‘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 welclass="underline" 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.