Russka (128 page)

He noticed Ulyanov look at Popov questioningly, and saw
Popov answer with a little shrug. But nobody said anything. A few moments later, Ulyanov got up and left them for a while.

‘There’s an interesting man,’ Popov remarked pleasantly, after he had gone. ‘Where does he come from?’

‘Nowhere important: a small provincial town in the east, on the Volga. He actually owns an estate there – just a small one with a few poor peasants.’ Popov smiled wryly. ‘So he’s both a landowner and noble, technically. Don’t you recognize his name?’

Nicolai mentioned the student who was executed.

‘Exactly. This man’s his brother. The whole family were devastated at the time, of course. Vladimir was very shaken.’

‘He wouldn’t get mixed up in a plot like that himself?’

Popov grinned. ‘Vladimir Ilych is a lot more cautious.’

Nicolai commented on the lawyer’s Asiatic looks and Popov nodded. ‘You’re right. Actually, on the mother’s side I believe he’s part German and part Swedish; but the father’s family are Asiatic, certainly. They were Chuvash tribesmen.’

Of course. He should have guessed from the hair. The Chuvash were an old tribe of Asiatic origin, settled on the Volga, who frequently had reddish hair. ‘I was sure he wasn’t Russian,’ Nicolai said.

‘No. Actually, I doubt if he’s got a single drop of Russian blood in his veins.’

‘And what’s your interest in him?’ Nicolai asked.

For a moment, Popov only gazed at him blandly, saying nothing. Then, very quietly, he murmured: ‘I will tell you this, Nicolai, whatever this fellow may be, I have never met any man like him before.’

Just then, Ulyanov returned and this interesting discussion had to end. Nicolai was rather sorry. He had just been becoming curious about the quiet Chuvash lawyer-landowner. But any sense of disappointment he had was soon forgotten as Popov turned back to him and remarked with a faintly ironic smile: ‘So, Nicolai Mikhailovich, you were asking about the revolution.’

In after years it always seemed to Nicolai that the hour that followed was the most interesting he had ever spent in his life.

Popov spoke quietly, and well. Though from time to time Nicolai recognized flashes of the cold, conspiratorial fellow he had known in his student days, it soon became clear that Popov had developed into something broader since then – a man of
larger ideas. A few details of his personal life also emerged. He had been married, but his wife had died. He had been sent to Siberia for three years and spent another year in prison. He had visited a number of European countries, including Britain.

Nicolai knew that, over the years, quite a number of Russian radicals had had to leave and live abroad. He had some idea of their life: constantly on the move, often travelling with forged papers and different identities; agitating, attending revolutionary conferences, writing articles for illegal journals smuggled into Russia; picking up a meagre living by tutoring and translating, or borrowing from sympathizers, or possibly stealing. It was hard not to pity this state of rootless wandering. Such people, it seemed to Nicolai, became trapped in a tiny, conspiratorial world, dedicated by sheer force of habit to the service of an idealized revolution which, quite probably, would never come.

Yet now, as he listened to Popov, it soon became clear to Nicolai that his former friend knew far more about the world than he did. Popov gave him an account of the radical movements in Western Europe, from the workers’ trades unions to the revolutionary political parties. How sophisticated they sounded, compared to anything in Russia. He gave an amusing account of some of the exiled revolutionaries abroad. But above all, as the cosmopolitan Popov explained the European situation, there was something else that struck Nicolai even more forcibly. It was his certainty.

For whereas, when he was young, Nicolai remembered men speaking of revolution and a new world order as articles of faith, he noticed that Popov now spoke in a very different manner, as if everything that was passing were part of some concrete, historical process that he well understood. When he expressed this thought, Popov smiled.

‘Of course. Have you not read Karl Marx?’

Nicolai had heard of Marx, and tried to remember what he knew. The fellow was a German Jew who had lived a long time in England and died a few years ago; an economist and a revolutionary. And there had been a disciple who was still active: Engels. But the works of these formidable men were only just beginning to appear in Russia and Nicolai had to confess he had read nothing.

The theories of Marx, Popov explained, derived from the great German philosopher, Hegel, propounded at the start of the
century. ‘And no doubt you remember the great world system of Hegel from your student days, don’t you?’ Popov chided.

‘I think so.’ Nicolai searched his mind. Yes, he did remember. ‘It was called the Dialectic,’ he said.

‘Exactly. The Dialectic. That is the key to everything.’

Nicolai remembered it all now – Hegel’s beautiful, cosmic system which showed that the world was progressing towards an ultimate state of perfection: the Absolute. And the process for getting there? It was all done in stages – a seemingly endless clash of ideas, but each clash marking a step forward. Thus a Thesis – one seeming truth – met its opposite or Antithesis. And from the two emerged a new idea: Synthesis – better than the idea before, but still imperfect. And so the Synthesis would now become Thesis, and the whole business start again. Normally, Nicolai recalled, each Thesis collapsed because it had some flaw, some inner contradiction. Thus, for instance, men had thought the earth was flat – until the evidence contradicted what at first had seemed obvious. Then they supposed the earth was the centre of the universe with the sun circling round it – until this too was shown to be false. He liked the Dialectic: it suggested progress. It was compelling.

‘And the greatest master of the Dialectic was Karl Marx,’ Popov stated. ‘For by it he has explained the whole history of mankind – and its future too,’ he added.

Marxism: Nicolai listened, fascinated, as Popov outlined the system. ‘Only matter exists,’ he began. ‘That is the great truth that underlies everything. Hence the name we give Marx’s system: Dialectical Materialism.

‘For it’s the material means of production that determines everything,’ he expounded. ‘How we feed ourselves, clothe ourselves, how we extract minerals from the earth and manufacture. Man’s whole consciousness, his society, his laws, all derive from this economic structure. And in every society to date there are two classes fundamentally: the exploiters and the exploited. Those who own the means of production and those who sell their labour.’

‘And the Dialectic?’

‘Why, the class struggle – that’s the Dialectic. Think of it. In feudal Europe, who held the land? The nobles. And the exploited peasants worked it. But gradually that structure fell apart. A new
world arose: the bourgeois world which has led to full-scale capitalism. Now the exploiters are the factory owners and the exploited are the workers – the proletariat. Thesis and Antithesis.’

‘And the Synthesis?’

‘The Synthesis is the revolution. The workers take over the means of production. Capitalism destroys itself and we enter the new age. It’s quite inevitable.’

‘What happens in the new age?’

‘First Socialism. The workers’ state owns the means of production. Later we progress to perfect Communism where the state, as we know it, will not even be needed.’

‘So we are still progressing towards the new world we dreamed of as students?’

Popov nodded. ‘Yes. But our mistake back in ’74 was to try to make a revolution with the peasants. The revolution can only come from the proletariat. And the big difference is that now, thanks to Marx, we know what we’re doing. We have a framework.’ He tapped his finger on the table. ‘The revolution has become scientific.’

Though Nicolai was not sure he understood perfectly, he was impressed. ‘Are there many Marxists in Russia?’ he asked.

Popov shook his head. ‘Only a few so far. The leader of Russian Marxism is Plekhanov, and he mostly lives in Switzerland.’ He reeled off a few more names, none of which meant anything to Nicolai.

‘And what does all this tell us about the revolution in Russia?’ Nicolai asked. ‘How and when will it come?’

Popov gave a wry grin. ‘Sometimes, Nicolai Mikhailovich, it seems there are as many opinions as revolutionaries.’ Then he grew serious. ‘Briefly, however, there are two views.

‘Consider,’ he went on. ‘Formal Marxism says that everything happens in its proper time. First an agricultural, feudal economy, then a bourgeois state. From this capitalism develops, becomes more and more centralized and oppressive until finally it collapses. The workers break their chains: the Socialist revolution takes place. A clear and logical sequence.

‘Now Russia,’ he explained, ‘is still primitive. She has only just entered the bourgeois stage of development. Her proletariat is small. If we had a revolution of our own, it would probably be like the French Revolution – throw out the monarchy and leave the
bourgeoisie in charge. Only Europe can have a Socialist revolution, and then – maybe – Russia could become absorbed into the new world order Europe will create.’

‘So, the revolution can’t start in Russia?’

‘According to classical Marx – no. But as I said, there are two views. The other – which even Marx himself admitted was possible – is this.

‘What if Russia is a special, a unique, case? Consider, Nicolai: a rotten autocracy; a weak noble class completely dependent on the Tsar and with no economic power of its own; a small middle class, hardly developed; and a peasantry traditionally organized in communes. Nothing like England or Germany at all, therefore; a brittle, out-dated regime. Maybe Russia could have a sudden revolution that would move directly to some kind of primitive Socialism after all. No one knows.’

Nicolai listened, fascinated. ‘And what do you think?’ he asked.

Popov shrugged. ‘I’ve no faith in the peasants, as you know. I believe the main doctrine of Marx – Russia must first pass through a bourgeois and capitalist state. The proletarian revolution can only follow after that.’

‘So you don’t think the revolution will begin here?’

‘I’m sure it won’t.’

During all this time, Nicolai had noticed that Ulyanov had been content to say nothing, though once or twice, when Popov had been talking of Marx, the lawyer had nodded in agreement. Now however he spoke, very quietly.

‘Marxism is clearly correct. But we should remember, Marx was also a revolutionary, and revolution is a practical as well as theoretical business.’ He nodded to Popov. ‘Russia is immensely backward, of course, but industry is developing rapidly now. The proletarian class is growing. The basic Marxist conditions for revolution may exist in Russia in our lifetimes. And then – this is the key – the proletariat will need to be educated and led. You’ll need a trained cadre at the centre, otherwise it won’t work.’ It was said quietly, yet with certitude. Clearly, when this lawyer gave his considered opinion, he did not expect it to be questioned.

Nicolai studied Ulyanov. A revolutionary cadre: the leaders or the new men, as he and Popov used to call themselves years ago. And suddenly remembering the arguments with his own father in
those days, he asked the strange-looking fellow: ‘Tell me – your cadre: should it use any means to promote the revolution?’

The lawyer stroked his beard thoughtfully.

‘I should say yes.’

‘Including terrorism?’

‘If it’s useful,’ Ulyanov responded calmly, ‘why not?’

‘I just wondered,’ Nicolai said.

The conversation moved on after this, to other things. Nicolai tried to find out a little more about what Popov was doing, but soon gave up, and shortly afterwards Ulyanov announced that he felt tired and would retire to his carriage.

It was just before they parted, however, that one scrap of conversation occurred which, for some reason, always stuck in Nicolai’s mind afterwards. They had been discussing the famine, and he had told them about his father’s letter. ‘It’s quite true,’ Popov told him. ‘Things are terrible in the central provinces.’

And then Ulyanov spoke.

‘It’s a great mistake,’ he remarked.

‘What is?’ Nicolai asked.

‘This attempt at famine relief. We should do nothing to help. Let the peasants starve. The worse things are, the more it weakens the tsarist government.’ It was said quite calmly, without any anger or malice, in a detached, matter-of-fact voice.

‘He’s been saying that all week,’ Popov laughed.

‘I am correct,’ the lawyer replied, in the same tone. And it occurred to Nicolai that it was this very lack of emotion which might make this curious Chuvash rather formidable.

They parted in a friendly manner. Nicolai supposed he might never see either of them again. And, formidable or not, he certainly had no premonition that the balding lawyer with the little reddish beard would ever place himself at the head of a revolution.

It is a favourite hobby of those who study Russian history to choose – each having his own theory – a particular year from which, he will argue, the Russian revolutionary process began, and was perhaps inevitable. ‘This was really the beginning,’ he or she will say.

For Nicolai Bobrov, however, there was not just a year, but a single day: a day on which a tiny domestic scene took place that was witnessed only by himself. And though he participated
afterwards in many of the great events that were seen on the stage of world history, it was to this small and unknown incident that he would always return in his mind and say: ‘That –
that
was the day when the revolution began.’

It took place some five months after the conversation in the train.

If Nicolai had wondered if his father might be exaggerating the difficulties at Russka, that suspicion died the day he arrived home.

The situation was desperate. The harvest of ’90 had been poor, not only at Russka, but down on the Bobrovs’ other estate in Riazan province too. In ’91 therefore, Misha Bobrov and his fellow members of the
zemstvo
board had tried to save the situation by urging the peasants to sow a mixed crop. ‘Extra potatoes,’ Misha had said. ‘Even if the cereals fail, there will be something to eat.’ But nothing had gone right. The entire potato crop had been blighted; every other crop had failed too. There had been nothing like it since the terrible year of 1839, and by autumn it was clear there would be famine.