It was just before they parted, however, that one scrap of conversation occurred which, for some reason, always stuck in Nicolai’s mind afterwards. They had been discussing the famine, and he had told them about his father’s letter. ‘It’s quite true,’ Popov told him. ‘Things are terrible in the central provinces.’
And then Ulyanov spoke.
‘It’s a great mistake,’ he remarked.
‘What is?’ Nicolai asked.
‘This attempt at famine relief. We should do nothing to help. Let the peasants starve. The worse things are, the more it weakens the tsarist government.’ It was said quite calmly, without any anger or malice, in a detached, matter-of-fact voice.
‘He’s been saying that all week,’ Popov laughed.
‘I am correct,’ the lawyer replied, in the same tone. And it occurred to Nicolai that it was this very lack of emotion which might make this curious Chuvash rather formidable.
They parted in a friendly manner. Nicolai supposed he might never see either of them again. And, formidable or not, he certainly had no premonition that the balding lawyer with the little reddish beard would ever place himself at the head of a revolution.
It is a favourite hobby of those who study Russian history to choose – each having his own theory – a particular year from which, he will argue, the Russian revolutionary process began, and was perhaps inevitable. ‘This was really the beginning,’ he or she will say.
For Nicolai Bobrov, however, there was not just a year, but a single day: a day on which a tiny domestic scene took place that was witnessed only by himself. And though he participated afterwards in many of the great events that were seen on the stage of world history, it was to this small and unknown incident that he would always return in his mind and say: ‘That – that was the day when the revolution began.’
It took place some five months after the conversation in the train.
If Nicolai had wondered if his father might be exaggerating the difficulties at Russka, that suspicion died the day he arrived home.
The situation was desperate. The harvest of ’90 had been poor, not only at Russka, but down on the Bobrovs’ other estate in Riazan province too. In ’91 therefore, Misha Bobrov and his fellow members of the zemstvo board had tried to save the situation by urging the peasants to sow a mixed crop. ‘Extra potatoes,’ Misha had said. ‘Even if the cereals fail, there will be something to eat.’ But nothing had gone right. The entire potato crop had been blighted; every other crop had failed too. There had been nothing like it since the terrible year of 1839, and by autumn it was clear there would be famine.
Something else Nicolai quickly realized was that, for his father, the famine was also a personal crisis. Though seventy, and not in the best of health, Misha Bobrov had plunged into activity with a fervour that was almost reckless. ‘For the fact is,’ he confessed, ‘as a member of the zemstvo gentry, I feel a double burden these days.’
Nicolai knew very well what he meant. Ever since the elected zemstvo assemblies had been set up by the reforming Tsar Alexander, the government had tinkered with its membership. Sometimes the present Tsar had simply refused to confirm people, even when elected, if their loyalty was suspect. But the crunch had come in 1890, when the Tsar had simply decided to alter the voting rules – so drastically that the electorate was often reduced by more than half, and the gentry composed the vast majority of the board members. It was a shameful business, a calculated slap in the face of the simple Russian peasants, and Nicolai knew that his liberal-minded father had felt deeply embarrassed. ‘We gentry really have to prove ourselves,’ he repeatedly said. ‘Otherwise what are we good for?’ The result of this was that Misha Bobrov had worked himself into the ground; the tragedy was that he had achieved so little.
It was not his fault. The zemstvo had organized grain stores; it had carefully monitored food allocations; Misha and others had toured the area continuously. But nothing could alter the fact that supplies were running low. ‘In another eight weeks, all the grain will have gone,’ Misha told his son. ‘After that – God knows. We’ve been trying to buy grain from other provinces not so badly hit. But…’ He spread his hands. ‘Nothing.’
While they themselves were not short of food, it was clear to Nicolai that the strain of the famine around them had been too much for his parents. His father looked grey and sunken, his usual optimism entirely gone. Anna, usually so decisive, seemed wan and hesitant. But she did take him aside and tell him firmly: ‘Nicolai, you must take over. Your father can’t go on.’
He toured the village. It was always the same. To his delight he found that Arina was still alive – a small, shrivelled little babushka, but with eyes as keen as ever. Timofei Romanov and his wife gave him a warm welcome. Their daughter, baby Arina as Nicolai thought of her, was now a pleasant, rather square-faced girl of seventeen. Only Boris seemed cold towards him; but Nicolai did not place great importance on that. Throughout the village, he found a calm resignation. The elder saw to it that each family had a little bread. There was still salted meat in some izbas. And most families went out each day to try to catch fish through holes in the ice. ‘But,’ as Timofei remarked, ‘I dare say you’ll bury us, Nicolai Mikhailovich.’
At the monastery, which had grain stores, the monks had taken over the feeding of the nearby peasants, giving them flour each day. ‘We have nine weeks’ supply,’ they told him.
‘But the man upon whom everything now depends is at Russka,’ his father told him. ‘And that’s Vladimir Suvorin.’
Vladimir: the elder grandson of that old terror Savva, and the brother of the unfortunate Peter Suvorin. Back at the time, deeming it unwise, Misha had never told his son about the incriminating letter of Peter’s and how he had used it to blackmail old Savva. Since then he had preferred to keep the incident closed. Of Peter therefore, Nicolai knew only that he had run away, and appeared again some time later. ‘I believe he’s a professor in Moscow,’ Misha told him. ‘He never comes here.’ Of Vladimir Suvorin, on the other hand, Nicolai had heard more. The powerful industrialist ran his factories firmly in Moscow and Russka, but fairly. His workers never laboured more than ten hours a day; no children were used; there were numerous safety precautions and both work and living quarters were clean; there were no cruel fines for minor infractions. And unlike some of Russia’s leading industrialists, he had never suffered from a strike. In Moscow, Nicolai had heard, Vladimir had a huge house; but he came to Russka often. Having been away so much himself, however, Nicolai had never met him. ‘What’s he like?’ he asked.
‘Huge. And impressive,’ his father had replied, so that Nicolai had a vision of some tall and forbidding figure like old Savva.
It was on the second morning that Vladimir Suvorin arrived at the Bobrov house. He was huge, all right. But not as Nicolai had supposed. In fact, he was unlike anyone Nicolai had seen before.
Vladimir Suvorin was six feet tall and built like a bear; but there any resemblance to the animal kingdom ended. Even as he stepped off the sled and walked towards the waiting family, his presence seemed to fill the place with a sense of authority as, pulling off a grey glove, he extended a huge, rather fleshy hand to old Misha and smiled kindly.
‘My dear friend.’ He seemed to envelop them all.
This impression was even more striking once they were inside. His big frame was encased in a beautifully cut coat that made his slight paunch seem only a fitting adjunct to his imposing chest. His large, square-cut face had just enough fleshiness to suggest controlled good living. His hair was thinning but cut short; his nose large but regular; his dark brown moustache and short beard perfectly manicured. Around his neck was a soft, grey silk cravat fixed with a large diamond pin. And about his person there was a faint and pleasant scent of eau de cologne.