Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [468]
‘I must dress now,’ she remarked briskly.
It promised to be an interesting evening. For these were certainly astonishing times.
Young Alexander Bobrov could only gasp. Of course, he had always known that his hero Suvorin was rich. ‘He’s a director of the Merchants’ Society and the Commercial Bank, you know,’ his father had explained. ‘He’s one of the elite.’ And his home matched his position, being one of the half-a-dozen former princely palaces which had, in recent decades, passed into the hands of the new merchant magnates like Suvorin who had supplanted them in power.
Since they had special business to conduct, they had come a little before the other guests, and now as they awaited their host, young Alexander stared round the huge room into which they had been shown.
It was very long, high and vaulted like a church. Down the centre, on an immense oriental carpet, ran a massive table covered with a green cloth upon which, he supposed, a hundred people could easily have stood. Above, huge brass chandeliers lit what would otherwise have been a cavernous gloom, and caused the golden patterns inlaid in the vaulting to glow. Around the sides of the room, stout upright chairs and tables of dark wood were lined. Heavy, opulent, almost oppressive, it was like the palace of some Tsar from ancient Muscovy. But most astonishing of all were the walls: the paintings were hung so densely that their frames touched. Russian scenes, Impressionists, historical paintings – their brilliant colours blazed out like new-made icons.
One of these, just above Alexander, especially caught his attention. It was a large historical picture of Ivan the Terrible. The mighty Tsar was standing in a long robe of gold brocade edged with fur; in his hand was a heavy staff, and his fearsome eyes were glaring down accusingly, straight at Nicolai Bobrov. As well they might, thought Alexander, considering his father’s disgraceful errand.
For Nicolai had come to sell the merchant his estate.
It wasn’t really his fault. He couldn’t hold out any longer. He was in good company too. Since the troubles began in the countryside last year, landowners all over Russia had been selling off. Suvorin, moreover, had offered him an excellent price for the place. ‘More than it’s worth,’ he reminded his furious son. But now, seeing the boy’s miserable face, he looked down awkwardly at the long table and muttered: ‘I’m sorry.’
Vladimir Suvorin did not keep them waiting long. He swept into the room with his lawyer, embraced Nicolai warmly, gave Alexander’s arm a friendly squeeze, and in a moment the papers were all on the table before them.
Suvorin was in a good mood. He had long considered having a country retreat near his factories at Russka. In recent years, also, he had become interested in Russian crafts. ‘I’m going to set up some workshops for woodcarving and pottery on the estate,’ he had told Nicolai. ‘And a little museum for folk art, too.’ Now, seeing the father and son standing gloomily before him, he understood perfectly what was passing in their minds.
‘Your father’s made a wise decision,’ he said firmly to Alexander. ‘Though I want the estate for my museum, I shan’t be able to make it pay any more than he could.’ He smiled. ‘All the wise men are selling, my friends, and only fools like me are buying.’ Turning back to Nicolai he remarked: ‘Naturally, my friend, I rather envy you. You’re free as a bird now. You should make a tour of Europe. All the Russians are doing it, and nobles like you are treated with great respect in Paris and Monte Carlo. You should show your son the world.’
But even these kindly words failed to draw a smile from Alexander. Not that he felt any resentment towards the industrialist – quite the reverse. All he knew was this: the Bobrovs had held estates as long as Russia had existed; his father, with his liberal ideas, had lost them. His father had failed in his duty. And looking with renewed admiration at Suvorin he thought once more: How I wish you were my father.
But now Vladimir was beckoning. ‘Enough