Russka (130 page)

‘If your father gets his health back, it’ll be thanks to that girl,’ Anna told her son. And indeed, Misha did seem to be gradually recovering his strength.

After three weeks Nicolai made a brief visit to St Petersburg to see his wife and children. Then he returned.

But there remained one huge problem: the promised grain supplies never arrived. ‘And I shan’t get well,’ old Misha declared, ‘until they do.’ Messengers were sent to the governor by the
zemstvo
and by Suvorin. Nicolai offered to return to St Petersburg to try to see certain high officials there. Every few days news came that the arrival of the grain was imminent, and everybody prepared. They still had a month’s supply in hand, then three weeks, then two.

It was in mid-February that the message came through to the local
zemstvo
. It was quite simple.

It was regretted that, owing to problems of transport and storage, the grain shipments previously notified would not be made.

And that was all.

‘Do they realize what this means?’ old Misha gasped from his
bed. ‘It means the people here are going to die. No one’s even caught a fish in the river for two weeks. Two-thirds of the livestock has gone. Our people will be finished. I can’t believe that even those fools in the bureaucracy would do such a thing.’

The news was round the whole area in hours. And when Nicolai went into the village that day, he was hardly shocked when Boris Romanov shouted at him: ‘So, the people in St Petersburg have decided to kill us – is that it? Do they want our carcasses for meat?’ Nor was he surprised that this was greeted by nods of approval from the other villagers.

A week passed. The peasants were sullen. Another week. Many of the grain stores were now empty. A silence descended upon the village.

And then, one morning, grain began to arrive.

It was an extraordinary sight, lines of sleds, arriving from God knew where: a dozen; two dozen; three dozen. It was like a supply train for a small army. The sleds made their way ponderously into Russka where, it seemed, Suvorin’s managers were ready to receive them at one of the warehouses. But a dozen of the sleds peeled off and made their way through the woods towards the village of Bobrovo. When they reached it, they continued up the slope to the house of Misha Bobrov; and as they approached, and people came to the windows of the house to watch them in astonishment, it could be seen that, riding in the front sled, was a large and powerful figure – a figure who, wrapped in furs, his face glowing in the icy air, for once truly did resemble a mighty Russian bear. And it was the bear-like Vladimir Suvorin who now, with a happy grin, got down from the sled, strode over to where Misha – so excited that he had insisted on leaving his bed – was standing wrapped in a blanket, and gave him a mighty, bear hug. ‘There, Mikhail Alexeevich, I’ve brought you and your village some grain. We can’t have my old friend going hungry.’

‘I told you he’d do it!’ Misha cried to his son and his wife. ‘I told you only Suvorin could pull it off. But how the devil,’ he remarked to the industrialist, ‘did you manage to prize it out of the governor, after they told us they had nothing?’

‘My dear friend, you don’t understand. The authorities have nothing. No one is being supplied.’

Misha frowned. ‘Then this?’

The other grinned again. ‘I bought it myself. My agents found it
and shipped it all the way from the south. It’s nothing to do with the authorities.’

For several seconds Misha was silent, unable to speak. Nicolai saw tears well up into the old man’s eyes. He held on to Suvorin’s sleeve, then muttered: ‘How can I thank you, Vladimir Ivanovich?’ And shaking his head: ‘What can I say?’

But it was after a moment’s thoughtful silence that Misha Bobrov suddenly made his extraordinary outburst. Throwing back his head, and gathering all his strength, he shouted out in a paroxysm of frustration, shame, and contempt: ‘Damn those people! Damn that governor! Damn the government in St Petersburg. I tell you, these people are useless to us. Let them give power to the local
zemstvos
since they are incompetent to govern themselves.’

He shouted it in front of the servants, the drivers, and several villagers. He did not seem to care. It came straight from his heart. Misha Bobrov, landowner, noble, liberal but loyal monarchist, was done with his government. So, Nicolai knew, were other landowners and
zemstvo
men all over the central provinces that winter of famine.

And so it was on this day, in after years, that Nicolai Bobrov would look back and murmur: ‘That was the start of the revolution.’

It was in early spring that the first outbreak began.

It started in the group of huts that straggled along the river bank below the little town of Russka. Why it should have started there no one knew. Perhaps because there was an old rubbish tip there – perhaps not.

At first, when several people suffered from diarrhoea, no one took much notice. But then, after two days, one man suddenly experienced a violent discharge from his bowels of whitish and yellowish matter, like whey. Shortly after, he vomited more of the same, then cried out that the pit of his stomach was on fire, and screamed for water. The next day he suffered acute cramps in the legs and his body started to turn blue. His eyes became so sunken he resembled a skeleton and when he spoke, his voice was only a hoarse whisper. When his wife tried his pulse, she could feel nothing. Just before the following dawn he died.

After his death, his body remained strangely warm for some
time. His wife said it had grown hotter. She also noticed that, well after death, the corpse suffered muscular twitches and spasms, which frightened her.

And within a few more hours, all Russka knew that cholera had arrived.

‘If we can just keep it out of the village.’ This was Misha Bobrov’s litany each day. ‘Of course,’ he would say, ‘if Russia was properly run, the whole area would be sealed off. There’d be a
cordon sanitaire
.’ But neither local nor provincial administration could attempt such a thing: people came and went. Thanks, however, to the efforts of the two Bobrovs and of Suvorin, a sort of informal quarantine was in force that seemed to be limiting the terrible cholera’s spread.

Indeed, their modest success was soon confirmed by a young doctor that the
zemstvo
managed to employ to help deal with the outbreak. ‘In other parts, it’s raging almost out of control,’ he said. ‘The famine has weakened everyone and made them terribly prone to diseases.’

It was not long before Nicolai had made himself extremely familiar with the disease. ‘It especially attacks the young and old,’ the doctor informed him. ‘The most serious cases usually seem to go straight to the white vomit and diarrhoea stage. They usually die in a day or two. There is one small comfort though,’ he added. ‘Generally, the bulk of the fatalities occur at the very start of the outbreak. So the first week or so is the worst. After that, many of them pull through.’

There were several dozen cases in the town, a few in the monastery, and several in the villages in the area. Nicolai greatly admired the way the young doctor went about his work. ‘Though the truth is, I can’t do much,’ he confessed. ‘The early stages I dose with opium or nitrate of silver; mustard flannels and chloroform for when they get the cramps. If they’re sinking and there’s a chance they might pull through, brandy or ammonia to give them a jolt back to life. And that,’ he said wryly, ‘is about it.’

The unfortunate doctor was soon short of everything. Once more, the central government promised medical supplies, but this time the Bobrovs did not even expect them to arrive – which they did not. ‘All my best brandy went in the first week,’ Misha said with a sad smile. Nicolai went to the provincial capital to get supplies but found none. In Moscow, however, Suvorin was able
to obtain some nitrate. And the young doctor worked without ceasing.

‘How do you avoid getting it yourself?’ Nicolai had asked him when they first met.

‘Some people believe it’s carried in the air,’ the doctor told him. ‘But I believe the chief cause of infection is through the mouth. Never drink water or eat food touched by someone with cholera. If you get vomit or any bodily fluid from sick people on your clothes, change and wash yourself very thoroughly before you eat or drink anything. I don’t say it’s foolproof, but I haven’t got cholera yet.’

And though Nicolai several times accompanied the young doctor to places where the disease was raging, he carefully followed this advice and came to no harm.

A week passed. A second. A third. And still the cholera did not spread to the village of Bobrovo. Strangely enough also, while the rest of the world was trembling before the sickness, Misha Bobrov was getting his strength again. He would often walk out now with his wife or young Arina and stroll in the woods above the house. It was pleasant, too, for the old man and his son to come to know each other better again. Indeed, it nowadays caused Nicolai some amusement to remark to his friend the doctor: ‘Do you know, since he turned against the government, my old father’s far more radical than I am. I thought it was supposed to be the other way round!’

Gradually the deaths from the disease grew less, the new cases fewer. After a month it seemed to have subsided. ‘You’ve been lucky,’ the doctor told them. ‘And I’ve just been asked to go to another bad spot over by Murom. Goodbye.’

Soon afterwards, in mid-May, Nicolai decided it was time for him to return to St Petersburg. ‘I’ll be back in July,’ he promised his parents. ‘And if there’s no more sign of cholera in the region, I’ll bring all the family to see you.’ It was with a considerable sense of relief, therefore, that he set out once more for the capital.

He did not go alone. To their surprise, the Bobrovs had discovered that young Arina had always wanted to see the capital. And since Misha was now recovered, and Nicolai’s wife had written to say she had need of a temporary nanny for their children, it was agreed that young Arina should accompany Nicolai and remain with his family for the summer. The girl seemed delighted.

And if, just before leaving, she had had an unpleasant interview with her brother Boris, she kept it to herself.

It was three days after they had left that old Timofei Romanov showed signs one afternoon of being ill. Within an hour he was vomiting a whitish substance with little rice-like grains in it.

He had cholera. It had gone straight to the second, deadly stage.

By the time darkness fell, he was in agony. By morning he was transformed. The terrible discharges had left his body wracked and almost purple. His eyes were hollow caverns; the pallor of death was upon him. His wife and old Arina, who had changed his sodden clothes a dozen times already, stood in the pale light of dawn and gazed at him mournfully. The old fellow’s eyes were staring, sometimes at them, sometimes at the little icon in the corner; but he could no longer utter. Once, with a huge effort, he managed to smile, as if to tell them that he was resigned.

Misha Bobrov was surprised early that morning to find Boris Romanov at his door. He could not remember when the surly and suspicious fellow had last been up to the house. But today he seemed polite, almost friendly.

‘I’m afraid, sir,’ he explained, ‘it’s bad news. My father.’ And he told Misha the details.

‘My God.’ So, just when he thought they had been spared, the plague had come to Bobrovo after all. Thank God I’m fit enough to deal with the crisis, Misha thought, and immediately gave orders to send for a doctor and warn the people in Russka about the outbreak.

He was rather surprised, a few minutes later, to find young Boris still hanging around.

‘The fact is, sir,’ the younger man explained, ‘he’s asking for you. He wants to say goodbye.’ And just for a moment, Misha saw tears form in Boris’s pleading eyes. ‘He won’t last the day,’ he said simply.

Misha hesitated. He could not help himself. The fact was, he had no desire to go into a house where there was cholera. I can’t afford to get it myself, he thought. There’s too much to do. But immediately he felt ashamed. God knows, I ask the doctor to do it. Besides, I’ve known old Timofei all my life.

‘Of course,’ he said. And put on his coat.

How confoundedly hot it was in the Romanov
izba
. There was a suffocating smell, despite the fact that a window had been opened.

There before him lay his childhood playmate Timofei – or what was left of him. Poor devil. It seemed his mind might have wandered a bit, for he now gazed at Misha with a kind of astonishment; but it was hard to know what was in his mind since the old man could not speak. My God, but he’s the same age as me, Misha remembered. He looked a hundred. Well, now I’m here, I must go through with it.

He glanced round the room. Despite everything, old Arina and her daughter had kept it spotlessly clean. The floor had been scrubbed recently, and the table. Timofei lay in clean bedclothes by the stove. The morning light was streaming in through the window. He glanced at the little icon in the corner, taking what comfort he could from it. Boris offered to take his coat: the heat felt a little less oppressive once it was off. But though they offered him a chair, he preferred to stand, some distance away from the patient, and was careful not to touch anything. And now dear old Timofei was trying to smile.

Misha spoke what words of comfort he could. To his surprise, he did not find it so difficult. He recalled times past, people they had known, and the gentle old peasant seemed to receive pleasure from it. Boris, with a grateful smile, slipped out of the room for a minute. It was strange how, in the presence of death, foolish antagonisms could disappear.

Boris moved swiftly and quietly. He could hardly believe how easy the whole thing had been. His father had looked so surprised to see the landowner that for a second Boris had feared Misha might guess that the old man had not sent for him at all, but he had not; all was well. Now he slipped across the passageway into the open storeroom opposite.

The bedclothes and three of his father’s shirts were lying in a corner where they had been thrown a short time ago. Old Arina said they should burn them but no one had had time yet. Carefully he opened out Misha Bobrov’s coat, and laid it on the pile. Then he turned it over and did it again, gently pressing the coat down. He repeated this, making sure that the coat was thoroughly impregnated. Then, with a look of polite respect on his face, he went back into the room, carrying the coat carefully.