Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [433]
Nor was the child ever aware of another minor event that had taken place just a week after winter ended.
It was the habit of Misha Bobrov, each spring, to sort out his papers. Since this was a yearly event, there were always plenty to sort. Letters, notes he had made to himself, memoranda from zemstvo officials, unpaid bills … the papers accumulated on the big table in his study, on top of the books that lined the walls, and in the drawers of his desk. He enjoyed this business: it allowed him to survey the previous year of his life and, proceeding in a leisurely fashion, the review often took him three or four days. The letters, in particular, he liked to read over; and many of these he would then tie up with ribbon and store in boxes in the attic. When his wife suggested this was a waste of time he would calmly reply, ‘You never know,’ and continue happily with his work.
There had been much to read and ponder this last year. He had even considered writing up an account of the extraordinary events of the last summer. How strange and interesting for Nicolai’s grandchildren to read about one day, he had thought. However, he had put this task off for the time being – ‘until I’m not so busy’ – and so the only memorial of those days amongst the papers was the letter from Peter Suvorin which Popov had given him. I must certainly keep that, Misha considered. After all, one never knew when it might come in handy against the Suvorins in the future. And since the strange document did not belong with anything else, he tied a piece of red ribbon round it, labelled it ‘Suvorin Fire’, and put it up in the attic with the other letters.
It was the day after he had finished this task that he received an unexpected visitor – young Boris Romanov. The landlord had not seen the young peasant for some time and was surprised that he was not accompanied by his father; but he had him shown into his study, smiled at him pleasantly enough, and enquired: ‘Well, Boris, what is it?’
The speech that Boris had prepared was so slow and convoluted that at first Misha could not make out what he wanted; but there was a look of sullen awkwardness on the peasant’s face that made the landowner uneasy. Carefully Boris reminded him of the family’s poverty, their need for more land, and their loyalty to the Bobrovs. Then, finally, he came to the point. ‘I was thinking about last summer, sir,’ he said.
So that was it. Misha was cautious. ‘Well?’
‘We had an agreement then, sir. About helping my father and giving my sister a dowry.’ Still Misha said nothing. ‘My sister’s dead now, sir.’
‘God rest her soul.’
‘But as you know, we have a new baby in the family.’ He looked at the floor. ‘So I wondered if you could see your way to helping us like you said, sir? Natalia’s dowry could go to the baby Arina, you see.’
Misha gazed at him thoughtfully. In truth, the young man’s speech had touched a raw nerve. Since that terrible night the previous summer, no word had ever been spoken about the evil bargain he had made with the Romanovs; after all, the murder had not taken place, poor Natalia had died, and Misha had tried to blot the whole episode from his mind. Apart from some help with his repayments, Misha had not thought it necessary to give any substantial sum of money to Timofei Romanov, nor had the peasant dared to ask. Yet more than once Misha had secretly thought to himself: It’s we, really, who brought misfortune on the Romanovs. I ought to do something for them one day. Young Boris’s suggestion of a present of money for the child appealed to him. Perhaps, quite soon, he would give one … And because he was turning the matter over in his mind, he did not trouble, at first, to reply