Savva never wasted words. He came straight to the point. ‘Your son,’ he said simply. ‘He’s a revolutionary.’ And when Misha began to protest that Nicolai was unwelclass="underline" ‘I found this in my factory. It comes from your son and his friend.’ Taking out the leaflet, he gave it to the landowner. ‘Read it,’ he ordered.
As Misha Bobrov did so, his face went pale. There before him were the very phrases he had heard his son speak. Word for word. Only with one difference: they called for violence. Kill Savva? Burn down his house? ‘Oh, my God! Are you sure?… I mean, I had no idea…’ His voice trailed off miserably. His face alone was all the confirmation that Savva needed. ‘What will you do?’ Misha asked helplessly.
And it was now that Savva Suvorin showed his greatness and the source of his power. He was eighty-two. For fifty-two years of his life he had struggled to get free of the tyranny of the Bobrovs, and for thirty more he had kept a grudge. Now, at last, he could destroy them.
But he was not going to. Not yet. For Savva Suvorin, better than anything else, understood power, and the Bobrovs, though he hated and despised them, were no use to him destroyed. Misha might be a fool, but he still had influence in the zemstvo and he had irritated Savva with his activities there more than once. With this information, however, Savva could control him for ever. Suvorin does not revenge himself on small men, he thought proudly. He uses them.
Calmly therefore, and very quietly, he told the unhappy landowner what he should do. ‘Firstly, you will tell this Popov that he is to leave Russka for ever. He is to remain in your house, communicate with no one, and be gone by dawn tomorrow. Can you organize that?’
Misha nodded miserably.
‘You will also speak to Timofei Romanov. His daughter is always with this Grigory whom I caught distributing the leaflets. You can be sure, therefore, that she is in this too.’ He glowered at Bobrov. ‘Didn’t you have that girl sent to your damned school once? Now perhaps you see what that leads to.’ He shook his head at the folly of educating working peasants. ‘You will also instruct your friend Romanov to keep his daughter at home until further notice. She is not to be told why; and she is to have no contact with Grigory of any kind. I shall have him watched for a few days to find out what else he is up to. Then, I’ll deal with him.’
He gazed down coldly at Misha. It occurred to him with some satisfaction that their roles had been reversed now – he was the master, a Bobrov the servant.
‘If any of you disobey these instructions in even the smallest way,’ he concluded, ‘then I shall turn the entire matter over to the police who will quite certainly be able to prove a conspiracy involving your son, Popov and the Romanovs. They will all go to Siberia, or worse.’
And with that he turned his back on the shaking landlord and stomped out of the house.
Several times in the last twenty-four hours, Timofei and Boris Romanov had returned to the subject of approaching Misha Bobrov for money; but so far Timofei had not been willing to do so. He was surprised therefore, in mid-afternoon, to be summoned urgently to the manor house. And as soon as the summons came, young Boris announced: ‘I’m going with you.’
When they arrived, it was to find Misha in a frightened but thoughtful state. He had spent half an hour in the sickroom with his son. Though Misha was not quite sure whether to believe him, it seemed that Nicolai was not aware of Popov’s recent activities in Russka. But he admitted to knowing his friend had a hand-press for printing. And that’s quite enough to send him to Siberia, Misha thought.
With the two Romanovs before him, Misha proceeded cautiously.
‘Tell me Timofei,’ he asked, ‘is your daughter friendly with a boy called Grigory?’
‘Ah, Mikhail Alexeevich,’ he cried, ‘if only she were not.’ And he would have started upon his litany of woes if Misha had not cut him short.
‘This is what young Grigory has been distributing,’ he said, and showed him the leaflet, reading out a few sentences from it for the illiterate peasant. During this, he noticed that poor Timofei looked first confused, then horrified and lost, but that young Boris, the moment he set eyes upon the leaflet, went pale as a ghost.
It was true then. Suvorin was right.
Calmly he outlined Suvorin’s instructions. Though he made no direct reference to his own son’s part in the conspiracy, he let them know: ‘The person behind this is Popov. It seems he has abused my hospitality and duped us all. He leaves at dawn, never to return.’ Then, looking at Boris carefully, he remarked: ‘You’ll agree that, regarding Natalia, we should do exactly as Suvorin asks?’ To which the young man, looking glum, replied: ‘I agree.’
And it was at this moment that Yevgeny Popov walked cheerfully into the room.
In fact, Popov had had a disquieting day. He had received a letter that morning which let him know, in carefully disguised language, that the peasant revolution was failing. Everywhere, the villagers had behaved like those at Bobrovo. Several hamlets had called the police, and news of the movement was spreading to the provincial authorities. Several young idealists were already in custody: a general clamp-down was expected.
The letter had worried Popov, but it was his habit to disguise his thoughts and so now he smiled, almost pleasantly, at the three men in the room.
Misha Bobrov did not waste time. With undisguised loathing he snapped at Popov: ‘Your game’s up. Suvorin’s found your leaflets.’ And in a few words he summarized what the old man had said. ‘I won’t bother to ask for your comments,’ Misha remarked contemptuously, ‘since I know you will lie. But you’re to leave here by dawn, so I suggest you prepare for your journey.’
How cool the young monster was. He did not flinch: indeed he was still, faintly, smiling. Yet even Misha was astounded when Popov quietly replied: ‘Not at all. I already told you I shall leave when I choose.’
‘You go tomorrow.’
‘I think not.’
‘You’ve no choice. Suvorin will arrest you.’
‘Perhaps.’ He shrugged. ‘I can see that all of you are frightened. But you really needn’t worry. Nothing will happen.’ He yawned. ‘I’m too tired to eat supper tonight. Besides, I have letters to write. But I shall be famished tomorrow evening, I’m sure.’ He turned to Bobrov. ‘I really shall be here for some time,’ he said blandly, and he went upstairs.
For several seconds all three men were speechless. It didn’t make sense. Then Timofei Romanov looked at Misha and asked helplessly: ‘What do we do now?’
Yevgeny Popov sat in his room and considered. His calm refusal to leave had been partly a bluff. There was no doubt, after the disquieting letter this morning and Suvorin’s threat, that it was time to move on. But he was not going to let that stupid landowner and those damned peasants – or even Savva Suvorin – think that they could push him around. He was a revolutionary, infinitely their superior.
So, what should he do? Whatever he did, Popov always left himself escape routes: it was his nature to deal in ambiguities; and whatever these people planned, he felt sure he could outwit them. For several minutes he pondered, then a smile appeared on his face. Going over to the locked box by the foot of his bed, he took out a handwritten document. Then, sitting at a little table by the window, and making constant reference to the document, he began to form letters and words on a fresh sheet of paper until, after a time, he became confident. And then, taking a new sheet, he began, very carefully, to write.
He had been writing for several minutes when he heard someone creep along the passage and pause outside his door. Then he heard a key being inserted in the lock and softly turned. He shrugged. So they thought they could make him a prisoner. He continued to write.