Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [367]
He was poor, of course. Yet he had noticed that when other poor men married rich women, people thought well of them, even admired them. Besides, he had other things to offer. He was not some young fool with only a few thousand serfs to recommend him. He was a man who could take care of himself, who had stood alone. And there was something else – a secret that he was strangely proud of: he had never known fear.
Quietly he puffed on his pipe. After all, why not?
Alexis would be back in a few days. If he hadn’t changed his mind, he would make his proposal then.
Young Karpenko looked at Sergei with a puzzled frown: something strange was happening to his friend.
There was something about him, some profound inner tension and excitement whose causes Karpenko could not fathom. He knew that behind the façade – behind the Sergei who played idiotic practical jokes, behind even the moralist who so furiously protested about the State of Russia – there was a still, poetic soul. This was the Sergei he loved. And, he could sense, it was this inner man who, for whatever mysterious reason, had been raised to a pitch of secret nervous exaltation. Why, he had no idea.
And now, this strange request. What could his friend be up to? Why was he so insistent?
‘I’ll do what I can,’ the Cossack said, ‘though I’m not sure it will work.’ He gave Sergei a puzzled look. ‘It’s just that I don’t understand …’
Sergei sighed. How could anyone understand? ‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured his friend. ‘It’s very easy. Just do as I say, that’s all.’ He hardly understood it himself. But he knew one thing, more certainly than anything in his life. ‘It must happen,’ he muttered. ‘It must.’ He had planned it all so carefully.
It was June 24, the Feast of St John. The last week, since his quarrel and the departure of Alexis, had not been easy. Everyone had been keeping to themselves and he had felt rather an outcast. Ilya stayed with his books; Pinegin frequently went out hunting alone; his mother would scarcely speak to him; even little Misha seemed to be shy of him. And Olga, after three days, had told him sadly: ‘I tried so hard to keep the peace, Seriozha. And you spoilt it. You have hurt me.’
But the coming feast had lightened the atmosphere. People had begun to look more cheerful. And when, two days before, Sergei had made his suggestion, it had been quite warmly greeted. ‘I always promised to take you there,’ Olga had said to Pinegin. And Tatiana announced: ‘Ilya and I will come too. I haven’t been to that place in years.’
And so it was agreed that, after the celebrations that day, they would all make an expedition to visit the old sacred springs. We’ll take the two Arinas as well,’ Sergei suggested. ‘Then old Arina can tell us fairy tales.’ It was a charming thought, for a delightful setting, and appropriate to the day. For it was the custom, upon St John’s Night, for people to go into the forest.
The feast of St John the Bather, as the Russians liked to call the Baptist, was a strange and magical day. Everyone dressed up, and in late morning the two Arinas appeared before the company in all their finery. How lovely, Sergei thought, and how stately was the traditional dress of the Russian peasant woman. Today, both the old nanny and her niece, instead of the usual simple skirt and shirt, wore embroidered blouses with billowing sleeves. Over these, and reaching to the ground, was a long sleeveless gown – the famous sarafan – coloured red and embroidered, as was the style in that village, with geometric birds of oriental design. And crowning this splendid ensemble was the high, tiara-like head-dress – the