Indeed, their modest success was soon confirmed by a young doctor that the zemstvo managed to employ to help deal with the outbreak. ‘In other parts, it’s raging almost out of control,’ he said. ‘The famine has weakened everyone and made them terribly prone to diseases.’
It was not long before Nicolai had made himself extremely familiar with the disease. ‘It especially attacks the young and old,’ the doctor informed him. ‘The most serious cases usually seem to go straight to the white vomit and diarrhoea stage. They usually die in a day or two. There is one small comfort though,’ he added. ‘Generally, the bulk of the fatalities occur at the very start of the outbreak. So the first week or so is the worst. After that, many of them pull through.’
There were several dozen cases in the town, a few in the monastery, and several in the villages in the area. Nicolai greatly admired the way the young doctor went about his work. ‘Though the truth is, I can’t do much,’ he confessed. ‘The early stages I dose with opium or nitrate of silver; mustard flannels and chloroform for when they get the cramps. If they’re sinking and there’s a chance they might pull through, brandy or ammonia to give them a jolt back to life. And that,’ he said wryly, ‘is about it.’
The unfortunate doctor was soon short of everything. Once more, the central government promised medical supplies, but this time the Bobrovs did not even expect them to arrive – which they did not. ‘All my best brandy went in the first week,’ Misha said with a sad smile. Nicolai went to the provincial capital to get supplies but found none. In Moscow, however, Suvorin was able to obtain some nitrate. And the young doctor worked without ceasing.
‘How do you avoid getting it yourself?’ Nicolai had asked him when they first met.
‘Some people believe it’s carried in the air,’ the doctor told him. ‘But I believe the chief cause of infection is through the mouth. Never drink water or eat food touched by someone with cholera. If you get vomit or any bodily fluid from sick people on your clothes, change and wash yourself very thoroughly before you eat or drink anything. I don’t say it’s foolproof, but I haven’t got cholera yet.’
And though Nicolai several times accompanied the young doctor to places where the disease was raging, he carefully followed this advice and came to no harm.
A week passed. A second. A third. And still the cholera did not spread to the village of Bobrovo. Strangely enough also, while the rest of the world was trembling before the sickness, Misha Bobrov was getting his strength again. He would often walk out now with his wife or young Arina and stroll in the woods above the house. It was pleasant, too, for the old man and his son to come to know each other better again. Indeed, it nowadays caused Nicolai some amusement to remark to his friend the doctor: ‘Do you know, since he turned against the government, my old father’s far more radical than I am. I thought it was supposed to be the other way round!’
Gradually the deaths from the disease grew less, the new cases fewer. After a month it seemed to have subsided. ‘You’ve been lucky,’ the doctor told them. ‘And I’ve just been asked to go to another bad spot over by Murom. Goodbye.’
Soon afterwards, in mid-May, Nicolai decided it was time for him to return to St Petersburg. ‘I’ll be back in July,’ he promised his parents. ‘And if there’s no more sign of cholera in the region, I’ll bring all the family to see you.’ It was with a considerable sense of relief, therefore, that he set out once more for the capital.
He did not go alone. To their surprise, the Bobrovs had discovered that young Arina had always wanted to see the capital. And since Misha was now recovered, and Nicolai’s wife had written to say she had need of a temporary nanny for their children, it was agreed that young Arina should accompany Nicolai and remain with his family for the summer. The girl seemed delighted.
And if, just before leaving, she had had an unpleasant interview with her brother Boris, she kept it to herself.
It was three days after they had left that old Timofei Romanov showed signs one afternoon of being ill. Within an hour he was vomiting a whitish substance with little rice-like grains in it.
He had cholera. It had gone straight to the second, deadly stage.
By the time darkness fell, he was in agony. By morning he was transformed. The terrible discharges had left his body wracked and almost purple. His eyes were hollow caverns; the pallor of death was upon him. His wife and old Arina, who had changed his sodden clothes a dozen times already, stood in the pale light of dawn and gazed at him mournfully. The old fellow’s eyes were staring, sometimes at them, sometimes at the little icon in the corner; but he could no longer utter. Once, with a huge effort, he managed to smile, as if to tell them that he was resigned.
Misha Bobrov was surprised early that morning to find Boris Romanov at his door. He could not remember when the surly and suspicious fellow had last been up to the house. But today he seemed polite, almost friendly.
‘I’m afraid, sir,’ he explained, ‘it’s bad news. My father.’ And he told Misha the details.
‘My God.’ So, just when he thought they had been spared, the plague had come to Bobrovo after all. Thank God I’m fit enough to deal with the crisis, Misha thought, and immediately gave orders to send for a doctor and warn the people in Russka about the outbreak.
He was rather surprised, a few minutes later, to find young Boris still hanging around.
‘The fact is, sir,’ the younger man explained, ‘he’s asking for you. He wants to say goodbye.’ And just for a moment, Misha saw tears form in Boris’s pleading eyes. ‘He won’t last the day,’ he said simply.
Misha hesitated. He could not help himself. The fact was, he had no desire to go into a house where there was cholera. I can’t afford to get it myself, he thought. There’s too much to do. But immediately he felt ashamed. God knows, I ask the doctor to do it. Besides, I’ve known old Timofei all my life.
‘Of course,’ he said. And put on his coat.
How confoundedly hot it was in the Romanov izba. There was a suffocating smell, despite the fact that a window had been opened.
There before him lay his childhood playmate Timofei – or what was left of him. Poor devil. It seemed his mind might have wandered a bit, for he now gazed at Misha with a kind of astonishment; but it was hard to know what was in his mind since the old man could not speak. My God, but he’s the same age as me, Misha remembered. He looked a hundred. Well, now I’m here, I must go through with it.
He glanced round the room. Despite everything, old Arina and her daughter had kept it spotlessly clean. The floor had been scrubbed recently, and the table. Timofei lay in clean bedclothes by the stove. The morning light was streaming in through the window. He glanced at the little icon in the corner, taking what comfort he could from it. Boris offered to take his coat: the heat felt a little less oppressive once it was off. But though they offered him a chair, he preferred to stand, some distance away from the patient, and was careful not to touch anything. And now dear old Timofei was trying to smile.
Misha spoke what words of comfort he could. To his surprise, he did not find it so difficult. He recalled times past, people they had known, and the gentle old peasant seemed to receive pleasure from it. Boris, with a grateful smile, slipped out of the room for a minute. It was strange how, in the presence of death, foolish antagonisms could disappear.
Boris moved swiftly and quietly. He could hardly believe how easy the whole thing had been. His father had looked so surprised to see the landowner that for a second Boris had feared Misha might guess that the old man had not sent for him at all, but he had not; all was well. Now he slipped across the passageway into the open storeroom opposite.