Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [418]
Nicolai was so taken aback by the entire proceedings that he let them lift him to the ground almost before he knew what was happening; and he was even more surprised when his father, giving him a pitying smile, swiftly mounted the stool and addressed the little crowd.
‘My friends, the fault is mine. I should have warned you.’ He looked a little embarrassed. ‘My poor son has been suffering from a nervous disorder. The doctors in Moscow recommended country air and heavy exercise. That is why he has been working in the fields.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It seems the treatment has not worked and the fits of delusion have returned.’ He raised his hand and let it fall, helplessly. ‘A family tragedy. We can only pray for his recovery in time.’ He turned politely to the elder. ‘Perhaps your men would help me get him back to the house?’
There was a moment’s pause. Had it worked?
‘We were going to arrest him, sir,’ the elder began, uncertainly.
‘My good man,’ Misha retorted sharply. ‘It’s not a policeman he needs but a doctor.’
The elder seemed to hesitate. The crowd looked confused. And then, dear Arina’s voice, a clearly audible cackle from just behind him: ‘He used to have those fits when he was a boy. I thought he’d growed out of them.’ Thank God she had taken her cue.
There was a murmur in the crowd. This explained it all: no wonder the young man’s behaviour had seemed eccentric. There were even one or two chuckles.
Only the village elder looked thoughtful. Quietly, now, he came to Misha Bobrov’s side. ‘I shall still have to report this to the police, sir,’ he said softly.
Misha looked at him. ‘That will not be necessary,’ he said calmly. ‘The boy needs rest. He’s quite harmless and I don’t want him agitated.’ Then, with a sidelong glance: ‘Come and see me tomorrow and we can discuss it.’
The elder nodded. They both understood that a little money would change hands. Moments later, two of his men were helping Bobrov and Timofei lead poor Nicolai away.
He went quietly. Indeed, he scarcely knew what else to do. The indifference of the peasants the first day had come as a shock, but the discovery that they were about to arrest him … He could scarcely believe it. And now, he thought miserably, they actually believe I’m mad. He hung his head. Perhaps I am. He had not himself realized the strain that the last few days had been. Now, suddenly, he felt strangely depleted: unable to do anything. Silently they all went up the slope.
It was when they were halfway to the house that Timofei Romanov was struck by a thought. He turned to Misha Bobrov.
‘The other young man, sir, with your son – the quiet one. Would he be a doctor then?’
At which Bobrov smiled grimly. ‘A sort of doctor. Yes,’ he muttered, ‘I suppose you could say that.’
An hour later, in the privacy of the house, Misha Bobrov was beside himself.
The two young men were standing before him. And they did not even seem to think they owed him an apology.
‘You sir,’ he addressed Popov, ‘I hold you equally responsible. Whatever your beliefs, you have abused my hospitality. As for you,’ he turned to Nicolai, ‘you have just incited the peasants to attack your own parents. Have you nothing to say?’
Nicolai looked pale and exhausted. As for Popov, it was impossible to know what he was thinking. The insolent young man seemed slightly bored.
‘You have both lied to me, too,’ Misha went on furiously, ‘with these stories about collecting folklore. Yet you dare to preach to me about morality!’ He glowered at them. ‘Well?’
Yet whatever response the landowner expected, it was not what he got.
For now Popov laughed. It was a dry, contemptuous sound.
‘Poor Mikhail Alexeevich.’ His voice was quiet, deadly. ‘What a fool you are.’ He sighed. ‘But you liberals are all the same. You talk about liberty and reforms. You praise your ridiculous zemstvos. And it’s all a lie – a dirty little