Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [450]
‘My dear friend.’ He seemed to envelop them all.
This impression was even more striking once they were inside. His big frame was encased in a beautifully cut coat that made his slight paunch seem only a fitting adjunct to his imposing chest. His large, square-cut face had just enough fleshiness to suggest controlled good living. His hair was thinning but cut short; his nose large but regular; his dark brown moustache and short beard perfectly manicured. Around his neck was a soft, grey silk cravat fixed with a large diamond pin. And about his person there was a faint and pleasant scent of eau de cologne.
Nicolai watched him, fascinated. Like all those who lived in St Petersburg, he had a slightly superior attitude to Moscow. Moscow was provincial, a place for merchants. In St Petersburg, Nicolai had moved in the best circles. He knew the men of the imperial court, cosmopolitan aristocrats. He knew nobles with great houses. Yet here was a man – grandson of one of the Bobrov serfs – who did not belong to these upper-class circles and yet who was, Nicolai sensed at once, even more cosmopolitan than they. He spoke Russian elegantly; by a few words he let fall, it was clear he spoke French. And in fact, though Nicolai did not then know it, Suvorin was comfortable in German and English too.
But what was this extraordinary aura that Suvorin had? He’s like a monarch, or an eastern potentate, Nicolai thought. His black eyes, set wide apart, seemed to possess a comprehensive intelligence; above all, there was about him an astonishing sense of comfort and of power. He has perfect manners, yet he says and does exactly as he likes, and everyone obeys him, Nicolai guessed. It was the first time he had met a member of that special group, the cosmopolitan very rich. For though aged only forty-one, Vladimir Suvorin had long ago grown accustomed to the pleasant idea that, if he chose, there was almost nothing he could not buy. This knowledge, when combined with intelligence and culture, could make even the grandson of a serf into a prince.
And so, at once, the great man took them all over. Nicolai he immediately treated as a trusted colleague. ‘Thank God you are here, Nicolai Mikhailovich.’ Towards old Misha he was both courteous and protective. ‘You have done so much, dear friend. It’s time to let the younger generation take some of the burden now. But I know you will keep an eye on us all.’ In two minutes, Nicolai felt proud to be swept into his orbit.
‘There is news from the provincial governor,’ he said. ‘The government will supply grain. It’s being shipped from the Ukraine and we shall have it in a month. As you know, we still have about eight weeks’ supply left. I am going myself to speak to the governor, to make sure there are no slip-ups. So all we have to do is keep everyone in good heart. Yes, thank you, chère Madame, I should love a glass of cordial.’ And he sat down amongst them comfortably.
During his visit, Nicolai learned a little about Suvorin. He had lost a wife, married again and had a son. Normally he liked to travel two months a year. He knew Paris as well as he did Moscow. He knew personally such artists as Renoir and Monet; he knew the great writer Tolstoy and had been down to his estate at Yasnaya Polyana. Tchaikovsky he also knew. ‘And his unfortunate wife,’ he added with a sigh. This was a glittering world of literary men, crowded salons, connoisseurship and judicious patronage – a world where high rank or extreme wealth were a passport to entry, as they are everywhere, but where only talent and excellence were tolerated. It was clear that, on top of this, Suvorin was a formidable man of business. Nicolai also, learned much about the work that the zemstvos had done in the last few months. ‘Without men like your father,’ Suvorin told