Russka (145 page)

He sighed. It was no good denying the fact: Nadezhda’s fascination with Karpenko had not worn thin; in the last six months, she seemed to have fallen truly in love with him. How ironic it was. He, Alexander, was twenty-three and just finishing his studies; Nadezhda was sixteen and a young woman. This had been the year when he had always planned to make his move. But
now, instead, he found himself thinking: She’s still a child, she’ll grow out of him; not yet.

They were standing together by the window when he came into the room. Karpenko had obviously just said something amusing and she was laughing. How at ease they looked together. And then Karpenko had turned, and spoken.

What had the fellow said? The odd thing was, Alexander could hardly remember. Something like: ‘Here comes our warrior, Bobrov the
bogatyr
.’ Something harmless enough, though faintly mocking.

And he had lost his self-control.

‘As a Ukrainian, I wouldn’t know how you view this war,’ he had said coldly.

It was true, they both knew, that there were Ukrainians living in the Austrian empire, and also a small body of Ukrainian nationalists, who saw the coming war as a chance to liberate the Ukraine from Russian rule. There was talk of interning some of these. But it was also true that hundreds of thousands of Ukrainians were, even now, being mobilized in the Russian army. Karpenko went white.

‘Ukrainians are not traitors. We shall fight for the Tsar,’ he said quietly.

But, still bitter, and pleased for once to have put his adversary on the defensive, Alexander continued: ‘Really? And shall we see you in uniform? Or are you, perhaps, unwilling to face such danger?’

There was a terrible silence. The question was unfair because most students were exempt and most young men with powerful friends were speedily using them to get exemptions anyway. But this time he saw Karpenko blush.

But, oh, what stupidity.

‘I think that’s the most horrible thing to say.’ Nadezhda’s eyes were blazing. ‘And I think, Alexander Nicolaevich, that you should leave us now.’

What had he done? What idiocy had made him do it? Dare he go back? He must. ‘I can’t go away,’ he muttered, ‘leaving things like that.’

It was therefore with some nervousness that he slowly made his way towards the great Suvorin house.

Alexander Bobrov would have been surprised indeed had he known about a brief interview that had taken place just an hour before.

It was Mrs Suvorin who had made Karpenko do it. She had summoned him that morning. Their meeting had been brief but, though she had hardly been friendly, he had to admire the calm, matter-of-fact way she went about the business.

‘The girl’s in love with you,’ she said simply, ‘and it’s gone too far. You and I both understand what you must do.’

He stood a little awkwardly by a large, upright armchair. How did one manage these things? She was standing a few feet away from him, completely unsuspecting.

‘I think you know, Nadezhda, that I’m very fond of you,’ he began.

It was not so bad. He loved her and felt protective. He explained gently how much their friendship meant to him and led slowly towards his message. ‘In case, you see, I might inadvertently have misled you, there is something you should know.’ He paused. ‘Our friendship can never be more than that: a friendship.’

She had helped too. Though she went pale, she continued to look at him calmly. Now, however, she frowned.

‘You mean there’s someone else?’

‘Yes.’

‘I did not know. For a long time?’

‘Yes.’

She frowned again. ‘You’re not actually married, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Perhaps you will change.’

He looked sadly at the Turkey carpet on the floor. Then he shook his head.

‘My heart is engaged elsewhere,’ he said, and then felt embarrassed at such a ridiculous expression.

But she did not seem to notice.

‘Thank you for telling me,’ she said simply. ‘I think I’d like you to go now.’

To Dimitri Suvorin, both then and thereafter, that warm August afternoon had the quality of a dream.

Perhaps it was the dusty heat or the sullen grey-blue sky;
perhaps it was the echoing bells or the chanting of the priests; or perhaps those medieval Russian masses moving timelessly through twentieth-century streets. Or perhaps it was the people in the houses – thousands of pale faces at every window and balcony, looking strangely small and detached in this mighty city turned stage-set.

It was mid-afternoon when he chanced to find himself near the Suvorin mansion just as the procession was about to pass by. He had known that Karpenko was going there that day, and thinking that his friend might still be there, he went in. And so it was that he came upon Nadezhda, alone, in the small salon upstairs.

She was standing by the window, staring out at the street. Her face was rather pale; she seemed unusually quiet; together they crossed themselves, along with the crowds in the street below, as the priests with their icons led the long procession past.

‘It’s strange,’ she said at last. ‘The last war, when we fought the Japanese, never seemed very real to me. I suppose I was just very young.’

‘It was far away, too.’

‘Did people feel like this – so patriotic – before that one?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘Holy Russia.’ It seemed she did not need to elaborate. She just left the two words hanging. ‘It’s hard to realize,’ she went on, ‘that people one knows are going to die.’

Dimitri nodded. His own limp meant that he could never pass the medical for any kind of military service. It did not make him feel guilty. It was just a fact. ‘Who do we know who’s fighting?’ he asked.

‘There’s Alexander Nicolaevich,’ she replied.

‘That’s true.’ He paused. ‘By the way, have you seen Karpenko?’

‘Yes. He left.’

‘Any idea for where?’

‘No.’ She was silent for a short time. Then she remarked: ‘It’s a commitment, isn’t it? I mean, you say: “I’m ready to lay down my life” and perhaps you do lose it.’

‘I suppose so. Yes.’

She continued staring at the long procession, mostly of simple peasants in their shirts, for a while before remarking: ‘I’m rather tired, Dimitri. Come and see me again soon.’

A few moments later, outside, it was only a whim that decided Dimitri to see if Karpenko might have looked in at his Uncle Vladimir’s new house. As he made his way towards it, the side-streets were almost deserted. Apart from the occasional pealing of patriotic church bells, the afternoon seemed to have withdrawn itself into silence. There was no breeze. He noticed that a fine dust had settled on everything, even the leaves of the trees he passed.

When he reached the Art Nouveau house, standing on its large corner plot, it too seemed dusty and deserted, as though the plasterers had just finished working on the house and left it empty. He went up the steps to the entrance and pulled the bell.

He heard it ring but there was no reply. He waited. Vladimir only kept a skeleton staff there, but it was odd for there to be nobody in the place. ‘Asleep, I suppose,’ he muttered and pulled the bell again, though without conviction. Still nothing. Probably gone to watch the procession, he decided with a shrug. I may as well go.

It was an idle impulse to turn the handle of the heavy door. He certainly didn’t expect anything to happen. Yet to his great surprise, it opened. They had forgotten to lock it. And since he was hot, and had nothing better to do, he stepped inside.

How delightfully cool it was. The high hall with its creamy white staircase was still. Blue and green light filtered softly through the high windows. It made him think of being a fish in some beautiful grotto. The main drawing room, the dining room and the library all gave off the hall. Quietly he went from one to another to see if he could find anyone, but there was nobody.

Should he go? He might as well. But before doing so, he thought he might as well look upstairs. Even if there was no one about, it was rather pleasant exploring the house like this, by himself.

Although he was familiar with all the rooms on the main floor, Dimitri had only once been to the upper floor of the house; he knew there was a sitting room and a study up there, but he could not remember where they were. Having reached the top of the curving stairs he went slowly round the landing, opening one door after another. He found the sitting room and a bedroom, but not the study, and was about to go down again when, down a short passage on his left, he noticed a single door. That must be it. He went towards it, and turned the handle.

It was a handsome room. The walls were blue; the window depicted a strange, dreamy landscape with mountains in the distance and trees in the foreground, whose fruits were red and gold. On the far wall was a painting by Gauguin, depicting two naked women with a Tahitian sunset behind them.

It was not the study, however. Though there was a desk on the left and a chaise longue in the centre, at the far side of the room stood a large bed.

And upon it lay his Uncle Vladimir and Karpenko.

They were both naked. Vladimir’s large, hairy form was turned away from him, but there could be no mistaking it. His powerful arm was resting across Karpenko’s back. Karpenko, however, had his head turned towards the door and now his handsome face looked straight into Dimitri’s.

Dimitri stared. Then Karpenko gave him a strange, rather guilty smile, as though to say: Well, now you know, don’t you?

And not knowing what to do, Dimitri very quietly retreated, closed the door, made his way down the stairs to the silent hall and walked out of the house.

For some time, as he walked towards his home, he could not make out his own feelings, the shock and horror were so great. And it was with surprise, perhaps, as he finally turned into the courtyard with its dusty mulberry tree that he realized that, for his friend, he felt a new kind of protectiveness. As for Uncle Vladimir, he felt a kind of betrayal together with one determined thought: Nadezhda must never know.

And on that dream-like day it also came to him how much there was about people he did not understand.

It was late that afternoon, having at last summoned up the courage, that Alexander Bobrov entered the Suvorin mansion and, rather to his surprise, was told that Nadezhda was free to see him.

Still more surprising was the fact that, before he could stammer out the apology he had carefully prepared, she reached up, touched him on the lips and said: ‘Never mind.’ Then she linked her arm in his and suggested they walk through the gallery.

Looking at her face, it seemed to Alexander that earlier she might have been crying; but whether for that reason or some other, there was a quietness, a tenderness in her manner he had never seen before.

But this was nothing to his surprise and joy when, as he was about to leave, she turned to him and said, ‘Well, Alexander, you’re going off to war. Don’t forget to come back to me, will you?’ And then, turning up her face and looking at him with a little smile: ‘Perhaps you would like to kiss me.’

And she reached up her arms.

There had been a shower. The ground was wet and steaming in the sun as Alexander waited with his men. In front of them lay a huge Polish field; behind, a line of trees.

Soon the action would begin.

Alexander Bobrov surveyed his men. There were thirty-three of them, all, except one, raw recruits, conscripted that winter and given four weeks basic training. The single veteran, a reservist of twenty-seven, Alexander had deputed to act as sergeant.

The trench in which they were standing was not very deep. Once they had got to six feet down, the captain inspecting the line had told them impatiently, ‘That’ll do. We’ve come here to fight, not dig.’

He was a short, fat man, the captain: an officer of the old school with fierce grey whiskers and a red face who, it sometimes seemed to Bobrov, secretly regarded the war as an exasperating diversion from his proper military business of sitting in his club. This morning, though, he had been bustling and brisk.

‘Won’t be long now,’ he had told them an hour ago. ‘Be brave, lads.’ Then he had disappeared.

Alexander gazed at the huge, muddy field before him. About half a mile away, it dipped down, and past that one could see only a lightly wooded ridge some way beyond. Would German helmets suddenly appear? Or puffs of smoke? Alexander hardly knew. For this was his first action, his first real taste of war.

War. In their primary objective the Russian command had been successful. Her immediate, lightning strikes in the summer of 1914 had taken the enemy by surprise. In the north, Russian forces had raced across Poland and smashed into the Germans in East Prussia, causing a momentary panic-stricken retreat. In the
south, a Russian army had swept westward from the Ukraine into Austrian territories, and only just been prevented from cutting north, through Silesia, into Germany and towards Berlin itself.

True, the initial success was achieved at appalling cost. The offensive in the north was not properly supported. When the Germans counter-attacked, the losses were horrific. A quarter of a million men were killed in the August offensive in the north; by the end of 1914 Russian losses, including prisoners-of-war, reached an amazing 1,200,000 men.

But Germany was fighting on two fronts. Her master plan had failed. And the empire of Russia, having been humiliated in her last two wars – the Crimean and the war with Japan – had shown herself a military power to be reckoned with. By the start of 1915, Germany was concentrating its main effort against her. And by March 1915, so necessary was she to France and Britain, that those allies had reluctantly to agree that when the war was over she should receive nothing less than the ancient city of Constantinople – her dream since the time of Catherine the Great – as her prize.

In 1915, however, the Germans were beginning to strike back. And now they were advancing with thunder.

Alexander Bobrov looked at his men thoughtfully. He liked them. He thought they liked him too. But he wished they were better prepared.

For if the great offensive of 1914 had been dramatic, the second round, of 1915, had taken on a very different character.