He was rather surprised, therefore, when Nicolai wished to continue it. Whatever thoughts had been bottled up inside the young man in recent weeks, it seemed that this little incident had made him wish to let some of them out. For now, turning contemptuously to his father, he remarked: ‘You have never heard of the philosophy of Feuerbach, I suppose?’
As it happened, Misha had heard of this philosopher, who was in vogue amongst the Radicals but he had to confess that he had never read him.
‘Had you done so,’ Nicolai said coldly, ‘you would know that your God is nothing more than a projection of human desires. No more, no less.’ He looked at Misha with pity. ‘You need God and the church because they belong to the society of the past. In the society of the future, we won’t need God any more. God is dead.’
Misha put down his journal and looked at his son with interest. ‘If God is dead,’ he asked, ‘what will you replace Him with?’
‘Science, of course.’ Nicolai looked at him impatiently. ‘Science has proved that the universe is material. Everything can be explained, don’t you realize, by physical laws? There is no God pulling the strings – that’s mere superstition. It’s like thinking the earth was flat. But science, and only science, makes men free.’
‘Free?’
‘Yes. Masters of themselves. In Russia, a superstitious church supports an autocratic Tsar and the people live in darkness, like slaves. But science will sweep it all away, and then,’ he concluded impressively, ‘there will be a new world.’
‘What sort of world?’ Misha enquired.
‘Quite unlike yours,’ Nicolai told him bluntly. ‘A world of truth and justice. A world where men share the fruits of the earth together and where one man is not set over another. A world without exploitation of man by man.’
Misha nodded thoughtfully. He recognized that these were noble sentiments, yet he could not help observing: ‘Your new world sounds to me a little like a Christian heaven.’
‘Not at all,’ Nicolai replied quickly. ‘Your Christian heaven is an invention. It exists in a non-existent after-life. It’s an illusion, a cheat. But the new world, the scientific one, will be here on earth and men will live in it.’
‘So you despise my hope of heaven and you think my religion is a fraud?’
‘Precisely.’
Misha considered. He did not object to his son’s desire to build a heaven on earth, even if he could not himself believe in it. Yet it seemed to him that there was a flaw in the whole argument.
‘You speak of a new world where no one will be exploited,’ he ventured. ‘You also say that there is no God. But tell me this: if the universe is material, if I face no threat of hell nor hope of heaven in the life to come – then why should I trouble to be kind to my neighbour and share the fruits of the earth with him? Won’t I exploit him, materially, for all I can get, since I’ve nothing else to look forward to?’
Nicolai looked at Popov and laughed scornfully. ‘You don’t understand anything, do you?’ he remarked contemptuously. And then, coldly: ‘I’m afraid I’ve nothing more to say to you.’
Misha gazed at his son sadly. It was not the argument he minded, nor even the rudeness. He and Nicolai had often had hot disputes before. But something in the tone of this last dismissal worried him profoundly. He could sense that it implied some deeper parting of the ways. He turned to Popov. ‘Perhaps you can enlighten me,’ he said quietly.
‘Perhaps.’ Popov shrugged. ‘It’s quite simple. You can’t understand because you are a product of the old world. Your thinking is so conditioned by your society that you can’t imagine a moral world without a God. In the new world, where society will be organized differently, people will be different.’ He stared at Misha with cold, green eyes. ‘It’s like Darwin’s Theory of Evolution – some species don’t adapt, and die out.’
‘So a person who thinks like me won’t exist any more?’ Misha suggested.
And then Yevgeny Popov gave one of his rare smiles.
‘You’re already dead,’ he said simply.
And why now, Misha wondered, should Nicolai suddenly jump up, his face very pale, and run out of the room?
Misha Bobrov was so disturbed by this conversation that he watched repeatedly for a chance to spend time with his son alone. He had never felt that they could not speak to each other before. And I cannot leave matters like this, he thought. Not until two days later, however, did an opportunity present itself.
It was early evening. Popov had gone over to Russka and Nicolai, having come back from the village, was wandering about alone. Misha had hesitated to approach him in the house for fear that Nicolai might rebuff him and retire to his room. But after a little he saw Nicolai set off for a walk in the woods above the house, and after giving him a little time, he hurried after him.
He came up with his son just as Nicolai had reached the top of the little ridge and was turning eastwards to walk along it. This was a pleasant path that led for nearly a mile, first eastwards, then curving to the south, until suddenly it ended and one encountered the river again below. By happy chance, it was a walk they had often taken together when Nicolai was a child, though it was several years since Misha had gone that way himself. Nervously he approached the young man; but when Nicolai, having given him a look of slight surprise, said nothing, Misha thankfully fell into step beside him.
They continued together for some minutes before Misha gently enquired: ‘Do you remember, when you were a little boy, I used to carry you on my shoulders along this path?’
Nicolai nodded. ‘I remember.’
They had walked on another hundred yards when Misha added: ‘Just here, if you look north, you can see Russka and the monastery.’ And pausing to gaze over the woods below, they saw the golden domes of the little religious house glinting over forest floor, and the pointed watchtower of the little town opposite. It was warm and very peaceful. After a little while, they went on.
Not until the ridge turned south did Misha remark: ‘I am sorry you cannot speak to me any more. It is sad for a father when that happens.’ And although Nicolai did not reply, it seemed to Misha that he could sense a softening in his son. I’ll say no more, he thought. We’ll come to the end of the ridge, turn back, and then perhaps I’ll try again. And so, hoping that he might still regain his son’s affection, he strolled along while Nicolai, lost in his own thoughts, walked beside him.
In truth, Nicolai was torn by many emotions and his father had not been wrong to perceive a softening in his manner. The walk along the ridge had brought back a flood of childhood memories – of his mother’s simple-minded devotion, of his father’s kindness. Misha had been a good father: he could not deny that. And although, for the last month, he had been steeling himself to hate him, Nicolai found now that he could feel only pity for the landowner. Yet what was he to do? Was a reconciliation possible? Could he even now, at the eleventh hour, save his father from the coming storm? These were the thoughts that chased each other round Nicolai’s mind as the two went along in silence.
Until they came to the end of the path and saw what had happened to the woods.
It had always been a charming spot, a pleasant place to rest. The ground fell away sharply to the river below and there was a delightful view southwards over the silvery water and the forest. This was what both men had expected to find.