Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [373]
He heard Alexis say: ‘Well, Suvorin, you’ll be thrashed tomorrow.’ And then he turned and caught sight of Sergei.
‘Ah, Sergei.’ He smiled, which should have been warning enough. ‘I have some news for you. Come inside.’
And morosely Sergei went in.
Alexis was businesslike. Almost cheerful. He came to the point at once.
‘As you see, Sergei, we have recaptured a runaway serf. It seems that you saw him in Moscow but did not see fit to inform me. That, I suppose, makes you an accessory to theft. But we’ll say no more about that.
‘The real point, Sergei, is that as you know I was asked by Count Benckendorff to keep an eye on you. And I’m afraid I haven’t been able to make a very favourable report.
‘Count Benckendorff therefore – I’ll show you his letter – has decided that it would be better for you to go away for a while. Tomorrow I shall send you to the military governor at Vladimir. He will make arrangements for you to travel east – not to Siberia, by the way, just to the Ural Mountains. You’ll be staying there for three years, I believe.’
Exile. Three years’ exile in the Urals, hundreds of miles out beyond the River Volga.
‘Perhaps,’ Alexis suggested brightly, ‘you can make a study of mining conditions, while you are there.’
Little Misha did not understand. His Uncle Sergei looked white and scarcely noticed him when he came by; Karpenko was walking about shaking his head and muttering. His Aunt Olga was weeping. Even Pinegin, sitting in his white tunic and puffing on his pipe, looked grim. It seemed Uncle Sergei had to go away, but Misha could not work out why.
Nobody saw the little boy slip into the salon and stand behind a chair. His father was there, standing. His grandmother was sitting on a sofa. Misha was about to step out into the room when his grandmother spoke.
‘Wolf! That is what you are.’
Misha stared. She was speaking to his father.
‘You are responsible for this. I know it very well. My own son – a viper!’ She spat the word out. ‘I have nothing more to say to you. Please go.’
He saw his father wince. Then coldly turn. Misha hid behind the chair as Alexis walked slowly out. Then, trembling, he sneaked out himself.
What did it mean? Was his father wicked?
1844
The duel between Savva Suvorin and the Bobrov family entered its final stage in the year 1844. It was between a master who respected but hated his serf, and a serf who hated and despised his master.
Savva Suvorin had never given up. The day when he had fled Moscow after receiving Tatiana’s letter about his poor father, he had taken with him only some money sewn into his clothes, and the little blackened icon. For two terrible years, to keep out of sight, he had pulled barges on the River Volga. It was backbreaking work. He saw many die at it. But God had made him strong. And each night he took out the little icon and prayed: ‘Lord have mercy on me and keep me safe from the evil doings of unworthy men.’
After two years he had gone to the great fair of Nizhni Novgorod but it was hard to get anything except menial work without proper papers, and so he was led, finally, back to Moscow and the Theodosian community who welcomed him gladly and gave him forged papers.
He had been happy in Moscow. Though the community existed to look after its poorest members, it contained many vigorous men of business; and it was not long before Savva was noticed by them. He married the daughter of one: a quiet girl with a round face, pointed nose and, he soon discovered, an astonishing practical sense. They had a child they called Ivan.
And then Sergei had seen him.
On the day after he arrived back at Russka, Alexis Bobrov had him flogged. As the lashes fell