Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [382]
‘We all want to serve a cause, Alexis,’ Ilya explained, ‘but I am speaking of money and of markets.’
‘No,’ the other rejoined. ‘You are speaking of men and their actions. And if all men act only for themselves, as you suggest, then where is religion, where is discipline, where is obedience and humility? I see only chaos and greed.’ It was not often that Alexis was brought to such eloquence. It was obviously heartfelt. ‘I’m sorry, Ilya, but if that is your idea of progress, it is not mine. This is the evil, self-centred way of the west – and you are certainly right that it comes from the west. It is what Russia has fought against for centuries. I, and our Church, and even I suspect our serfs, will oppose it as long as we have breath.’
And sadly he got up, bade them both goodnight, and left them.
For a long time after he had left Sergei and Ilya continued to talk. They discussed Ilya’s journey, which he planned to begin that very autumn; they discussed literature, philosophy and many other matters. And it was far, far into the night when Sergei finally turned and said: ‘You know, my dear brother, Alexis was not altogether wrong about your ideas. You insult our poor old Russia, yet you are also wrong about her.’
‘How so?’
Sergei sighed. ‘In the first place, you want to bring efficiency to Russia. I tell you frankly, it cannot be done. Why? Because Russia is too big, and the weather is too bad. This is the wasteland the Romans never conquered. The west joins its towns by roads. Yet what have we got? One! One metalled road in the whole empire, from Moscow to St Petersburg – planned by Peter the Great but not executed until 1830 when he’d been dead a hundred years. Europe has railways. What have we? They started building one from the Russian to the Austrian capital last year and the Tsar himself has declared he thinks it is dangerous for people to move about so much. Russia is not the bustling west, my brother, and it never can be. Russia will be slow and inefficient until the Second Coming. And shall I tell you something? It doesn’t matter.
‘Which brings me to my second objection. Your prescription for Russia comes from the head. It is logical, reasonable, clear-cut. Which is exactly why it has nothing to do with the case.
‘The Russians will never be moved by such things. That is what the west will never comprehend. It is the deep weakness of the west, as we see it, that it does not know that to move Russia, you must move her heart. The heart, Ilya, not the mind. Inspiration, understanding, desire, energy – all four come from the heart. Our sense of holiness, of true justice, of community – these are of the spirit: they cannot be codified into laws and rules. We are not Germans, Dutch, or English. We are part of Holy Russia, which is superior to all of these. I, an intellectual, a European like yourself, say this to you.’
‘You are one of this new group then, who claim a special destiny for Russia, apart from the rest of Europe, whom people call Slavophiles, I take it?’ Ilya remarked. He had read a little of this group lately.
‘I am,’ Sergei said, ‘and I promise you, Ilya, it’s the only way.’
And so at last, their minds full of these grand and universal thoughts, the two brothers affectionately embraced each other and retired to their beds.
At eleven o’clock the next morning, Sergei departed for the Ukraine.
As he strolled through Vladimir that August morning, Alexis Bobrov was in a rather good temper.
Just before leaving, he had received a letter from his son Misha announcing that he would be joining his family at Russka for ten days on his way from his regiment to St Petersburg. He should be arriving at the very time I get back, Alexis thought contentedly. How pleasant that would be.
The summer had gone rather well. That accursed Savva Suvorin had kept quiet. On the estate, despite widespread failures in some areas, prospects for an excellent harvest looked promising. In the village there