Nicolai watched him, fascinated. Like all those who lived in St Petersburg, he had a slightly superior attitude to Moscow. Moscow was provincial, a place for merchants. In St Petersburg, Nicolai had moved in the best circles. He knew the men of the imperial court, cosmopolitan aristocrats. He knew nobles with great houses. Yet here was a man – grandson of one of the Bobrov serfs – who did not belong to these upper-class circles and yet who was, Nicolai sensed at once, even more cosmopolitan than they. He spoke Russian elegantly; by a few words he let fall, it was clear he spoke French. And in fact, though Nicolai did not then know it, Suvorin was comfortable in German and English too.
But what was this extraordinary aura that Suvorin had? He’s like a monarch, or an eastern potentate, Nicolai thought. His black eyes, set wide apart, seemed to possess a comprehensive intelligence; above all, there was about him an astonishing sense of comfort and of power. He has perfect manners, yet he says and does exactly as he likes, and everyone obeys him, Nicolai guessed. It was the first time he had met a member of that special group, the cosmopolitan very rich. For though aged only forty-one, Vladimir Suvorin had long ago grown accustomed to the pleasant idea that, if he chose, there was almost nothing he could not buy. This knowledge, when combined with intelligence and culture, could make even the grandson of a serf into a prince.
And so, at once, the great man took them all over. Nicolai he immediately treated as a trusted colleague. ‘Thank God you are here, Nicolai Mikhailovich.’ Towards old Misha he was both courteous and protective. ‘You have done so much, dear friend. It’s time to let the younger generation take some of the burden now. But I know you will keep an eye on us all.’ In two minutes, Nicolai felt proud to be swept into his orbit.
‘There is news from the provincial governor,’ he said. ‘The government will supply grain. It’s being shipped from the Ukraine and we shall have it in a month. As you know, we still have about eight weeks’ supply left. I am going myself to speak to the governor, to make sure there are no slip-ups. So all we have to do is keep everyone in good heart. Yes, thank you, chère Madame, I should love a glass of cordial.’ And he sat down amongst them comfortably.
During his visit, Nicolai learned a little about Suvorin. He had lost a wife, married again and had a son. Normally he liked to travel two months a year. He knew Paris as well as he did Moscow. He knew personally such artists as Renoir and Monet; he knew the great writer Tolstoy and had been down to his estate at Yasnaya Polyana. Tchaikovsky he also knew. ‘And his unfortunate wife,’ he added with a sigh. This was a glittering world of literary men, crowded salons, connoisseurship and judicious patronage – a world where high rank or extreme wealth were a passport to entry, as they are everywhere, but where only talent and excellence were tolerated. It was clear that, on top of this, Suvorin was a formidable man of business. Nicolai also, learned much about the work that the zemstvos had done in the last few months. ‘Without men like your father,’ Suvorin told him frankly, ‘the local administration would have broken down entirely. It’s the zemstvo people in town and country who have held things together, not the central government at all.’
And after he had gone, Misha remarked admiringly: ‘Thank God we have him with us. He makes things happen. The authorities daren’t ignore him.’
Though he had noticed Boris Romanov’s coolness towards him, Nicolai would still have been surprised to hear the dispute raging in the izba of Timofei Romanov round that same time.
The disputants were old Arina and Boris. Timofei and his wife said little; as for the subject of the quarrel, the seventeen-year-old girl, her grandmother’s namesake, no one thought of asking her at all.
‘You can’t do it,’ Boris was fairly shouting. ‘Those people are our enemies, only you’re all too stupid to see it.’ At this Timofei looked uncomfortable and old Arina shrugged contemptuously. ‘Besides,’ Boris cried, ‘she should be here to help her parents.’ But old Arina was obdurate. ‘It would be one less mouth to feed,’ Timofei’s wife remarked at last.
‘Better to starve,’ Boris growled.
The years since the tragic fire that killed Natalia had done nothing to assuage the feelings of Boris Romanov. Indeed, as time passed, his sense that the Bobrovs and the entire gentry class were conspiring against him had grown even stronger. To Boris, the evidence was clear. Ten years ago, for instance, when it was rumoured that the government would finally abolish the burdensome payments the peasants had been making to their former owners ever since the Emancipation, the administration finally announced only a niggardly reduction of twenty-five per cent. ‘And what the devil is the use of that?’ Boris protested. Now the peasants’ voting rights to the zemstvo assemblies had been almost wiped out. ‘Another swindle by the gentry,’ Boris stormed. ‘Now they even take our votes away.’ And when, during the famine, old Timofei had pointed out the good work that Misha Bobrov was doing, Boris had only replied contemptuously: ‘If that old criminal can do it, an honest peasant could do it better.’
His grandmother’s decision that her granddaughter Arina should join the Bobrov household had therefore filled him with fury. Yet, since his father was head of the family, and Timofei was not prepared to contradict the determined old woman, there was nothing he could do.
‘I think it would be best,’ Timofei finally agreed, ‘if they’ll take her.’
And the old woman was certainly adamant. It was astonishing what force of will could be contained in that small frame; it was strange, too, how her determination to ensure the family’s survival had now caused her to shift all her thoughts from her own beloved daughter to the next generation. Her memories of the last great famine, perhaps some guilt from the time she had nearly exposed her as a baby, now caused old Arina to fight for the girl with an implacable determination. If things got worse, there was only one house where there would certainly be food. ‘I’ll speak to them,’ she said quietly. ‘They’ll take her.’
So it was that, shortly after Vladimir Suvorin had left, the Bobrov family was faced by old Arina and the girl. The old woman did not even have to say much. Anna Bobrov understood perfectly. ‘Of course we’ll take her,’ she promised. And then, with a smile: ‘My husband is tired. I’m sure he’ll be glad of her help.’
By that afternoon the girl was installed. ‘Now you’ll be safe,’ her grandmother whispered to her as she left. But there was one other message that remained, for some time, in the girl’s mind. For just as she had departed the village, Boris had pulled her to one side and muttered: ‘Go to those damned Bobrovs if you choose; but just remember, if you ever become their friend, you won’t be mine any more.’
The next six weeks were busy for Nicolai Bobrov. His mother’s prediction that the young Romanov girl would be useful soon proved to be accurate: a few days later, relieved of the strain of, coping alone with the famine, Misha Bobrov suddenly fell sick. Day after day he lay on his bed, seemingly too weak to move, and if it had not been for the calm, steady presence of this peasant girl who nursed him, Nicolai believed they might have lost the old man.