Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [345]
The duel between master and serf was nearly over.
July
Olga gazed at her husband fondly. They had spent the last month together on the estate near Smolensk and, it seemed to her, she had never known such happiness. There was a glow upon her skin, a softness when she came near him, which made even the serfs on the estate smile and declare: ‘Truly they are man and wife.’
Then, with a laugh, she passed him Sergei’s letter.
He had always written to her regularly, ever since his schooldays, often enclosing a poem too, or some funny drawings. She kept the letters and loved to go over them again, when she had nothing to do. This one was characteristic.
My dear little Olga,
No doubt your husband is beating you
regularly, in the old-fashioned way –
so I send you news to cheer you up.
I have found a charming group of
friends. We meet in the Archives of
the Foreign Ministry in Moscow and
call ourselves the Lovers of Wisdom.
(For that goddess, you know, like all
women, needs many lovers.) We read
the great German philosophers,
especially Hegel and Schelling. And
we discuss the meaning of life and
the genius of Russia; and we are
ardent and altogether pleased with
ourselves.
Do you know that the universe is in
a state of becoming? It is so. Each
idea has an opposite. When they
combine, they produce a new and
better idea, which in turn finds its
opposite and so on until in this
wonderful way the whole universe
approaches perfection. Our human
society, here on earth, is just the
same. We are all of us just evolving
ideas in the great cosmic order. Is
that not wonderful?
Do you feel the grand cosmic forces,
my little Olga – or does your husband
beat you too much? Sometimes I feel
them. I see a tree and I say:
‘That’s the cosmos, evolving.’ But
then sometimes I don’t. I hit my
head against a tree the other day and
didn’t feel cosmic at all. Perhaps
if I’d hit it harder …
I must stop now. My friends and I
have to follow our cosmic destiny and
go out drinking. Then I shall seek
the cosmos with a certain lady of my
acquaintance.
I will now tell you an interesting
fact. Our esteemed Minister of
Education is so suspicious of
philosophy that no chair in that
subject is allowed in St Petersburg.
I know of one man who discreetly
lectures on philosophy in the botany
department, another who teaches from
his chair in agriculture. Only in
our beloved Russia can the nature of
the universe be considered a branch of agriculture!
I’m awfully sorry your husband is
such a brute. Write to me at once
if you want me to rescue you.
Your ever loving,
Seriozha
September
It was the end of summer, which had been long that year. The buggy bumped along the dirt road; it went at an unhurried pace because old Suvorin was careful to avoid the numerous ruts and potholes; and besides, what was the use of hurrying anywhere when one was driving Ilya Bobrov?
It was three days since they had left the city of Riazan. Tomorrow they would get to Russka. ‘And it would have been tonight, sir, if you could get up in the mornings,’ the grey-bearded serf had remarked. To which Ilya had replied with a smile and a sigh: ‘I dare say you’re right, Suvorin. I don’t know why I find it so hard, I’m sure.’
The sunlight was already tinged with red. The track passed between endless stands of silver birch and larch trees, their leaves now turning to a rustling gold, against the pale blue sky. Soon, as the sun sank lower, the pigeons would come dipping over the tree-tops.
And now the trees opened out, and large fields appeared. Like many in the area, this village grew flax, barley and rye. The harvest was done. Little yellow-brown haystacks dotted the nearest field. Along its boundary, a bank of wormwood and nettles lent a faint, bitter smell to the air. As they approached the first izba, they were greeted by a barking dog and a large woman with a basket of mushrooms in her arms. Soon afterwards, they came to an inn.
‘We’ll have to stop here for the night,’ Suvorin