Russka (44 page)

‘I think I need five roubles.’

Lev nodded. It was quite a modest sum.

‘I can lend it to you. Your estate, of course, is ample security. The interest rate would, on this loan, be one rouble for every five.’

Twenty per cent. Boris’s mouth opened in astonishment. These were lenient terms indeed – less than half what the others had offered; that very winter in Moscow he had even heard of one fellow who had been charged one per cent a day!

Lev smiled.

‘My calculation is that I prefer friends to enemies, lord,’ he said disarmingly. ‘I trust the lady Elena Dimitreva is well?’ he added politely.

‘Yes, indeed.’ Did he see a faint look of strain appear on the young face which, a moment before, had been flooded with relief? He was not sure. The reports in the town were that Boris’s young wife was a kindly, gentle creature. Few people in Russka saw her besides the two servants and the priest’s wife who called upon her. She did not go out in public and, quite rightly, Boris summoned the priest to say the service to her rather than subject her to the prying eyes of ordinary people in church.

After a few more polite expressions Lev withdrew, and soon afterwards was crossing the market place again.

And it was when he was halfway across that he stopped in surprise, seeing two large sleds, pulled by handsome horses, come jingling into the square and make towards the house he had just
left. Something about the cries of the driver and the rich furs he detected within told him that they had come from Moscow.

Life at Russka had seemed strange to Elena. It was so quiet. Yet she hardly knew herself what she had expected.

The priest’s wife who called on her was a pleasant young woman of twenty called Anna with two children of her own. She was a little plump, had a pointed nose and slightly red face, and when she spoke of her husband it was with a little smile that let you know she was entirely happy with the tall man’s physical attentions.

Boris did not seem to mind her visits, and she would often sit with Elena in the upstairs room as the afternoons closed in. From her Elena soon got a good picture of the local community and was even able to reassure Boris that he need not be quite so suspicious of the priest, who in fact wished him well.

But it was so quiet. Somehow she had supposed that being married, sharing a house with her husband, she would find her days occupied. And there were things for her to do, managing the house. Yet with Boris often out at the estate or in Russka, time hung heavily on her hands. She had paid three visits to the monastery her husband’s family had founded. She had been warmly and respectfully received by the monks. She had also gone with Boris to look at Dirty Place. She had been welcomed with low bows and a few small gifts. But it was obvious that the inhabitants of the stout huts in the hamlet regarded her as the cause of their new obligations, and she had not been anxious to go there again.

And that was all. How far away the bustle of Moscow seemed, and the busy life with her family. Why did he not take her back there? Surely he must have finished his business in Russka now: what could he do here anyway, in mid-winter?

Boris still puzzled her. She was used to her father’s often dark moods, when he would become withdrawn and sullen. She knew that most men were subject to sudden changes of temper which one must accept, and even admire. Her own mother had often said of her husband, with some pride: ‘He can throw such rages!’ as though this were an athletic accomplishment. She would not have been shocked if Boris had exhibited these features, or even if he had beaten her occasionally. That was to be expected. Lev the merchant, she now knew, beat his wife, on principle, once a week.
‘And look how many children they have,’ Anna had remarked to her, with a wry laugh.

But Boris’s moods were quite different. He was always kind. If he grew gloomy, he would retire to the stove or the window by himself; if she asked what was the matter, he would only smile wanly. When she tried to characterize his behaviour to herself, she could only think: It’s as though he is waiting.

That was it: he was waiting, always waiting. But for what? For something wonderful, or something terrible? She knew that he was waiting for her to be his perfect bride, the Anastasia to his Ivan. Yet what did that mean? She did all she could please him; she would put her arms round him when she saw him troubled. Secretly, though she did not tell him this, she even planned to go to her father and ask for extra money to help him, as soon as they got back to Moscow.

But something about her, it seemed, disappointed him, and he would not let her close enough to discover what he wanted. She was not sure if he knew himself.

And then he was waiting for disaster too – for things to go badly at Dirty Place, or for some trickery from the monastery, or some other trouble. True, when things went well, he would return home elated, full of great plans for the future, confident of the Tsar’s favour. But then hours later, he would be expecting ruin or betrayal again. It was as though the spectre of his father kept rising up before him – encouraging him one moment, then exhibiting his own slow ruin the next.

Some time after mid-winter, disturbing news had come from the east. The city of Kazan had been left with too small a garrison and now all the territory around the conquered Tatar city was in a state of revolt. ‘Tsar Ivan has called the boyar
duma
together, but they won’t act,’ a merchant from the capital had told Boris. ‘Half of them never wanted to take Kazan in the first place.’

It was this event that had caused the first friction between Boris and his wife.

‘Those damned boyars,’ he had cursed. ‘Those magnates. I wish the Tsar would crush them all.’

‘But not all the boyars are bad,’ she had protested. Her father had friends and patrons in those circles. Indeed Dimitri Ivanov himself did not altogether approve of the vigorous young Tsar, and had taught his daughters to be cautious of him too.

‘Yes, they are,’ Boris had snapped defiantly. ‘And we’ll teach them their place one day.’ He knew there was a covert insult to her father in these words, but he could not help himself, and when Elena looked down at the ground sadly, it only irritated him.

After this however, several weeks had passed with no definite news and she supposed the incident had passed from his mind. And now only one question obsessed her: how much longer before they returned to Moscow?

It was strange that, despite her understanding his financial position fairly well, she did not realize that the real reason he delayed was expense. He never told her, because he did not want to discuss his finances with her; and for her part, living in her father’s comfortable house in Moscow, she had never realized what a burden the social life of the capital might be to a man of modest means like Boris. As January ended and February began, she knew only one thing: that she was still at Russka and that she was lonely.

Which was why she had sent the message to her parents.

It had been quite easy. Anna had taken the message, and given it to a merchant travelling to Vladimir. He in turn had given it to a friend of his who was going to Moscow. The two women had not even needed to tell Stephen about this arrangement. The message itself was quite simple: Elena had not complained of being unhappy, but just let them know that she was by herself. Could they not send her someone – she had suggested a certain poor female relation – for company?

So it was with a cry, first of joy, and then astonishment, that she saw on the grey February day of Lev’s visit, not one but two sleds draw up by the house and realized that they contained not her poor relation, but her mother and sister!

They stayed a week.

It was not that they behaved unkindly. Elena’s mother was a tall, imposing woman, but she treated Boris with a friendly politeness; her sister, a stout married woman with children of her own, was full of laughter, seemed delighted with everything she saw and paid two visits to the monastery, making flattering remarks about its church, the icon by Rublev, and the other benefactions from his family, each time.

Of course, there were the extra expenses of providing wine for
them, and extra fodder for six horses. A week of entertaining them, and Boris knew that his loan from Lev the merchant would not be quite enough. But even that was not so bad.

It was that he felt excluded.

On the simplest level, Elena insisted on sleeping beside her sister, while her mother occupied the other upstairs room and Boris slept downstairs on the big stove. The two sisters seemed to find this a great joke, and he could hear them chattering half the night. He could, he supposed, have forbidden this, but it seemed pointless. If she prefers her sister’s company to mine, he thought gloomily, let them chatter away all night.

But it was the daytime that was worse. The three women were always together, talking in whispers upstairs. He supposed they were talking about him.

Boris’s ideas about women were similar to those of many men at that time. There were many essays by Byzantine and Russian authors in circulation amongst those who could read, which testified to woman’s inferior nature. All Boris knew came from people under these influences, and from his father during his long widowhood.

He knew that women were unclean. Indeed, the Church only allowed older widows to bake the Communion bread, not wishing younger, profane female hands to contaminate the loaves. Boris always washed himself carefully after making love to his wife and even avoided her presence as much as possible when her time came each month.

But above all, women were strangers to him. He might have his little adventures from time to time, like the girl at Nizhni Novgorod, but when he came upon women as a group, he felt a certain awkwardness.

What were these women doing here in Russka? Why had they come? When he had politely asked them, Elena’s sister had answered gaily that they had come to look at the bride and at her husband’s estate and that they would be gone ‘in the twinkling of an eye’.

‘Did you ask them to come?’ he asked Elena, on one of the few occasions he could catch her alone.

‘No,’ she answered. ‘I did not.’ It was, after all, the truth. But he noticed a slight awkwardness about her when she said it. She is not mine, he thought. She is theirs.

At last they left. As they were leaving Elena’s mother, thanking him kindly for his hospitality, said pointedly: ‘We look forward to seeing you soon in Moscow, Boris Davidov. My husband and also his mother await you anxiously.’

It was a clear enough message – a promise of possible help from Dimitri together with a suggestion that the old lady would consider it disrespectful if he did not present himself before her soon. He smiled wanly. Their visit had cost him almost an entire rouble. If this was any hint of what married life in Moscow might cost, he would take his time before returning.

But what had these untrustworthy women been up to while they were eating him out of house and home? What had they done to his wife?

At first, all seemed to be well. Once again, he joined her at nights, and their lovemaking was passionate. His hopes rose.

It was two weeks later that he happened to suffer a change of mood. There was good reason for it. He had discovered certain deficiencies in the farm equipment and in the grain stores that had apparently escaped the steward. At the same time, one of the Tatar slaves had sickened and suddenly died. What little hired labour there was in the area was all contracted to the monastery. So he would either have to buy another slave or farm less land that year. He could see that a second loan from Lev the merchant was going to be needed. Whichever way he turned, it seemed that all his efforts were being thwarted.

‘You’ll work something out,’ Elena told him.

‘Perhaps,’ he had replied gloomily. And he had gone to the window to be alone with his thoughts.

It was a few hours later that she had come to talk to him.

‘You worry too much, Boris,’ she had begun. ‘It’s not so serious.’

‘That’s for me to judge,’ he told her quietly.

‘But look at your gloomy face,’ she went on. There was something in the way she said this, something faintly mocking as though she were trying to laugh him out of his mood. Where did she get this new boldness from? Those women, no doubt. He glowered.

He was perfectly right, Elena had several times asked her mother and sister what they thought of Boris, and it was her sister
who had assured her: ‘When my husband gets moody, I let him see it doesn’t bother me. I just go on cheerfully and laugh him out of it. He always comes round.’

She was a busy young woman, rather pleased with her role as older adviser. It did not occur to her to notice that Boris and her own husband were entirely different.

And so now, when Elena made clear to Boris that she did not take his mood seriously, when she continued, a little smugly, to look cheerful in his presence, it made him think only: So, they have taught her to despise me.

He had been brooding angrily about this for several hours when she made her greatest mistake. It was only a casual remark, but it could hardly have been worse timed.

‘Ah, Boris,’ she said, ‘it’s foolish to be so downhearted.’

Foolish! Was his own wife now calling him a fool? In a sudden flash of frustrated rage, he leaped to his feet, his fists clenched.

‘I’ll teach you to smile and laugh at me when I am worried,’ he roared.

And as he took a step towards her he hardly knew what he might do, when a hammering on the door, followed by the sudden entrance of Stephen the priest, distracted him.

The priest, looking deeply concerned, hardly noticed Elena, and before even crossing himself before the icons, delivered a message that drove everything else from Boris’s mind.

‘The Tsar is dying.’

Whichever way Mikhail the peasant looked, he could see only trouble.

Young lord Boris was away in Moscow with his wife, though he paid brief visits from time to time. But no doubt he would return for another protracted stay before long, and who knew what he would think of doing next?

The new
barshchina
was a heavy burden. In addition to this service and some small payments to Boris, he also had to pay the state taxes, which usually cost him about a quarter of his grain crop. It was hard to make ends meet. His wife wove bright, cheerful cloths decorated with red bird designs, which she sold in the Russka market. That helped. There were small ways of cutting corners too: he was allowed to pick up any dead timber in the landlord’s woods and like everyone else, he ringed a tree here and
there to kill it. But there was no money left over at the year’s end and he had only enough grain of his own stored to get him through one winter after a bad harvest. Those were his total reserves.