Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [484]
The industrialist smiled grimly as he summed up.
‘So the communal peasant does little for himself but waits for a miracle that will solve everything in the twinkling of an eye. Passive, but angry. He’d prefer decades of unnecessary suffering, followed by a moment of useless violence.’
Though Dimitri, coming from the Socialist household of Peter and Rosa, naturally knew that in his conservative politics his Uncle Vladimir was mistaken, he had a great respect for his intelligence and recognized the truth of much of what he said. And thinking of the revolution he knew one day must come, he asked: ‘So do you think Stolypin will fail, and the Tsar lose his throne?’
‘It isn’t clear to me,’ his uncle replied frankly, ‘but remember this: in 1905 we had a war and a food shortage. That’s what actually caused the revolution. My guess, therefore, is that in order to win the race, Stolypin needs two things: peace, and good harvests. That is what will really decide the fate of Russia. Nothing much else.’
Yet it would have been hard, that peaceful summer, to think for long about such serious matters.
It was a happy time. In the mornings, Karpenko would often go out to explore the countryside, or sketch, or devise fantastic games to amuse young Ivan and Nadezhda, who both seemed to look upon him as a god. Meanwhile, for three hours, Dimitri would practise the piano. He had concentrated on the piano now, to the near exclusion of the violin, and though he might lack the driven technical virtuosity of the professional performer, his playing was of a remarkable musical sophistication.
In the afternoons, if they were not swimming with Vladimir, they sat on the verandah and read books or played cards with Mrs Suvorin.
One day Vladimir had taken them round the factories at Russka. It had been an impressive tour. Dimitri had studied the factory workers with interest as they quietly went about their tasks; but Karpenko had been fascinated by the mechanism of the plant itself. ‘Such raw power,’ he whispered to Dimitri afterwards. ‘Did you notice the incredible, harsh beauty of the place? And your uncle – he’s in charge of this machine. I admire him more every day.’
Several times they had visited the monastery. And in the second week of June, Arina took them across the river and along the little path to the old springs, which utterly delighted Karpenko. ‘How Slavic!’ he cried. And then: ‘How pagan.’
The evenings Dimitri especially enjoyed. For sometimes, while the others laughed and talked in the library, he would quietly sit at the piano and try out his own tentative compositions. It was on these occasions that he discovered a new and extraordinary feature of his uncle’s character. For sometimes, as he was playing, he would be aware of Vladimir softly entering the room and sitting in the shadows. But often as not, when he came to a pause, his uncle would come over, gaze thoughtfully at the keys, and then in his rich baritone suggest: ‘Why don’t you try it this way?’ Or: ‘If you changed the rhythm here …’ And – this was the remarkable thing – Dimitri nearly always found that, unknown to himself, it had been what he wanted to express all along. ‘How do you know my mind like that?’ he would ask. ‘Am I composing, or are you?’ To which his uncle would reply, with a touch of sadness: ‘To some, Dimitri, it is given to create. To others, only to understand the creative act.’ And Dimitri could only marvel at this man, with whom he felt he was developing an even closer bond.
It was the day before he was due to leave that Karpenko drew Dimitri to one side and said: ‘Let’s go for a walk. Just the two of us.’
‘Where to?’
‘An enchanted place.’ He grinned. ‘The springs.’
Their walk was delightful. Karpenko was at his charming best, full of infectious laughter,