Russka (135 page)

Three children had been born to Rosa, but only one had lived: Dimitri, a dark-haired little boy three years Nadezhda’s senior. They had first met one Christmas when Nadezhda was three, and had at once taken a liking to each other. Since the girl constantly asked for him, Dimitri was frequently invited, although for some reason Mrs Suvorin never cared to let her daughter go to her cousin’s modest house. But it seemed to please her to see the children together and she would say to Rosa, with obvious sincerity: ‘It’s so nice for Nadezhda to have another child to play with.’

But tonight Mrs Suvorin had been positively anxious to see the Marxist professor. ‘He is my link to all these people on the far left,’ she had said to her husband. ‘And I think it’s time I came to understand them better.’

She knew a little about the Social Democrats. She was aware that they had split, in recent years, into two camps, the smaller of which was the more extreme. ‘With typical Russian confusion,’
Vladimir had remarked, ‘the majority call themselves the little party, and the minority call themselves the big party – the Bolsheviks.’ Mrs Suvorin was sure that kindly Peter must belong to the less extreme majority, but she was curious about the Bolsheviks, and a few days before had asked him: ‘Do you know any of these fellows? What are they like? Could you bring one to our house?’ To which Peter had replied: ‘I do know such a man who’s in Moscow at present. But I don’t suppose he’d come.’ ‘Ask him anyway,’ she had requested, which Peter had done.

Nicolai Bobrov was curious to meet Peter Suvorin, whom he only vaguely remembered from his youth; and the two men found they liked each other. ‘We Cadets,’ Bobrov assured him, ‘are going to oppose the Tsar all the way until he gives us a real democracy.’

‘We both want that,’ Peter agreed pleasantly. ‘But we want democracy to usher in the revolution, and you want it to avoid the revolution!’ In answer to Nicolai’s further question he gave his opinions of the future freely. ‘The workers’ organization will be the key to everything now,’ he explained. ‘And the Marxist’s job is to keep them political, committed to a Socialist revolution when the time is ripe.’

‘Who will do that?’ Bobrov asked.

‘In the western provinces, the Jewish workers’ organization, the Bund,’ Peter answered. He was sorry that his earlier efforts to persuade the eager young Jewish reformers not to follow their own path had failed. But he could not deny that the Jewish Bund had been solid and strong in the months of crisis; and they were good Marxists.

‘And in the rest of Russia?’

Peter smiled. ‘The new workers’ committees. They got started last year and they’re very effective. Political cells in every city. They’re the answer.’

‘What do you call them?’ Nicolai asked.

‘We call them Soviets,’ the professor replied.

Nicolai shrugged. It seemed to him that if the Duma did its work well, these Soviets would soon be forgotten.

While they talked, he found himself, from time to time, watching his host and hostess as they moved in their separate paths about the room. There was no doubt about it, they were very good at managing these things. Mrs Suvorin was stately. She had a
knack of moving from group to group with a quiet grace that earned the respect of every woman, and left every man surreptitiously gazing after her. She flirts by not flirting, he realized. As for Vladimir, the men liked and respected him, but with the women, one could see, he had a special talent. Why was it that they seemed to flush with pleasure when he talked to them? After observing him a little while, Nicolai thought he saw. He understands the way they think, he decided. He gets inside their minds. It was another facet of his extraordinary intelligence, and Nicolai suddenly wondered: Is he unfaithful to her, perhaps? He had no doubt that many women in the room would gladly have encouraged any interest Suvorin showed.

Nicolai was still musing in this manner when he noticed that Vladimir was talking to Rosa Suvorin. Nicolai also noticed that Vladimir’s usual comfortable smile had disappeared. His face wore a look of tender concern and he was speaking to her earnestly. Whatever was he saying with such urgency? Peter too was now looking at his wife with puzzlement. Rosa, looking suddenly very pale and tired, was shaking her head, apparently resisting him. Then, giving her arm a gentle squeeze, Vladimir moved away, while Rosa suddenly turned away towards a window. To Nicolai Bobrov, and no doubt to Peter, it seemed rather strange. And Nicolai would have thought more about it if, at this moment, something had not happened to deflect everyone’s attention.

For now the door opened and a new figure appeared. It was Yevgeny Popov.

Young Alexander Bobrov had found himself standing beside Vladimir at the moment when Popov entered and, for once, he heard even the perfectly controlled industrialist gasp with surprise.

‘Well I’m damned!’ He glanced down at Alexander. ‘It’s the fellow we saw during the strike.’

It was indeed. The red-headed man they had called Ivanov. ‘Will you throw him out?’ Alexander whispered.

‘No.’ The industrialist smiled. ‘Don’t you remember, my friend, I wanted to talk to him then; and now here he is. Life is wonderful indeed.’ And with outstretched hand he strode across the room to where the revolutionary was standing, and smiled. ‘Welcome.’

But if this action took the youth by surprise, it was nothing to his horror when, a moment later, the red-head walked over to his father, embraced him warmly, and then, when Mrs Suvorin asked in confusion: ‘You two know each other?’ replied calmly, ‘Oh, yes. We go back together a long way.’

His father was a friend of this creature. It seemed to Alexander that there was no limit to Nicolai’s foolishness and disloyalty.

The little group which gathered around Popov eyed him with curiosity. Nicolai in particular, seeing his old acquaintance in this strange new setting, looked on with some amusement, while Mrs Suvorin, gazing at his calm, rather detached expression and comparing him with her Marxist brother-in-law, quickly came to the conclusion: This is a very different sort of man. He recognizes no barriers.

‘You wanted a Bolshevik,’ Peter said to her wryly. ‘Here he is.’

And Mrs Suvorin smiled.

‘You are welcome indeed,’ she said. Which was certainly true. For, excellent though the company always was at her house, Mrs Suvorin knew that recently she had been missing out on something: the true revolutionaries.

In a later age it would be called radical chic, this fashion amongst some of the privileged classes of inviting revolutionaries to their home, and even making contributions to their cause. A few industrialists, convinced that the Tsar was on a road to catastrophe, may have courted the revolutionaries as a kind of insurance policy against the future. But others of the rich and idle certainly did so only because they thought it amusing, or smart, or perhaps to receive a little
frisson
from the knowledge that they were playing with fire. Mrs Suvorin had always eschewed these activities before, but recently she had feared that, without an occasional revolutionary, her
salons
might begin to look a trifle dowdy. She needed Popov, therefore: he completed her arrangements.

And, it had to be said, he made himself rather agreeable. It was evident at once that he was well-informed. He had recently returned from the Socialists’ latest congress, held in Stockholm; and while he was obviously careful about what he said, he seemed quite willing to answer questions. To Mrs Suvorin’s enquiry about the Bolsheviks, he was very straightforward.

‘The difference between the Bolsheviks and the rest of the Social Democrats – the Mensheviks as we call them – is not that large. We all want a Socialist society; we all follow Marx; but there are disputes about tactics.’ He smiled at Peter Suvorin. ‘And sometimes personalities.’ He reeled off the names of some of the Menshevik leaders: young Trotsky, Rosa Luxemburg in Poland, various others. ‘But it’s the Bolshevik leader who really makes the split, though.’ He grinned. ‘That’s my friend Lenin. He never compromises about anything.’

‘And who is he, this Lenin?’ Nicolai Bobrov asked. ‘I don’t know a thing about him.’

‘Oh, but you do,’ Popov smiled. ‘For you’ve already met him – fifteen years ago, on a train. Remember?’

‘The lawyer? The Chuvash lawyer with an estate by the Volga?’

‘One and the same. He’s been living in exile most of the time. He’s in hiding now, because the authorities don’t seem to like him. But he’s the man behind the Bolsheviks.’

‘And what does he want? What makes him different?’

‘He writes carelessly,’ Popov replies, ‘but the key to Lenin lies in his book. That’s his manifesto.’ And he told them a little about it.

This all-important work had been written only four years before, and smuggled into Russia from Germany; but already, for most revolutionaries, it had become a bible. Choosing the same title as the little novel which had so inspired the previous generation of radicals, he had called it
What Is To Be Done
. It was not so much a political tract as an instruction manual – on how to make a revolution. ‘Marxism tells us the old order will collapse,’ Popov smiled. ‘Lenin tells us how to give it a push.’ And then carefully: ‘Roughly speaking, our Menshevik friends want to wait until the masses are ready to create the Socialist order of a new and just society. We Bolsheviks are sceptical. We think that a small and highly organized cadre is needed to push for the great change in society. It’s only tactics: but we believe the masses will need leading, that’s all.’

‘Some of us think,’ Peter Suvorin observed, ‘that Lenin regards the workers as nothing more than cannon fodder.’

To his surprise, however, Popov nodded. ‘It’s probably true,’ he replied. Then, smiling again: ‘That’s part of his greatness.’

For a moment or two the little group was silent, digesting what Popov had said. Then Nicolai Bobrov slowly spoke.

‘I can see your point about the masses needing leaders, and you may be right. But isn’t there a danger of such a group becoming too powerful – a sort of dictatorship?’

And to his surprise also, his Bolshevik friend was extremely frank. ‘Yes. It is a danger, in theory. But remember, Nicolai Mikhailovich, that the political objective we seek is not that far from yours. The only way forward for Russia, the only way to Socialism, is through the people – through democracy.’ He paused. ‘Whatever else, always remember this: all Socialists, including the Bolshevik faction, are trying to reach the same thing: a democratically elected body – one man, one vote – with sovereign power. We don’t want to overthrow the Tsar to put another tyrant in his place. We want a Constituent Assembly, just as you do. Democracy will lead to Socialism; but democracy is the all-important means.’

It was said with great seriousness and great conviction. And all who heard him believed.

Or so it seemed, until young Alexander Bobrov broke his silence.

He had been standing beside Vladimir Suvorin all this time, watching Popov carefully. True, he had been listening as well, but for Alexander it was not a question of argument. The red-headed Bolshevik was his enemy. He knew that in his bones. His enemy unto death. For the youth, therefore, it was only a question of observing the object of his hatred so that he might know him better.

And now the revolutionary’s words had infuriated him: not because of what had been said but because, Alexander could see, the hearers had been impressed. Are they all going to be as stupid as my father? he wondered. And he had a burning urge to expose Popov, to throw down the gauntlet, and to humiliate him.

‘I’ve heard that all the leading revolutionaries are yids,’ he said, softly but distinctly. ‘Is it true?’

It was a calculated impertinence, a sort of generalized insult that those on the right liked to use – to anger Jews by calling them all revolutionaries and revolutionaries by calling them all Jews. There was a horrible, embarrassed silence.

But Popov, gazing at the boy, who was now flushing, only chuckled.

‘Well, of course, Trotsky and Rosa Luxemburg are both
Jewish,’ he said. ‘So are several others I can think of. But so far, my friend, I have to tell you that the Jews are in a minority in our party. Mind you,’ he added, with a wink at Peter Suvorin, ‘Lenin, who’s not a Slav himself, always says the only intelligent Russians are the Jewish ones. So you’ll have to make what you can of that.’

It was well handled, and the company laughed gratefully. Alexander felt Vladimir Suvorin’s large hand resting on his shoulder give him a gentle, warning squeeze, but he ignored even his hero.

‘What about terrorism? I hear that the Bolsheviks are behind some of the bombing, and that they’ve been committing robberies too.’

In fact, these charges were entirely true. Lenin advocated both methods at this time, to maximize disruption and to get funds for the Bolsheviks – a fact which embarrassed party men like Peter Suvorin who tried to cover it up.

‘I too have heard of these incidents and expropriations,’ Popov replied blandly. ‘But I know absolutely nothing about them.’

Now Vladimir’s hand moved down to Alexander’s arm, squeezed firmly, and the boy heard the great man whisper: ‘Enough, my friend.’ But he had not finished.

‘Do you know, I have seen you before,’ he said, more loudly. ‘When you were inciting the workers of the man in whose house you now dare to come. But you avoided meeting him then. You used another name – Ivanov – and ran away like a dog. How many names have you, Mr Popov?’

For a moment, as Popov turned his green eyes upon him, it seemed to young Alexander that he was looking at a snake. But then, very calmly, the Bolshevik replied: ‘It is a sad fact that for a long time – since any opposition in Russia is under police surveillance – many people have had to use more than one name. Lenin, to my knowledge, has used more than a hundred.’ Though cool, Popov had turned pale.

‘You deny that you’re a thief and a coward then?’ Alexander pursued, into the terrible silence.

This time Popov did not reply at all, but only looked at him, for a moment more, with a faint half-smile. Then Mrs Suvorin, with an easy laugh, led Popov away.