Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [411]
Misha Bobrov was so disturbed by this conversation that he watched repeatedly for a chance to spend time with his son alone. He had never felt that they could not speak to each other before. And I cannot leave matters like this, he thought. Not until two days later, however, did an opportunity present itself.
It was early evening. Popov had gone over to Russka and Nicolai, having come back from the village, was wandering about alone. Misha had hesitated to approach him in the house for fear that Nicolai might rebuff him and retire to his room. But after a little he saw Nicolai set off for a walk in the woods above the house, and after giving him a little time, he hurried after him.
He came up with his son just as Nicolai had reached the top of the little ridge and was turning eastwards to walk along it. This was a pleasant path that led for nearly a mile, first eastwards, then curving to the south, until suddenly it ended and one encountered the river again below. By happy chance, it was a walk they had often taken together when Nicolai was a child, though it was several years since Misha had gone that way himself. Nervously he approached the young man; but when Nicolai, having given him a look of slight surprise, said nothing, Misha thankfully fell into step beside him.
They continued together for some minutes before Misha gently enquired: ‘Do you remember, when you were a little boy, I used to carry you on my shoulders along this path?’
Nicolai nodded. ‘I remember.’
They had walked on another hundred yards when Misha added: ‘Just here, if you look north, you can see Russka and the monastery.’ And pausing to gaze over the woods below, they saw the golden domes of the little religious house glinting over forest floor, and the pointed watchtower of the little town opposite. It was warm and very peaceful. After a little while, they went on.
Not until the ridge turned south did Misha remark: ‘I am sorry you cannot speak to me any more. It is sad for a father when that happens.’ And although Nicolai did not reply, it seemed to Misha that he could sense a softening in his son. I’ll say no more, he thought. We’ll come to the end of the ridge, turn back, and then perhaps I’ll try again. And so, hoping that he might still regain his son’s affection, he strolled along while Nicolai, lost in his own thoughts, walked beside him.
In truth, Nicolai was torn by many emotions and his father had not been wrong to perceive a softening in his manner. The walk along the ridge had brought back a flood of childhood memories – of his mother’s simple-minded devotion, of his father’s kindness. Misha had been a good father: he could not deny that. And although, for the last month, he had been steeling himself to hate him, Nicolai found now that he could feel only pity for the landowner. Yet what was he to do? Was a reconciliation possible? Could he even now, at the eleventh hour, save his father from the coming storm? These were the thoughts that chased each other round Nicolai’s mind as the two went along in silence.
Until they came to the end of the path and saw what had happened to the woods.
It had always been a charming spot, a pleasant place to rest. The ground fell away sharply to the river below and there was a delightful view southwards over the silvery water and the forest. This was what both men had expected to find.
Yet the scene that now met their gaze was completely transformed and they could only stare in astonishment. A hundred yards before the end of the ridge, the woods suddenly ceased. Before them, stretching to left and to right, was a huge, unsightly scar of bare ground dotted with rotting stumps. As they made their way to the end of the ridge, they could see that the ground had been picked completely bare, and at the end, where the wooded slope down to the water had been, there was now a large gully and below it a constriction in the river where a landslide had silted up the stream.
Both men stared at this scene of devastation in horror. Then Nicolai very quietly asked: ‘Did you do this, Father?’
To which Misha,