Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [506]
They were standing together by the window when he came into the room. Karpenko had obviously just said something amusing and she was laughing. How at ease they looked together. And then Karpenko had turned, and spoken.
What had the fellow said? The odd thing was, Alexander could hardly remember. Something like: ‘Here comes our warrior, Bobrov the bogatyr.’ Something harmless enough, though faintly mocking.
And he had lost his self-control.
‘As a Ukrainian, I wouldn’t know how you view this war,’ he had said coldly.
It was true, they both knew, that there were Ukrainians living in the Austrian empire, and also a small body of Ukrainian nationalists, who saw the coming war as a chance to liberate the Ukraine from Russian rule. There was talk of interning some of these. But it was also true that hundreds of thousands of Ukrainians were, even now, being mobilized in the Russian army. Karpenko went white.
‘Ukrainians are not traitors. We shall fight for the Tsar,’ he said quietly.
But, still bitter, and pleased for once to have put his adversary on the defensive, Alexander continued: ‘Really? And shall we see you in uniform? Or are you, perhaps, unwilling to face such danger?’
There was a terrible silence. The question was unfair because most students were exempt and most young men with powerful friends were speedily using them to get exemptions anyway. But this time he saw Karpenko blush.
But, oh, what stupidity.
‘I think that’s the most horrible thing to say.’ Nadezhda’s eyes were blazing. ‘And I think, Alexander Nicolaevich, that you should leave us now.’
What had he done? What idiocy had made him do it? Dare he go back? He must. ‘I can’t go away,’ he muttered, ‘leaving things like that.’
It was therefore with some nervousness that he slowly made his way towards the great Suvorin house.
Alexander Bobrov would have been surprised indeed had he known about a brief interview that had taken place just an hour before.
It was Mrs Suvorin who had made Karpenko do it. She had summoned him that morning. Their meeting had been brief but, though she had hardly been friendly, he had to admire the calm, matter-of-fact way she went about the business.
‘The girl’s in love with you,’ she said simply, ‘and it’s gone too far. You and I both understand what you must do.’
He stood a little awkwardly by a large, upright armchair. How did one manage these things? She was standing a few feet away from him, completely unsuspecting.
‘I think you know, Nadezhda, that I’m very fond of you,’ he began.
It was not so bad. He loved her and felt protective. He explained gently how much their friendship meant to him and led slowly towards his message. ‘In case, you see, I might inadvertently have misled you, there is something you should know.’ He paused. ‘Our friendship can never be more than that: a friendship.’
She had helped too. Though she went pale, she continued to look at him calmly. Now, however, she frowned.
‘You mean there’s someone else?’
‘Yes.’
‘I did not know. For a long time?’
‘Yes.’
She frowned again. ‘You’re not actually married, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps you will change.’
He looked sadly at the Turkey carpet on the floor. Then he shook his head.
‘My heart is engaged elsewhere,’ he said, and then felt embarrassed at such a ridiculous expression.
But she did not seem to notice.
‘Thank you for telling me,’ she said simply. ‘I think I’d like you to go now.’
To Dimitri Suvorin, both then and thereafter, that warm August afternoon had the quality of a dream.
Perhaps it was the dusty heat or the sullen grey-blue sky; perhaps it was the echoing bells or the chanting of the priests; or perhaps those medieval Russian masses moving timelessly