Boris was surprised therefore when, after about twenty minutes, Natalia suddenly reached into her shirt and pulled out a leaflet. ‘Read this,’ she said, with a faint smile.
It was a remarkable document: brief and to the point. Using some of the same phrases that Nicolai Bobrov had employed, it urged the peasants to prepare for the coming day when a revolution would usher in the new world. It was aimed at the landlords, of course, but it was particularly scathing about the new class of exploiters, the factory owners like Suvorin, ‘who use you worse than animals’. These were the people who must be utterly destroyed, the leaflet said. ‘Organize,’ it urged. ‘Be ready.’ It was a telling composition, and as he read it, Boris’s heart sank.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘Never mind.’
‘But this is dangerous, Natalia.’
‘I thought you were in favour of the revolution. That’s what you said to Nicolai Bobrov.’
‘I want more land. But this,’ he shook his head. ‘This is different. You stay out of it. You could get in a lot of trouble.’ Then, as she only shrugged: ‘Did Nicolai Bobrov give you this?’
‘No.’
‘Who then?’
‘You’d never guess in a million years.’
‘Promise me you’ll drop all this.’
‘I promise nothing. But keep quiet yourself. Don’t tell anyone I showed it to you.’
‘You can be sure of that.’ He had a sudden thought. ‘Is this Grigory in this business with you? Did he get you into this?’
‘Maybe yes, maybe no. Maybe I got him into it.’
He handed the leaflet back to her.
‘I never saw this, Natalia. You burn them if you’ve any more.’ And he got up.
It was his fault, he knew it: his fault that his sister had gone to that accursed factory; that she had decided to marry Grigory; and that now she was getting mixed up in God knew what danger. He must do something – if only he knew what.
Savva Suvorin was a thorough man. When he walked around the workshops each day, his sharp old eyes missed nothing, and he was proud of the fact that he never used spies. True, his foreman told him everything that was going on. ‘But only because they’re afraid I’ll find it out anyway,’ he would say. And no doubt by some similar logic, he was informed about everything that passed in the village of Bobrovo too.
Savva was also in a good temper. Two weeks before, he had been seriously worried about his grandson. The boy had become so morose and moody that both Savva and his wife had feared for his health. But just in the last few days, for some reason, a change had come over Peter: his face had cleared; he seemed to be taking an interest in life again; he was almost cheerful. ‘I dare say,’ old Maria said, ‘it took him a while to get used to things here, after the big city.’ And Savva looked forward to better days.
It was one morning, just three days after the change in Peter, that he noticed young Grigory pass a piece of paper to a fellow worker. At first, he thought nothing of it. When he happened to see the man slip the paper under his machine a little while later, he still did not imagine it could be anything important. And it was only idle curiosity that made him push his stick under the machine that evening, pull out the paper, and so discover one of Popov’s leaflets.
The spasm of fury that passed through Savva Suvorin caused him to break his heavy stick over his knee. For a moment, he wanted to confront young Grigory and break him as completely as he had broken his stick. But it was one of the great strengths of the old man that a lifetime of hardship had taught him never to act rashly. Where, he wondered, had Grigory come by the leaflet? Was it likely that the impoverished young peasant could have instigated such a thing by himself? For a time he became deeply thoughtful.
Then he put the leaflet in his pocket.
Just a few hours later, by the side of a field of barley, Timofei Romanov was looking at his son in puzzlement. For the proposal that Boris had put to his father had taken the older man by surprise. ‘You’re saying we should go to Bobrov for money? Enough to give Natalia a dowry?’
‘And to pay off your debts too.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Let’s say his friendship for you. Didn’t you play together as children? Hasn’t he helped you before?’
‘He’s also short of money himself,’ Timofei objected. ‘I don’t want to ask, and he’ll certainly refuse.’
‘Maybe he can’t refuse.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because I think he’s vulnerable. Remember how Nicolai was nearly arrested?’
‘But he’s sick.’
‘So they say. But he isn’t, you see. They really are preparing a revolution. I’m sure of it.’
‘How can you know?’
‘I just think so, that’s all. But if I’m right and Bobrov’s just pretending Nicolai’s sick, and he thinks we know something, he may decide to help you – see?’
‘You mean, blackmail him?’
Boris grinned. ‘More or less.’
Timofei shook his head in perplexity. ‘I couldn’t,’ he repeated. It was against his entire nature.
‘I’d come with you,’ Boris suggested. ‘You don’t have to be blatant. Just feel him out. You’ll see if he’s nervous soon enough.’ And as Timofei still looked unhappy: ‘Just think it over, Father. That’s all,’ he suggested.
The noon sun was high the next day when the villagers of Bobrovo trembled to see the tall figure of Savva Suvorin, in his high top hat and black coat, and carrying a new walking stick, come striding down the lane towards them. He passed straight through the village, however, looking neither to right nor to left, and made his way up towards the manor house.
He was going to see the landowner.
The journey brought back many memories. It was sixty-two years, the old man remembered grimly, since he had walked up that very path with his father to ask permission to visit Moscow. Forty-seven years since Alexis Bobrov had brought him back after his recapture and ordered him to be flogged as a runaway serf. And every detail of those events was as fresh in his mind now as on the day they had happened. Savva never forgot.
Nowadays, of course, his wealth could have bought the Bobrov estate twenty, a hundred times over. The landlords who had treated him like a dog were frightened of him now. And today, they had given him the means to destroy them.
For having reflected on the matter, there was little doubt in his mind about the basic facts. He had heard, of course, about the incidents concerning young Nicolai Bobrov in the village – how he had worked with Romanov, then preached revolution. The story that Nicolai was sick had struck him as unlikely. He had also observed the ginger-haired student hanging around near his factory and once seen him with Grigory, the boy who was sweet on the Romanov girl. Now, suddenly, Grigory was distributing revolutionary leaflets. The coincidences were too many. He had no doubt that the police would easily discover a link between the two. ‘So young Bobrov and his friend are revolutionaries,’ he muttered. He could have them both in jail. And then the Bobrovs would be destroyed – it would be a final and terrible revenge. He had thought about it with pleasure for some time.
Misha Bobrov was surprised indeed when the tall figure of the factory owner appeared at the house. As it happened, Nicolai had retired to his bed with a headache that day, and Anna was visiting a friend near Vladimir, and so the landowner was alone. He ushered Suvorin into the salon at once, where the old man glanced around him with grim curiosity. He refused the seat Misha offered him, so that the landlord was left standing rather awkwardly himself, until he finally decided to sit down anyway, staring up at the industrialist with a vague sense of misgiving.