Suvorin, however, had been philosophical. ‘You forget, my friend, that this is Russia,’ he said. ‘Throughout our history we have only known two political forms: autocracy and rebellion. This business of democracy and parliament, which only work through compromise, is all new to us. We think we want democracy, but we don’t really understand it. It will take time.’
Days before, having sat only two months, this Duma had been dissolved and new elections were expected later that year. Nicolai had heard, however, that the Socialist parties would probably take part next time. ‘And God knows whether that will make things better or worse.’ The future looked uncertain indeed.
Time to be going. There were only those few boxes in the attic to bring down; if they left soon, they could be in Vladimir by nightfall. Nicolai turned to go inside.
It was just then, however, that he noticed a figure coming up the slope towards him, and realized to his surprise that it was Boris Romanov.
He had not expected to see him. When he had gone down the day before to bid farewell to the peasants in the village, he had been aware that Boris had quietly avoided him. He had long realized that Boris harboured a grudge of some kind against his family. ‘Watch out for that fellow,’ his father Misha had cautioned him once. ‘I had some trouble with him.’ Misha would never say exactly what, though. For his part, however, Nicolai had nothing against Boris. He remembered with a wry smile how he had once incited him to revolution when they were young. And as I’m a Cadet, these days, trying to get more land for the peasants, he really ought to be my friend, he considered. Perhaps, after all, the head of the Romanov family had relented and come up the hill to say goodbye. Nicolai went forward to greet him.
They met by the end of the house. Nicolai gave the peasant a friendly nod while Boris paused a few paces away from him. It was some time since Nicolai had examined Romanov so closely. He, too, was going grey, but he looked strong and healthy. They were a typical contrast: the noble in his straw hat, open linen jacket, waistcoat, fob watch and tie, looking so western he might just have come from watching an English cricket match; the Russian peasant, the perfect muzhik, in loose trousers, bast shoes, red shirt and broad belt, unchanged since the ancient times of golden Kiev. Two cultures, both calling themselves Russian, yet with nothing in common except their land, their language, and a church in which neither of them usually bothered to worship. And now, having lived side by side for centuries, they were bidding each other farewell.
‘So you’re going.’ The burly peasant was standing with his arms hanging loosely by his sides. His broad face, Nicolai noticed, seemed to have closed up somewhat so that his eyes were now like slits.
‘As you see, Boris Timofeevich,’ the noble answered politely.
For a moment Boris surveyed the carts silently, and then the front of the house where Arina and little Ivan were watching. He nodded thoughtfully.
‘We should have smoked you out long ago.’ It was said in a matter-of-fact way, yet it was a far from friendly statement. The process of vandalism and arson by which, in recent years, many landlords had been encouraged to sell their lands to peasants was generally known as ‘smoking out’. Nicolai remembered the fire in his woods the previous year and looked at Boris thoughtfully. ‘But Suvorin’s got the land now, not us,’ Boris added bitterly.
‘The Cadets want land distribution. There are state lands hereabouts you may get which would be far better than my poor woods,’ he reminded the peasant.
But Boris ignored him. He seemed to be following his own train of thought. ‘The revolution’s started, but it hasn’t finished yet,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ll have all the land soon.’
‘Perhaps.’ Nicolai was beginning to grow bored with the peasant’s sullen rudeness. ‘I must be going,’ he said irritably.
‘Yes.’ Boris allowed himself a grim smile. ‘The Bobrovs are going at last. So, goodbye, Nicolai Mikhailovich.’ And he took a step forward.
It seemed he was going to say a half-friendly goodbye after all. Nicolai began to extend his hand. And then Boris grimaced. And spat.
Nicolai had never known what it was to have someone spit in his face before. It was worse, more utterly insulting, more violent, than any mere blow. He reeled back. And as he did so, the peasant hissed: ‘Good riddance, you damned Bobrov. And don’t come back or we’ll kill you.’ Then he turned and stamped away.
So horrified, so revolted, was Nicolai that, for a second or two, he could do nothing. After that he thought briefly of striking the departing peasant, or of having him arrested. Then he was overcome by a feeling of disgust and futility. He looked back at the house and saw Arina and the boy staring at him. The peasants by the carts were watching him impassively too. Did they all, perhaps, hate him so much?
‘We’re going,’ he called out, with what dignity he could muster. And a few moments afterwards, he was seated beside the driver of the first cart as it creaked down the slope. Still red, and shaking with impotent fury, he scarcely glanced back as they went along. And only when they were halfway to the monastery did he remember, with a shrug, that he had left some boxes still in the attic. It didn’t matter. They could stay there. It was over.
And so the Bobrovs quitted their ancestral estate.
1907
To Dimitri Suvorin at the age of twelve the world seemed a wonderful place. Yet there were still things he did not understand.
In particular: what was happening to his mother?
He was a strange boy, his body small and slight. His narrow face sometimes reminded Rosa of her father. Like Peter, however, Dimitri was short-sighted and wore spectacles. But if he looked physically fragile, this was offset by an extraordinary intensity in the pale face under its unruly mop of black wiry hair, and by the sudden laughter to which he was frequently prone.
He was a happy child. Though the little family was very close – his parents obviously adored each other – the atmosphere was never oppressive. The three of them lived in a pleasant, untidy apartment with high ceilings near the centre of the city. The building was three storeys high and its street side was faced with cream-coloured stucco. In the courtyard where the children played stood a mulberry tree. From the courtyard, one could see the dome of the little church where Dimitri had been christened looming quietly over the roof. The district was full of charm. Nearby was the School of Painting and close to that a strange house with a glass roof where Prince Trubetskoy the sculptor had his studio. Two streets away was a little flower market and beside it a coachmaker’s workshop with a huge stuffed bear in the window.
And how delightful it was, on a warm summer evening, to walk about the city. Snobbish St Petersburg with its classical façades might be the empire’s head, but Moscow was still the heart. Though a city of nearly four hundred thousand now, it was a curious blend of the industrial and Muscovite ages. On the outskirts, tall factory chimneys and ancient fortified monasteries dwelt side by side. In the last two decades, the so-called ‘Russian’ style of architecture – Russia’s version of the West’s nineteenth-century ‘gothick’ style – had come into vogue, so that railway stations and other public buildings now arose with strange designs of brick and plaster so ornate that they might have come from the wild Muscovite extravaganza of St Basil’s Cathedral on Red Square. And these buildings, too, had their own heavy charm. Young Dimitri would spend hours wandering about the streets, or on the broad and leafy boulevards that ringed the inner city, or by the Kremlin walls from inside which the silvery tinklings of the church bells could be heard. And sometimes it seemed to him as if the whole city was like some gigantic piece of music by Tchaikovsky, Moussorgsky, or one of the other great Russian composers, that had miraculously been transposed into stone.