Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [341]
He understood that she was only lonely. He held her gently, her long brown hair falling across his arm, and let her talk for nearly an hour until, gradually, she became more cheerful and even began to laugh. Then, nestling close to him she murmured: ‘Enough of my boring life, Seriozha. Talk to me. Tell me about the world.’
It made him so proud, to know that she looked up to him. And since his own mind was so full of ideas, it was no time before Sergei was excitedly outlining to her his hopes for the future.
‘The Tsar will create a new Russia,’ he told her. ‘Serfdom is going. There’ll be a new constitution. Look at what he’s already done in the Baltic states and in Poland. That’s the future.’
For as well as now abolishing serfdom in the Lithuanian and Baltic territories, Tsar Alexander had just amazed everyone by granting the newly acquired kingdom of Poland a very liberal constitution, with almost no censorship, an elected assembly, and votes for a wide section of the population.
‘And that’s only the start,’ Sergei assured her. ‘When Russia itself gets a new constitution, we shall be like Britain, or even America!’
The enthusiastic claim was not as wild as it sounded. The enlightened Tsar Alexander had in fact sought the advice of English diplomats, and of President Jefferson of the United States, on how to devise a new government. Years ago, his talented minister Speransky had drawn up a proposal which included separated powers, an elected parliament – a duma – and even elected judges. Even now, an official group had started to prepare a plan for dividing Russia into twelve provinces which would each have considerable autonomy. True, the Tsar was enigmatic – one could not be sure quite where he stood. But then this was Russia, where all change was slow and difficult.
‘And what will your part be, Seriozha, in this wonderful new Russia?’ Olga asked.
Oh, he knew that. He was certain about his own life. ‘I’m going to be a great writer,’ he said boldly.
‘Like your friend Pushkin?’
‘I hope so. Do you realize,’ he went on, enthusiastically, ‘that until the time of Catherine, Russian literature hardly existed! There was nothing but a lot of mouldy old psalms and sermons in Church Slavonic – the devil to understand. People like us wrote verse or plays in French. No one wrote a thing worth reading in actual Russian until Lomonosov, when Father was young, and dear old Derzhavin the poet, God bless him, who’s still with us. So you see,’ he exclaimed happily, ‘it’s for us to begin. No one can tell us what to do. You should hear Pushkin’s verse. It’s extraordinary.’
Olga smiled. She loved to watch her brother and his enthusiasms. ‘You’ll have to work hard at it, Seriozha,’ she said thoughtfully.
‘Of course.’ He grinned. ‘And what are you going to do, when you get out of this convent-prison?’ he asked playfully.
‘Get married, of course.’
‘To whom?’
‘A handsome officer in the guards.’ She smiled. ‘Who writes poetry in Russian.’
He nodded thoughtfully and then, to his surprise, felt sad. I wish I could be that man, he thought.
Soon afterwards, it was time to go.
The afternoon was drawing in when, tired but happy, Sergei returned the horse and walked the last half mile through the cold slush towards the school. No one was about; he slipped inside and made his way towards his quarters where his friends would be waiting. With luck he would not even have been missed. There was the door. He opened it. And started with surprise.
The high room was empty, except for a single, tall, slim figure in riding boots and uniform who stood by the grey light of the window and who now slowly turned towards him.
‘Alexis!’ His heart gave a jump; a little wave of joy swept over him. ‘How long have you been here?’
And then, suddenly, his smile faded.
‘Where have you been?’ Alexis’s voice was cold, cutting as a razor.
‘Nowhere.’
‘Liar! They’ve been searching the school for you for two hours.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Sergei hung his head. There was nothing he could say.