Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [405]
He spoke easily of literature, the latest radical essays in the journals, and politics: where he even took the line – highly unusual for a provincial landowner – that as well as the local zemstvos there should also be a Constituent Assembly, freely elected by the people, to advise the Tsar on national affairs. In short, Misha Bobrov gave such proof of his progressive views that he felt sure that, although the two young men did not say much, he must have impressed them.
It was towards the end of the meal that he received a surprise.
He had been watching Yevgeny Popov with some interest during these conversations. In his day, nearly all the university students had come from his own gentry class; but since the mid-century, a new generation of educated people had begun to appear; sons of priests, minor officials and merchants – men like young Popov. Misha was all in favour. The doctors, teachers and agricultural experts whom the local zemstvos were employing mostly came from this class. But Popov, he sensed, was more intellectual than most. What kind of fellow was he? Another thing Misha noticed was that when Popov spoke, he was rather abrupt, as though scorning useless civilities. So much the better, Misha thought. He’s direct. And he took care to be direct himself whenever he addressed him.
But he could not quite restrain his original curiosity about the ginger-haired student’s family; and so it was, when they were well into their second bottle of wine, that he politely enquired: ‘I noticed, my dear sir, that your patronymic was Pavlovich. Would you by any chance be the son of that Paul Popov whose father was once the priest at Russka?’
It was a perfectly polite question, but Popov scarcely bothered to look up from his food when he answered: ‘Yes.’
Fearing that he might have offended him in some way, Misha graciously added, though with flagrant untruth: ‘A most distinguished man.’
‘Was he? I’ve no idea.’ Popov continued to eat.
Slightly puzzled, still curious, and feeling vaguely that, having begun to ask after his family, it would be impolite not to follow through, Misha ploughed on. ‘I hope your father is well.’
Still Popov did not trouble to look up. ‘He’s dead.’
‘I’m sorry.’ It was Anna Bobrov who, scarcely thinking, had spoken. After all, it was only common courtesy. But to her amazement, Popov now looked up at her calmly.
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You’re not sorry. How could you possibly be sorry if you never even met him?’
Anna looked confused; Misha frowned; and Nicolai smiled with amusement.
‘Yevgeny hates shams. He believes one should only tell the truth.’
‘Quite right,’ said Misha, hoping to smoothe over the little awkwardness. But to his surprise, young Popov only turned to look at him with a mild contempt.
‘Then why did you say that corrupt old idiot my grandfather was distinguished?’
This was gross impertinence; yet, to his astonishment, Misha Bobrov felt himself blushing guiltily. ‘You’re my guest,’ he muttered. Then, irritably: ‘One should show some family respect.’
‘I can’t see why, when there’s nothing to respect.’
There was an awkward pause. Then Anna spoke. She was not sure if she understood any of this, but one thing at least she knew. ‘Family feeling is the most important thing in the world,’ she said firmly.
‘Nonsense. Not if the feeling is insincere.’
Her mouth opened in astonishment; but Nicolai smiled at her, then at his father, and explained: ‘Popov is the most sincere fellow in the world. He believes we must strip away falsehood from everything. Destroy it, no matter what it is.’
‘You mean,’ Anna tried to fathom this, ‘that anything, even kindness to others, good manners, should be destroyed? What on earth would you have if everyone did that?’
And now, for the first time since he had arrived, Popov smiled.
‘Truth,’ he said simply.
Misha Bobrov also smiled. Now he understood the fellow. ‘You’re what they call a Nihilist,’ he said. Every educated Russian knew something of these radical fellows after they had been described in Turgenev’s famous