dare say nothing will come of it.’
‘I shall marry her to someone in the village, straight away, just in case,’ old Arina said. ‘I’ll get your mother’s permission and you’ll be lucky if I don’t tell your brother Alexis. I just hope we can find a young man. They’re not so keen to be father to your brats, you know…’ And she went on for some time before she noticed that Sergei’s attention was riveted elsewhere.
‘Look,’ he said softly. And she turned.
The large carriage swept up the track to the house. It pulled up not by the main door, but in front of the stables to one side; Sergei and the old woman could see its occupants getting out. First came his brother Alexis, a look of grim triumph on his face. Then a stern-looking soldier.
And now. Sergei went completely white.
For from the back of the carriage, his hands in chains, they were pulling down a grim, bearded figure who, when he finally straightened up, towered over them all.
They had captured Savva Suvorin.
And Sergei knew it was his fault.
That single moment of carelessness in a Moscow street.
He had been so surprised to see the tall figure of Savva Suvorin that without even thinking he had called out his name. And when it seemed that Savva had not heard him Sergei had foolishly run across to him and taken him by the arm. Only as he did so and felt Suvorin stiffen did he remember – of course, the tall serf was still a runaway.
Sergei had always been appalled by the way the Suvorins had been treated. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t give you away,’ he quickly said.
But Savva was taking no chances. ‘A mistake,’ he muttered. ‘My name is not Savva.’ And he turned and disappeared through a doorway.
Sergei did not go after him. He stood there for a moment or two, looking up and down the street. It was as he did so that he suddenly realized they were only a few yards from the walled compound of the Theodosian sect. ‘The Theodosians,’ he muttered. ‘Of course, that must be it.’
He had heard how these Old Believers took people in and sometimes gave them false names and papers. No doubt this was the case with Savva Suvorin. Well, good luck to him. He turned away.
And it was only then that he realized that his manservant was standing beside him; and remembered that he was one of the serfs from the Russka estate. How much had the fellow heard? It was then that he had threatened him with a thrashing if he repeated anything.
Evidently, it had not worked.
There was a round-faced woman, too. That must be his wife. And a little boy of two. They were each taken down. They stood there silently. Then Savva Suvorin saw Sergei. His face did not register anything: he just stared at him. Sergei had an urgent desire to rush over and explain that he had not given him away. But what was the point? It was his carelessness and stupidity that had done it. He could only stare back, apologetically.
He heard Alexis say: ‘Well, Suvorin, you’ll be thrashed tomorrow.’ And then he turned and caught sight of Sergei.
‘Ah, Sergei.’ He smiled, which should have been warning enough. ‘I have some news for you. Come inside.’
And morosely Sergei went in.
Alexis was businesslike. Almost cheerful. He came to the point at once.
‘As you see, Sergei, we have recaptured a runaway serf. It seems that you saw him in Moscow but did not see fit to inform me. That, I suppose, makes you an accessory to theft. But we’ll say no more about that.
‘The real point, Sergei, is that as you know I was asked by Count Benckendorff to keep an eye on you. And I’m afraid I haven’t been able to make a very favourable report.
‘Count Benckendorff therefore – I’ll show you his letter – has decided that it would be better for you to go away for a while. Tomorrow I shall send you to the military governor at Vladimir. He will make arrangements for you to travel east – not to Siberia, by the way, just to the Ural Mountains. You’ll be staying there for three years, I believe.’
Exile. Three years’ exile in the Urals, hundreds of miles out beyond the River Volga.