And then Nicolai came to his extraordinary message.
‘My father will not help you, my friends,’ he declared. ‘None of the landowners will. They are parasites – a useless burden from a former age.’ Now that he was getting into his stride, Nicolai became quite carried away.
‘My dear friends,’ he cried out, ‘we are entering a new age. An age of freedom. And it is in your hands – this very day – to bring the new age to pass. The land belongs to the people. Take, then, what is rightfully yours! We are not alone. I can tell you that all over Russia, at this very moment, the people in the villages are rising up against the oppressors. Now is the time, therefore. Follow me – and we shall take the Bobrov estate. Take it all – it is yours!’
He had done it.
Few events in Russian history have been more curious than the occurrences of the summer of 1874.
Nicolai and his friend were not alone: their strange mission amongst the peasants was being repeated in other villages all over Russia, in the movement known to Russian history as The Going to the People.
The young people – both men and women – were nearly all students. Some had studied abroad. About half were the children of landowners or high officials; the rest came from families of merchants, priests or minor bureaucrats. Their politics followed the ideas of those who believed, like the French philosopher Fourier, that the peasant commune in the countryside was the best kind of natural socialism. ‘Indeed,’ many claimed, ‘Russia’s very backwardness is her salvation. For she is scarcely corrupted by the evil of bourgeois capitalism at all. She can move straight from feudalism to socialism, thanks to the natural communism of the village.’ And though few of them knew much of peasant life at close quarters, they believed that after working in the villages and gaining the peasants’ confidence, they had only to give the word for a natural revolution to take place. ‘The peasants will rise and establish a new and simple order where the whole empire of Russia will be freely shared amongst the peasant brotherhood,’ they told themselves.
It was not surprising that Nicolai was drawn to this movement. Many of his most idealistic friends were volunteering. What was amazing was that, at first, the authorities did not realize what was happening. Some two and a half thousand students quietly slipped out into hundreds of villages that summer: some to their own or nearby estates; many others across the Volga or to the old Cossack lands by the River Don. Even now, some of these last were telling the Cossack peasants: ‘The time of Pugachev, and of Stenka Razin, has come again.’ And out of this, they all hoped, a new world would be born.
Nicolai looked at the faces before him. He had done it. At last, after all these months of preparation, the die was cast.
The way had been hard: how could it be otherwise? He had never minded the sacrifice of his own inheritance – he cared nothing for that – but his parents were going to be dispossessed. And it will destroy them, he thought. Whatever their faults, he still loved them. How close, when they took the walk along the ridge, he had come to explaining everything to his father. Until he had seen the ruined woodlands and decided that Misha was past saving. And he supposed it was better he had kept silent: his father would never have understood. Anyway, he told himself, soon nobody will have estates. His parents’ way of life was finished. At least, after the revolution, he thought, I’ll be there to show them the way.
For this was it. The word had been spoken and there was no going back. It was the revolution. And now that it had finally begun, he felt a sense of exaltation. Flushed and excited, he waited for the villagers to respond. ‘Well,’ he called, ‘are you with me?’
And nobody moved. There was absolute silence. They just gazed at him. Had he convinced them? It was impossible to say. What was in their minds? He suddenly realized he had no idea. Wasn’t anyone going to say anything?
It was only after a long pause that, at last, a small, black-bearded man stepped forward. He looked up at Nicolai with suspicion. Then he asked his question.
‘Are you saying, young sir, that the Tsar has given us the rest of the land?’
Nicolai stared at him. The Tsar?
‘No,’ he replied truthfully. ‘It’s yours to take.’
‘Ah.’ The man nodded, as though his suspicions had been confirmed. ‘Well then,’ he stepped back, ‘the Tsar has not given.’ And there was a sympathetic murmur which said, more plainly than any words: ‘This young fellow doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’
Nicolai felt himself go rather pale. Was this the revolution – the spontaneous uprising of the commune? What had gone wrong? Had his arguments been defective in some way? He scanned their faces for a sign. But they continued to watch him placidly, as though curious to see what this young eccentric might do next. He glanced questioningly at Popov, who only shrugged. Almost a minute passed, awkwardly, until some of the villagers started to turn away. ‘I shall speak again tomorrow,’ he announced, with what he hoped was a calm smile, and got down off his stool.
In front of him now was a group of about ten people, including the Romanovs. Nicolai wondered what to do next. It seemed, however, that his words had had some effect upon Timofei Romanov, for the peasant was looking agitated and was clearly anxious to speak.
‘Have I got it right, Nicolai Mikhailovich,’ he asked with a worried frown, ‘that you want your father to lose his land?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what’s got into all the young people nowadays. My own son is doing the very same thing to me. Why is it?’
‘But you don’t understand,’ Nicolai protested. ‘The land would go to the commune so that there would be plenty for everyone. It’s what you’ve always wanted.’
‘And this is to happen all over Russia?’
‘Yes. Right now.’
Timofei shook his head again. ‘That is terrible,’ he said. ‘There will be bloodshed.’ And seeing Nicolai look confused, he took him by the arm. ‘I expect you mean well, Nicolai Mikhailovich,’ he explained kindly. ‘And one day, when God decides, we shall be given all the land, just as you say.’ He smiled. ‘Yes, it will all be so natural. The Tsar will see that we have need, and he will give. Perhaps even in my poor lifetime. And then he will say to me: “Timofei, the land is yours.” And I shall say, “I thank Your Highness.” And that will be all.’ He looked at Nicolai earnestly now. ‘But we must be patient, Nicolai Mikhailovich. That is God’s will, and it is our Russian way. We must suffer and be patient, until the Tsar decides the day has come.’ And satisfied that he had said all that could possibly be said, he let go of Nicolai’s arm with a friendly pat.
Nicolai sighed. If his speech had failed to enlighten the older man, perhaps he had done better with his own generation. He turned to young Boris. ‘Well, Boris, what do you think?’
Boris looked thoughtful. The motives of this young nobleman were a mystery to him. But then, what sort of madman deliberately went to work in the fields when he could be sitting comfortably in the manor house? Boris knew the size of the Bobrov estate though, and he knew how to calculate.
‘If we shared out all your father’s land,’ he estimated carefully, ‘then I’d have enough to take on two, maybe three, hired labourers of my own.’ He grinned. ‘Why, a few years like that, a few good harvests, and I could even get rich.’ He nodded. ‘If that’s the revolution, Nicolai Mikhailovich, then I’m all for it – if you and your friends can really pull it off.’