Russka (121 page)

If the village was deceived, however, Arina was not. She said nothing, but she knew very well that Nicolai wasn’t ill. As for Popov: What is he up to, that evil one? she would ask herself. As the days went by, Arina several times confided to her daughter: ‘Something bad’s going to happen, Varya.’ But when asked what, she could only shake her head and say: ‘I don’t know.’

Perhaps, she realized, it was her own family troubles that gave her a sense of foreboding. Things were looking bad for the Romanovs. Young Boris and his wife were gone, and already she could see the strain was telling on Timofei. All alone now, the peasant’s simple face looked pale and abstracted, as if he were suffering pain. The money Natalia brought from the factory was a help, but there was something about the girl recently which made Arina wonder if she was reliable. I don’t like the look of her, she thought. She’ll run away or do something stupid. Varya’s pregnancy was not agreeing with her either. She was looking pale and unwell; and once when the two of them had gone into the woods to pick mushrooms, and the younger woman had tripped on a root and fallen face down on the ground, she had just lain there instead of getting up and moaned: ‘This baby’s going to kill me, Mother. I know it.’

As she considered these matters, it seemed clearer than ever to Arina that when it was born, the baby must be disposed of. It’s easier to be hard when you get old, she considered. You see things as they are. And if anything confirmed her in this view, it was the
interview which took place between Natalia and the family one evening.

Natalia was rather proud of herself when she made the announcement.

In a way, she had reason to be: for her courtship of Grigory had been successful.

Right up to the end, it had been hard work. His reluctance and shyness had remained a constant challenge. Overcoming them had become a game she played with herself each day, and even Natalia was not fully aware how much this game had turned into an obsession. How slowly they had progressed from that first kiss, as she patiently cultivated the small flower of his trust and affection; how hesitantly it had grown from the cold, bare ground of his barren life. And what a sense of excitement it gave her to hold his small, bony form in her arms and feel him gradually spring into life. What was it, this result of her careful labours? Was it love? Was it affection? She supposed that, being life where before there was nothing, it must be. Above all, it gave her a strange and wonderful sense of possession. This, she thought, is mine. And since the completion of this process, the flowering, must be marriage, it seemed to her that when that took place, it would be the solution to everything.

As for Grigory, he allowed himself to be persuaded. Gradually, their innocent embraces became, for him, full of a new excitement. As his confidence grew he began to want, urgently, to explore her body and to possess her. And since she would only let him go so far, he understood well enough that they must be married if this new world of wonder was to be opened and revealed to him. All right then, I’ll do it and have her, he thought. We’ll get married.

And what then? He would lie with her. Her whole body would be his. The thought had become so thrilling that it made him laugh. What else would happen? He could hardly see beyond this except for one thing. As soon as we’re married, I’ll hit her in the face and give her a beating, he thought. That way I’ll be master in my own house. It wasn’t much, but it was the only thing he knew about marriage.

So it was that, one sunny evening, Natalia told her parents the good news. Now that Grigory had proposed, she felt such a sense
of achievement that she almost forgot that they might not be pleased. It was a shock, therefore, when instead of smiling, her father went pale and then roared: ‘Never!’

‘But why?’ she stammered, taken aback.

‘Why? Because he’s a penniless factory labourer, that’s why! He hasn’t a yard of land. He hasn’t a horse. He’s got nothing but the clothes on his back! What the devil do you mean by asking me to accept such a son-in-law?’ He pounded his fist on the table. Then, turning to his wife: ‘Varya, Varya. First the child; then my son leaves; now this. What the devil am I supposed to do?’ And he buried his face in his hands.

Natalia looked at her mother. She too was pale, and shaking her head. ‘But he could help us,’ she explained, and told them her plan for having Grigory live with them. ‘It would mean we’d get his wages too.’

But after only a short pause her father went on, with a groan: ‘Yes, and then you’ll produce a brat of your own, and then where will we be?’

‘There are young men in the village who’d have you, you know,’ Varya said gently. ‘It’s better if you have your own place, Natalia. You’d find that out quite soon.’

‘You’re not to see this boy any more,’ Timofei interrupted. ‘I ought to take you back from that cursed factory, except …’ He threw up his hands helplessly. Except that he couldn’t afford to.

There, they all knew, lay the real point. But it was only because she was hurt that Natalia suddenly decided it was time to speak the truth.

‘The fact is,’ she said quietly, ‘that you don’t want me to marry at all because you need me here to support you. As for your talk of finding me a peasant with land, you can’t give me any dowry, so who’d have me? The boys in this village have enough girls to choose from. But I shall get married, whether you like it or not – and Grigory is the best chance you’ve got.’ It was humiliating, but true. She turned to walk out.

‘You’re only fifteen. I can refuse my consent,’ Timofei shouted after her. ‘I forbid you to see him.’

She went outside and started to walk out of the village. Only when she got to the river bank did she start to cry.

Inside the
izba
, Timofei put his head in his hands, Varya shook her head sadly, and Arina, who had said nothing, looked
thoughtful and grim. She was sure of it now. Whatever happened, there was no room for this baby.

How easy it was, Popov discovered, to go about his business unmolested. With his hat and his sketch book – and his careful references to Nicolai’s malady – no one seemed to suspect him of anything. It excited no suspicion if he loitered in Russka market, sketching. Even old Savva Suvorin had seen him near the cotton mill, and done no more than give him a bleak stare. And this last was important to Popov. For he was starting to make remarkable progress.

There was no question: young Grigory was a wonderful find. Who’d have suspected, Popov thought, that a chance encounter would lead to such a treasure? The fellow was intelligent, quick: and above all, he was bitter. He has judgement, Popov considered. He wouldn’t do anything rash like Nicolai Bobrov or Peter Suvorin. But no one who had heard Grigory speak his true mind about old Savva Suvorin and his factories could be in any doubt: if he needed to, he would kill. It seemed to Popov that there might be an important future awaiting Grigory – perhaps even a great one.

The girl was not bad, either. Natalia didn’t have her young man’s cold fire. But she was a rebel too, with a mind of her own. She hated the old order. And it appeared that she was determined to marry young Grigory. They’ll make a good team, Popov judged. He could see himself working with them for a long time, as things developed.

For the moment, however, until he was sure he could trust them, he was cautious. Though it was clear that Grigory would gladly burn down the factories and slit Suvorin’s throat, if he thought he could get away with it. Popov kept their conversations general. He would speak vaguely about the better order that was to come; he dropped faint hints about his friend Nicolai Bobrov’s connection with the mysterious Central Committee; he told them that he himself was only a new disciple of the cause. ‘Bobrov hasn’t told me much, and unfortunately he’s sick,’ he explained. And so, over two weeks, he found out far more about them than they did about him.

It was on the day after Natalia’s quarrel with her parents, when they were meeting in the storeroom where he had hidden away the printing press, that Popov told them in a confidential tone: ‘I have
a message for you from Bobrov. He is impressed with what he hears of you and he wants to entrust you with a mission.’ He paused and, seeing they were interested, lowered his voice. ‘There is someone else in Russka who has contacts with the Central Committee. Tomorrow he will give you some leaflets, which you are to distribute selectively – to people you can trust – in the factories and in the village.’ He looked at them carefully. ‘But one thing is of the greatest importance. You must not speak to this person, and you must never reveal his identity to anyone.’ He looked grave. ‘The Committee knows how to deal with those who betray them.’

He could see they were impressed.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll do it,’ Grigory said with a grin.

It was the next day that young Peter Suvorin went to a quiet place near the dormitory where Grigory lived and, finding the young man and Natalia waiting there, gave them a package wrapped in plain white paper.

Peter followed his instructions precisely. He had no idea what the package contained. He spoke no word to Grigory or the girl; nor did they address him. But as he left the astonished couple, his heart was singing.

As well it might. For hadn’t Popov told him that this Grigory was in touch with the Central Committee? And were not these – the very young people who had good reason to hate and despise him – now his comrades? He was accepted. He was breaking free of his terrible inheritance at last. For the first time in weeks, he smiled.

Boris gazed at his sister with affection, and also with guilt. They had found a quiet spot by the river where they would not be disturbed, and only as they sat down did he suddenly realize that weeks had passed since they had last been alone like this.

Was it all his fault? When he and his wife had not asked her to live with them, they had not meant to desert her. But somehow they had always been so busy in the last few weeks. As he thought about it now it occurred to him: She must have felt so alone. Was that why she was running after this Grigory?

He listened carefully, though, as she poured her heart out to him. ‘I won’t let them stop me,’ she told him. ‘I’m going to marry.’
And, finally, his heart sank when she said: ‘They may not like Grigory, but when I get pregnant by him they won’t have much choice, will they?’

‘Do you love him?’ Boris asked.

‘Of course I do.’

He said nothing, but he was not convinced.

If only, it seemed to Boris, they had more money. Then his sister would not have had to work in the factory, and she could have had a husband from the village. And who had made everything so difficult? He had, by moving out. If I’d realized, he thought, maybe I’d have acted differently. Yes, he was to blame, and money was the problem. But what could he do now? I’ll think of something, he promised himself.

He put his arm around her. ‘Don’t do anything unless you’re sure,’ he said. And the two of them remained that way for some time, enjoying their renewed intimacy and the peace of the little river.

Boris was surprised therefore when, after about twenty minutes, Natalia suddenly reached into her shirt and pulled out a leaflet. ‘Read this,’ she said, with a faint smile.

It was a remarkable document: brief and to the point. Using some of the same phrases that Nicolai Bobrov had employed, it urged the peasants to prepare for the coming day when a revolution would usher in the new world. It was aimed at the landlords, of course, but it was particularly scathing about the new class of exploiters, the factory owners like Suvorin, ‘who use you worse than animals’. These were the people who must be utterly destroyed, the leaflet said. ‘Organize,’ it urged. ‘Be ready.’ It was a telling composition, and as he read it, Boris’s heart sank.

‘Where did you get this?’

‘Never mind.’

‘But this is dangerous, Natalia.’

‘I thought you were in favour of the revolution. That’s what you said to Nicolai Bobrov.’

‘I want more land. But this,’ he shook his head. ‘This is different. You stay out of it. You could get in a lot of trouble.’ Then, as she only shrugged: ‘Did Nicolai Bobrov give you this?’

‘No.’

‘Who then?’

‘You’d never guess in a million years.’

‘Promise me you’ll drop all this.’

‘I promise nothing. But keep quiet yourself. Don’t tell anyone I showed it to you.’

‘You can be sure of that.’ He had a sudden thought. ‘Is this Grigory in this business with you? Did he get you into this?’

‘Maybe yes, maybe no. Maybe I got him into it.’

He handed the leaflet back to her.

‘I never saw this, Natalia. You burn them if you’ve any more.’ And he got up.

It was his fault, he knew it: his fault that his sister had gone to that accursed factory; that she had decided to marry Grigory; and that now she was getting mixed up in God knew what danger. He must do something – if only he knew what.

Savva Suvorin was a thorough man. When he walked around the workshops each day, his sharp old eyes missed nothing, and he was proud of the fact that he never used spies. True, his foreman told him everything that was going on. ‘But only because they’re afraid I’ll find it out anyway,’ he would say. And no doubt by some similar logic, he was informed about everything that passed in the village of Bobrovo too.

Savva was also in a good temper. Two weeks before, he had been seriously worried about his grandson. The boy had become so morose and moody that both Savva and his wife had feared for his health. But just in the last few days, for some reason, a change had come over Peter: his face had cleared; he seemed to be taking an interest in life again; he was almost cheerful. ‘I dare say,’ old Maria said, ‘it took him a while to get used to things here, after the big city.’ And Savva looked forward to better days.

It was one morning, just three days after the change in Peter, that he noticed young Grigory pass a piece of paper to a fellow worker. At first, he thought nothing of it. When he happened to see the man slip the paper under his machine a little while later, he still did not imagine it could be anything important. And it was only idle curiosity that made him push his stick under the machine that evening, pull out the paper, and so discover one of Popov’s leaflets.