Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [413]
Natalia watched young Bobrov with fascination. He was standing on a wooden stool in front of her parents’ izba and a little group was gathered before him.
The evening sun was catching the side of his face, creating a sheen like a little golden river down the thin curve of his youthful beard. Dear God, how handsome he looked.
Natalia had been working in Russka for two weeks now: long, boring shifts at the cotton factory – ten or twelve hours each shift – which they relieved by singing songs together, above the din, just as though they were women going to mow a field. Quite often, before walking home to her parents, she saw Grigory, who still had not made up his mind about her; but she was usually so tired that she scarcely cared, some days, whether he married her or not.
But now her eyes were fixed upon Nicolai Bobrov. And it was not just because of his good looks. It was because of what he was saying. She could hardly believe it.
Nicolai had started several minutes before. He would not have stood on the stool, where he felt rather foolish and uncomfortable, but Popov had told him he really should. Indeed, despite his preparation, he had suddenly found himself so shy that he would gladly have let his friend do the talking. Popov had pointed out, however, with perfect truth: ‘You’re closer to them than I am, Nicolai. Have courage and do it.’
So here he was. Quite a little crowd – five or six households – had gathered round as soon as he got up to address them; others were coming; and since, despite going over the thing a thousand times in his head, he could never decide how to begin, he found himself unconsciously falling back on the biblical formula he knew they would understand.
‘My friends,’ he began, ‘I bring you good news.’
They listened carefully as he outlined to them the many problems of their lives. When he spoke of their heavy repayments, there were murmurs of assent. When he spoke of the need to improve the yields on their ploughlands and stop the rape of the woodlands, there were nods of approval. When he apologized for the part his own family had played in their miserable lives, there were looks of surprise, several grins, and general laughter when a friendly voice cried: ‘We’d forgive you all, Nicolai Mikhailovich, if you’d just let us string the body of your old grandfather up!’ Which was followed by an even louder laugh when someone else called out: ‘If you want your serfs back, young sir, we’ll surely let you have Savva Suvorin!’ And when Nicolai calmly announced that they ought to have all the land, including everything his father still owned, there was a cheerful roar of approval. ‘So when’s he going to give it to us?’ a woman called out.
And then Nicolai came to his extraordinary message.
‘My father will not help you, my friends,’ he declared. ‘None of the landowners will. They are parasites – a useless burden from a former age.’ Now that he was getting into his stride, Nicolai became quite carried away.
‘My dear friends,’ he cried out, ‘we are entering a new age. An age of freedom. And it is in your hands – this very day – to bring the new age to pass. The land belongs to the people. Take, then, what is rightfully yours! We are not alone. I can tell you that all over Russia, at this very moment, the people in the villages are rising up against the oppressors. Now is the time, therefore. Follow me – and we shall take the Bobrov estate. Take it