When Alexander came up with him, Suvorin was walking towards the cotton mill. He nodded briefly as the youth fell into step beside him. ‘It is really a strike?’ young Bobrov asked.
‘Yes.’ The industrialist seemed quite calm.
‘What will you do?’ Alexander whispered. ‘Call in the Cossacks?’ He knew several strikes had already been broken up by the dashing Cossack cavalry squadrons. But to his surprise, Suvorin shook his head. ‘I’m not such a fool,’ he replied.
For half an hour they walked round various parts of the Suvorin enterprise – the mill, the weaving looms, the dormitories. All the machines lay idle, but there was no sign of other trouble. The workers were mostly standing around in groups, talking quietly, and as Suvorin went by, he exchanged polite greetings with them. ‘The strike’s not against me or the working conditions, you see,’ he explained to Alexander in a low voice. ‘This is different. People from outside have come and persuaded them to strike in sympathy. They’re demanding political reforms.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Calling in the Cossacks would only make things worse.’
Alexander groaned. ‘It’s those zemstvo men, like my father, isn’t it?’ he muttered. ‘They’ve stirred up all this trouble.’
But to Alexander’s surprise, Suvorin shook his head firmly. ‘Don’t blame your father,’ he replied. ‘Wait.’ And for several more minutes he said nothing.
Only when they were outside in the warm and dusty street did Suvorin explain. Taking the boy by the arm, he walked up and down with him, speaking quietly but with conviction.
‘You don’t understand what is happening, my friend. Do you know the story of the emperor who had no clothes? Well, that’s what is happening to the Tsar now. Think of it – Russia is huge, inchoate, disorganized. A vast land of peasants where a semblance of order is maintained by an autocratic Tsar, his army and police, and a minority of privileged people like you who have few links with the people. But the whole state is a huge sham, don’t you see? Because – this is the key – no one has any real power. The Tsar has no power because his army is in the east and he has no true link with his people. The government is not for the people, it’s against them. You and your father have no power: you depend upon the Tsar for all your privileges. I have no power: I depend upon the Tsar to maintain order and protect my business. The people have no power, because they have no organization, and no idea what they want anyway.’ He shrugged. ‘The present crisis shows that the Tsar is actually unable to lead our society or to control it. The emperor has no clothes. And in this huge mess we call the empire, it will only take one spark to set off a huge fire. We could have a revolt any day, that would make the Pugachev look like a tea party. Total, mindless, chaos.’ Suvorin sighed. ‘That’s why I’m being careful.’
‘So what can the Tsar do?’
‘Head them off. The only organized forces out there are two. There are the unions, still forming, and except for the railway men all professionals – the doctors, teachers and lawyers – and there are the zemstvo men like your father, the only people with a programme. The Tsar has to come to terms with them and hope that the people will quieten down. The longer he takes, the worse it will be.’
‘But what about the Tsar and Holy Russia?’ cried Alexander. ‘The peasants believe in that.’
Suvorin smiled. ‘They do on Feast Days, I dare say,’ he replied. ‘But only two people believe in Holy Russia every day of the year.’
‘Who are they?’
‘The Tsar himself, my young friend. Just the Tsar.’ He grinned. ‘And you!’ He liked to tease the boy.
It was as they continued their walk round the town that Alexander noticed that Suvorin seemed to be looking for something. His eyes were constantly scanning the street before him: several times he turned abruptly to glance to one side. When Alexander asked him, however, what he was searching for, the industrialist quietly smiled. ‘Not something, my friend. Someone.’ He glanced down at young Bobrov.
‘Hasn’t it occurred to you,’ Suvorin asked, ‘that all the time we went round inside, we saw only familiar faces. No sign of the outsiders who stirred up the trouble. But I’ve discovered who it is: a single man.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘They call him Ivanov.’
‘Will you arrest him?’
‘No. I’d like to, but it would only create more trouble.’
‘Are you going to speak to him?’
‘I offered to, but he avoids me. He’s a cunning devil.’ He paused. ‘I’d like to get a good look at him. Just so I’d know him another time.’
They continued to walk. They strolled to the little park by Suvorin’s house and gazed down from the parapet over the woodlands and river below. Then they went back, past the church, into the market square. And then they saw him.
He was standing about a hundred yards away talking to a group of men and, for a moment, he was not aware that Suvorin and the boy were watching him. He was an unusual figure. One might have guessed he was in his late forties. His face was clean-shaven and marked by two deep lines that curved down his cheeks from the outer corners of each eye. There was a slight puffiness around the eyes themselves. And his head was covered with close-cropped, orange-red hair. ‘So that’s him,’ Suvorin murmured. ‘What a curious-looking fellow.’ He would certainly know him again.
A moment later, the stranger caught sight of them and slipped away.
Alexander, too, took careful note of the face. So this, he thought, is the face of the enemy. For some reason he had a feeling that he might see him again.
Little Ivan watched his Uncle Boris, fascinated. His uncle had not seen him enter the passage and was unaware of his presence.
Only a few minutes had passed since Boris had been talking to the man from the Suvorin factory outside. He had seemed quite casual then. ‘A ginger-haired fellow, eh? Well I never. About my age. Who did you say he was? Ivanov, eh? Never heard of him. And where did you say this fellow was staying? Out of Suvorin’s way, I suppose. Ah, yes. Just outside the town. Well, well. Good luck to him, and to you all.’
Yet there was nothing calm about his Uncle now. Little Ivan had never seen him so excited as he paced up and down the big storeroom muttering to himself.
‘Ivanov indeed. It’s that devil. That ginger-headed devil. Murderer! This time I’ll get you, though. I’ll not miss you this time. Ah, my poor Natalia.’
He was muttering so vehemently that little Ivan was rather frightened. After a minute or two he slipped out again. But whatever could it mean?
It was unusual for Uncle Boris to go out hunting on a summer night, and especially to walk for miles. But tonight, for some reason, was an exception.
‘I’m going down south to the marshes,’ he remarked blandly. ‘Find myself a good spot and see what the dawn brings.’ The nights were short and warm. All kinds of game came over the marshes in the early morning. Dusk saw Boris preparing his gun cheerfully. Before he went, Ivan saw him slip a large hunting knife into his belt. ‘Can’t I come too?’ he had begged, but Boris had just ruffled his hair and remarked: ‘Next time.’ Then as night fell, he had taken his boat, and paddled away towards the south.