It was a calculated impertinence, a sort of generalized insult that those on the right liked to use – to anger Jews by calling them all revolutionaries and revolutionaries by calling them all Jews. There was a horrible, embarrassed silence.
But Popov, gazing at the boy, who was now flushing, only chuckled.
‘Well, of course, Trotsky and Rosa Luxemburg are both Jewish,’ he said. ‘So are several others I can think of. But so far, my friend, I have to tell you that the Jews are in a minority in our party. Mind you,’ he added, with a wink at Peter Suvorin, ‘Lenin, who’s not a Slav himself, always says the only intelligent Russians are the Jewish ones. So you’ll have to make what you can of that.’
It was well handled, and the company laughed gratefully. Alexander felt Vladimir Suvorin’s large hand resting on his shoulder give him a gentle, warning squeeze, but he ignored even his hero.
‘What about terrorism? I hear that the Bolsheviks are behind some of the bombing, and that they’ve been committing robberies too.’
In fact, these charges were entirely true. Lenin advocated both methods at this time, to maximize disruption and to get funds for the Bolsheviks – a fact which embarrassed party men like Peter Suvorin who tried to cover it up.
‘I too have heard of these incidents and expropriations,’ Popov replied blandly. ‘But I know absolutely nothing about them.’
Now Vladimir’s hand moved down to Alexander’s arm, squeezed firmly, and the boy heard the great man whisper: ‘Enough, my friend.’ But he had not finished.
‘Do you know, I have seen you before,’ he said, more loudly. ‘When you were inciting the workers of the man in whose house you now dare to come. But you avoided meeting him then. You used another name – Ivanov – and ran away like a dog. How many names have you, Mr Popov?’
For a moment, as Popov turned his green eyes upon him, it seemed to young Alexander that he was looking at a snake. But then, very calmly, the Bolshevik replied: ‘It is a sad fact that for a long time – since any opposition in Russia is under police surveillance – many people have had to use more than one name. Lenin, to my knowledge, has used more than a hundred.’ Though cool, Popov had turned pale.
‘You deny that you’re a thief and a coward then?’ Alexander pursued, into the terrible silence.
This time Popov did not reply at all, but only looked at him, for a moment more, with a faint half-smile. Then Mrs Suvorin, with an easy laugh, led Popov away.
‘You’ve made a dangerous enemy,’ Alexander’s father warned him, a few minutes later. To which the youth only replied, sulkily: ‘It’s better than having him as a friend.’
Despite Alexander’s embarrassing attack, it was generally agreed, afterwards, that the evening had been a success. Indeed, it was one of those special occasions which, for long afterwards, and for different reasons, remains as a landmark in the minds of all those concerned.
For Nicolai Bobrov, it was the evening when his son made an enemy of Popov. For Mrs Suvorin it was the occasion upon which, after spending half an hour with her, this strange, red-headed Bolshevik had promised to visit her salon again, when he was next in Moscow.
For two people, however, the evening was to be remembered for small events that took place just as it was ending.
It was only after leaving his brother’s house that Peter Suvorin turned to his wife and asked curiously: ‘Whatever was Vladimir talking to you about?’
‘Oh. Nothing.’
He waited, but she said no more.
‘It must have been something,’ he suggested. ‘You looked upset.’
‘Did I? I don’t think so.’
Why, even now, should his dear wife, at this harmless mention of a conversation with his brother, suddenly look as though she might burst into tears? Surely Vladimir could not have said anything to hurt her.
‘I think my brother’s kind,’ he said, to see if there were any reaction. ‘People say he’s wise,’ he added, for no particular reason.
And then came the reply which he remembered always, afterwards, and never understood.
‘He knows everything. That’s just the trouble. Please don’t speak of him again.’
It was certainly very strange. It made no sense at all.
For young Alexander Bobrov, the event that changed his life came just as he was walking out through the great hall behind his father. And it was only chance that made him glance up at the marble gallery above. But when he did, he found he could not move. Little Nadezhda loved to watch the guests departing. She would lie awake while her parents’ parties were in progress, then sneak out in her nightdress and peer through the marble pillars, taking note of all that passed below. As it happened, most of the guests having departed, she was standing up now, clearly visible, her long auburn hair cascading down.
Which was how Alexander saw her. A youth, almost a young man, staring up at a little girl of eight.
‘She must be Suvorin’s little girl,’ he murmured. He had never seen her before. What an angelic face. What lustrous hair. And she was Vladimir’s – his hero. And straight away, at that very moment it came to him. ‘One day,’ he whispered to her, though she could not hear, ‘one day you will be mine.’
1906, July
Nicolai Bobrov stared sadly at the long wooden house that had always been his home. He could scarcely believe he might never see Russka again.
The rest of the family had all departed a month ago: his old mother Anna, his wife and young Alexander. They were all in Moscow now, while he had returned to remove the last vestiges of his family’s long occupation.
It was mid-morning and he was done. The three carts by the stables had been piled high by the peasants who now stood expectantly beside them. A last search round the empty house had revealed only a few old boxes of papers left in the attic. He thought they would just fit on to the third cart. Then it would be time to go.
Nicolai was leaving things in good order: he was proud of that. He had stopped a leak in the roof and had the little bath house repaired. He had also arranged for Arina and her son to move up from the village and live in as caretakers. They would take good care of the place. Suvorin would have nothing to complain of. Indeed, as he had taken his last walk up the alley of silver birches above the house, and gazed down the slope to the little River Rus below, he had thought what a pleasant spot it was, and brushed away a tear.
Now however, as he glanced towards the door of the house and saw Arina and her son watching him, he took a sharp breath and threw his chest out. He was a Bobrov. They would see him leave with dignity. ‘It’s time,’ he muttered, ‘to begin a new life.’ True, he was fifty-two; but though his hair was grey, his blue eyes were clear and his figure, unlike his father and grandfather at that age, had put on little weight. He might have lost the estate, but there was still the future.
Yet who knew what that future would be? The last three months had hardly been promising. The Duma, having met, had been a shambles. He had made a visit to St Petersburg and found everyone quarrelling. The peasant members had little idea what to do. Some of them had got drunk and started brawls in taverns. One was arrested for stealing a pig. Yet comic as these antics were, the behaviour of his own party, the liberal Cadets, had shocked him even more. Having demanded a wholesale distribution of land to the peasants, which the Tsar refused to consider, they would not cooperate with the government about anything. Worse yet, while the terrorists continued their campaign all over Russia, the Cadets refused even to condemn the violence until the government gave in to their own demands.
‘I’m a Cadet,’ he complained to Suvorin on his return to Moscow. ‘But thousands of people are being killed. We liberals are supposed to be responsible: I can’t understand it.’