Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [348]
‘Suvorin, you have stolen it. I shall decide what to do with you tomorrow.’
In a way, Alexander Bobrov was glad. He had regretted giving way to his wife over the Suvorins, though he would not go back on his word: and now that he had an excuse to think old Suvorin was a thief, he was determined to believe it. ‘Either he’s a liar or your son is,’ he snapped when Tatiana pleaded with him. And when she reminded him that, according to Suvorin, Ilya had been drunk, Bobrov merely remarked: ‘All the easier to steal from him, then. You see,’ he added in justification, ‘if you offer a man like that the chance to buy his freedom, it just tempts him to steal the money to pay you.’
It was nonsense. Tatiana told him so. In his heart of hearts, he perhaps knew it. But the facts seemed unassailable; even Tatiana admitted that. And, it had to be admitted, this turn of events worked out very nicely for the Bobrovs.
For the next day Alexander Bobrov held court. This meant that he summoned Suvorin before him and acted, as was his right, as the serf’s accuser, judge, jury and executioner. Since he judged Suvorin guilty of a serious theft against him, the sentence was harsh.
‘I am sending you to Siberia,’ he announced.
He did not even need to add what the sentence also assumed – that everything the Suvorin family possessed would pass directly into his hands. So whatever money he would have paid for his freedom became Bobrov’s anyway. His son, now penniless, would remain a serf. It was certainly all very convenient.
‘But you can’t,’ Tatiana protested. ‘It’s against the law.’ For the law said that a master could not send a serf of over forty-five to Siberia. And Suvorin was forty-eight.
But the law was not strong, when confronted by a landowner.
‘I’m sending him to the military governor of Vladimir,’ Alexander said bluntly. ‘He’s a friend of mine.’ And though she tried all day, there was nothing Tatiana could say this time to change his mind.
Alexander Bobrov was quietly triumphant. He was within his rights, more or less. He had outmanoeuvred those cunning serfs and decidedly added to the value of the estate. Several small signs had told him recently that he might not have many years left to do that.
In a way, of course, he felt sorry for Suvorin – even though he was determined to believe him guilty. But then, he thought, these sudden and arbitrary reversals of fortune must be expected by any man. After all, it had happened to him, too, when Catherine had thrown him in jail. That was how things were and how they had always been, in Russia.
The very next day, wearing chains, Suvorin was taken to Vladimir from where, quite regularly, little parties set out on the long, long road to Siberia.
And the same day, Tatiana sat down to write a letter.
Savva took the little blackened object in his hands. And for once, he smiled. He had promised himself this treasure for a long time and now at last he felt he could afford it.
For they were home and dry. Two more weeks in Moscow and he would have the money for his and his father’s freedom. All I have to do now, he thought with a grin, is get out of this store.
‘It’s good,’ the grey-bearded seller said simply. ‘Very old. Before Ivan the Terrible, I think.’ Savva nodded. He knew.
It was a little icon – nothing to look at. There were dozens of bigger and brighter ones in the store. As with many ancient icons the paint had grown dark with age, been overpainted, grown dark again. In its long life this icon had probably gone through this process two or three times; and even now, the solemn figures of the Mother of God and Child could only dimly be made out against their darkening amber background. Why then should Savva value it so much?
It was because he knew the art of the icon was only visible to the trained eye, and even then, could only be apprehended by the spiritual sense. The icon was not just a painting, it was a prayer. The intimate little forms in their receding world were revered for their simplicity