Yet the scene that now met their gaze was completely transformed and they could only stare in astonishment. A hundred yards before the end of the ridge, the woods suddenly ceased. Before them, stretching to left and to right, was a huge, unsightly scar of bare ground dotted with rotting stumps. As they made their way to the end of the ridge, they could see that the ground had been picked completely bare, and at the end, where the wooded slope down to the water had been, there was now a large gully and below it a constriction in the river where a landslide had silted up the stream.
Both men stared at this scene of devastation in horror. Then Nicolai very quietly asked: ‘Did you do this, Father?’
To which Misha, after a pause, could only mutter: ‘It seems I must have.’ And then, shaking his head: ‘That damned merchant.’
In fact, as he looked at this terrible sight, Bobrov should not have been surprised. For what he saw was only the result of a practice which had become very common and was already leaving its mark over considerable areas of Russia. This was the practice of leasing.
It was very simple. Like most landowners after the Emancipation, Misha Bobrov had retained a very little ploughed land, rather more pasture, and most of the forest. Short of cash, unwilling to part with his remaining land for ever, he had therefore compromised and leased part of the woodland to a merchant. The provisions of the lease were fairly typical. For a fixed sum, half paid in advance, the merchant received a ten-year lease on the woodland, during which time, he could do as he pleased. Naturally, therefore, to recover his money, the merchant cut down all the trees as fast as he could, and sold the timber. Having only a short lease, however, he had no interest in replanting, but instead grazed livestock on the cleared ground so that, by the time the lease ran out, any chance of natural regrowth was destroyed.
The resulting soil erosion and gullying, in numerous provinces, was one of the most disastrous evils ever to befall the Russian landscape until the twentieth century.
Long ago, Misha had leased the wooded parts of the Riazan estate, and these had now been completely destroyed. A few years back he had done the same with these outlying woodlands at Russka, but then forgotten all about it. Now, as he gazed at the ruins, he felt a deep sense of shame.
It was fortunate for him, however, that he could not, at this moment, see into his son’s mind. For as Nicolai looked at the unsightly gully and pondered what had happened, the issues that had so troubled him of late were finally resolved. Popov is right, he thought. There is nothing that can be done with these landowners – even my own father. They are useless parasites. And once again he dedicated himself to the great task which, he knew, was now almost upon him.
So the two men slowly returned, Misha noting, rather sadly, that they spoke no further words to each other.
As he strolled back from Russka that same evening, Yevgeny Popov considered that, all in all, things were in a satisfactory state.
Young Bobrov was a bit emotional, but it didn’t matter. He would serve his purpose.
Peter Suvorin, too, had been helpful. An artist at heart, Popov judged: an idealist. ‘He’s very confused, but malleable,’ he considered. Above all, the young industrialist felt guilty, just like Nicolai Bobrov, and it was amazing how you could manipulate people who felt guilty. Men like this, moreover, men whose families had money or influence, were especially worth cultivating because one never knew when their resources might come in useful.
He had, as yet, told Peter Suvorin almost nothing. It was better that way. I’ll keep him up my sleeve, he thought. But the young man had been able to provide him with one, most useful, thing: a private place.
It was a storeroom at one end of a warehouse which was little used. The store contained various shovels and other items of equipment used for clearing snow in winter; during the summer months, therefore, no one ever went there. It had a lock, to which Peter Suvorin had given him the key. He had told Peter some foolish story about storing books in this place, which seemed to satisfy him; and then, by mid-May, he had set to work.
The little hand-printing press he kept there was quite sufficient for his needs. In a few days he had produced all the leaflets he needed for the time being, disassembled the press and hidden its parts under some floor-boards.
For now, he decided, it was time to begin.
It was a little book – a novel, in fact – badly written, by an obscure revolutionary; in parts it was absurdly sentimentaclass="underline" and yet to Nicolai Bobrov, as to thousands of his generation, it was an inspiration. Its title: What Is To Be Done.
It told of the new men who would lead society into the new age when all men would be free. It told of their sufferings and their dedication. It created for the reader the image of a new breed of human being – half saint, half superman – who would, by sheer moral force, lead his weaker brethren towards the common good. It was in imitation of this mythic ideal that Nicolai had undergone his ascetic regime as a student and lain on a bed of studs. It was with this valiant new man in mind that he had come with Popov upon this mission to Russka. And so it was, upon the eve of the great day, that he turned to this little novel, reading late into the night, to prepare himself for the ordeal ahead.
Natalia watched young Bobrov with fascination. He was standing on a wooden stool in front of her parents’ izba and a little group was gathered before him.
The evening sun was catching the side of his face, creating a sheen like a little golden river down the thin curve of his youthful beard. Dear God, how handsome he looked.
Natalia had been working in Russka for two weeks now: long, boring shifts at the cotton factory – ten or twelve hours each shift – which they relieved by singing songs together, above the din, just as though they were women going to mow a field. Quite often, before walking home to her parents, she saw Grigory, who still had not made up his mind about her; but she was usually so tired that she scarcely cared, some days, whether he married her or not.
But now her eyes were fixed upon Nicolai Bobrov. And it was not just because of his good looks. It was because of what he was saying. She could hardly believe it.
Nicolai had started several minutes before. He would not have stood on the stool, where he felt rather foolish and uncomfortable, but Popov had told him he really should. Indeed, despite his preparation, he had suddenly found himself so shy that he would gladly have let his friend do the talking. Popov had pointed out, however, with perfect truth: ‘You’re closer to them than I am, Nicolai. Have courage and do it.’
So here he was. Quite a little crowd – five or six households – had gathered round as soon as he got up to address them; others were coming; and since, despite going over the thing a thousand times in his head, he could never decide how to begin, he found himself unconsciously falling back on the biblical formula he knew they would understand.
‘My friends,’ he began, ‘I bring you good news.’
They listened carefully as he outlined to them the many problems of their lives. When he spoke of their heavy repayments, there were murmurs of assent. When he spoke of the need to improve the yields on their ploughlands and stop the rape of the woodlands, there were nods of approval. When he apologized for the part his own family had played in their miserable lives, there were looks of surprise, several grins, and general laughter when a friendly voice cried: ‘We’d forgive you all, Nicolai Mikhailovich, if you’d just let us string the body of your old grandfather up!’ Which was followed by an even louder laugh when someone else called out: ‘If you want your serfs back, young sir, we’ll surely let you have Savva Suvorin!’ And when Nicolai calmly announced that they ought to have all the land, including everything his father still owned, there was a cheerful roar of approval. ‘So when’s he going to give it to us?’ a woman called out.