She had long ago decided that, if Karpenko was in love with her, he was certainly harmless. Indeed, he was so shy that she liked to bring him out of himself. She had learned, for instance, that he came from Poltava province, south-east of Kiev, from an old Cossack family. 'My brothers are strapping fellows it's only me that's so small,' he apologized. After some coaxing, he had one day admitted that he, too, hoped to make a literary reputation in the future.

As usual, therefore, after they had walked awhile, they began to talk, and encouraged by Olga, the young Cossack started to speak of his beloved Ukraine. It was a delight to hear him, a pleasure to see his soft eyes glow as he described to them the whitewashed houses and their thatched roofs, the huge fields of wheat on the rich black earth, the vineyards and lemon groves down by the Black Sea, the huge melons that were grown in his own village. 'It's another world in the south,' he confessed. 'Life is easier. Why, even now, if we need more land, we just take our ploughs out into the empty steppe, which has no end.'

So wonderful was his description that Pinegin nodded his head thoughtfully and remarked: 'It is so. I have been there, and it is just so.'

And it was this statement that suddenly prompted Olga to turn to the quiet soldier and try to draw him out for once.

How little, still, she knew of him. What sort of life had he had? Where had he come from? Where had he served? Was he always so much alone, or had there been others close to him in his past lovers perhaps? And above all what did he really think about his life, this man who seemed to know so much, yet say so little?

'It is your turn, Fyodor Petrovich,' she said softly. 'You say you have been in the south. What can you tell us about it?'

'I passed through the Ukraine,' he replied. 'But I have served further south, in the Caucasus Mountains. Do you wish to know about that?'

'Most certainly,' she smiled. 'I do.'

He took a little time to reply, but when at last he did, his thin, hard face took on a faraway look. His voice was very quiet. And the words he used were simple, soldier's words, yet very carefully chosen. Olga was riveted.

He told her about the high Georgian passes that now belonged to Russia, and those beyond, where wild tribesmen still dwelt. He described the mountain goats; the huge ravines one could look down and see the shepherds in the gullies a thousand feet below; the swirling mists over which, as far as the eye could see, the snowy peaks hung pink and white in the crystal sky. He told her about the tribesmen in their bright tunics and shaggy sheepskins Georgians, Circassians, and those distant descendants of the radiant Alans, the proud Ossetians who might suddenly appear from nowhere: 'Friendly one day, with a bullet for you the next.' She could see it all, as though she had been there.

'I was down in the eastern steppe once,' he continued. 'On the edge of the desert. That's a strange region.' And he told her about the little fortresses between the Black and the Caspian Seas, and about the Tatar and other Turkish tribesmen who made the frontiers such dangerous places. And now Olga had a vision of something huge, harsh, unknowable, yet pitilessly clear.

And as she listened, she wondered. There was something about him: something distant, something one could not touch. Had he, perhaps, drunk in something of the character of these harsh, lonely regions where he had lived? Was he, as Alexis said, dangerous? If so, she was not sure it wasn't strangely attractive.

It was just as she was considering this, and hoping to draw him out further that, out of nowhere, Sergei suddenly appeared along the path.

'Our work is done!' he cried. 'I am Romeo, and you are Juliet.' And then in a whisper, which she hoped Pinegin could not hear: 'Has he been boring you?'

But if Pinegin heard, he said nothing. And they all four walked back together.

Misha Bobrov watched the grown-ups. Young Arina was beside him. It had been very hot that day and everyone was lethargic. They were rehearsing a scene from Romeo and Juliet Romeo and Juliet.

He had seen his father make two mistakes with his lines and Uncle Sergei had had to correct him. But it didn't seem to matter because Uncle Sergei was laughing. His father looked rather red.

'It's beautiful, Seriozha,' his Aunt Olga said. 'But enough for today. I must sit down.'

Tea,' called Sergei to young Arina. 'We need tea.'

As the girl went off to the house, little Misha went over to his Uncle Sergei. He felt very hot too. Perhaps, he thought, if they all sat down, his Uncle Sergei would tell him a story. 'Well, my little bear?' his Uncle said. 'What can we do for you?' And Misha let him ruffle his hair.

But now his father was turning towards him.

It was such a small incident; yet, like one of those little flashes of lightning on the horizon that warns of the approach of a summer storm, Olga should have seen its true significance.

She was hardly surprised, when Alexis abruptly announced he was going for a walk, that no one was anxious to join him. But this caused him to turn to his little son, who at that moment happened to be standing beside Sergei, and ask: 'Well, Misha, are you coming?'

It was such a small gesture: it was nothing really. The child just glanced up at Sergei and hesitated. That was all. But it was enough. Olga saw Alexis flinch for a second, then instantly stiffen.

'You prefer to be with your Uncle Sergei than me,' he said, with quiet bitterness.

The little boy, sensing his mistake, looked confused. Then he blushed.

'Oh, no,' he said seriously. And then: 'You are my Papa.' And he went to Alexis's side.

Alexis turned and the two of them walked away, but Olga saw that he did not give the little boy his hand and, remembering that he would soon be leaving them to fight the Turks, she felt sorry for them both.

It was probably just as well, Olga thought, that on the following evening Sergei had arranged for some musicians to come over from Russka so that they could have a little dance a 'bal' as he called it. Perhaps, Olga hoped, this would break the tension.

How delightful it was. Just as if she were in the city, Olga would pile up her rich hair, put on a gossamer ball gown with billowing sleeves and her dainty, flat-heeled dancing slippers with their pink ribbons; the men would put on uniforms, and take turns dancing with her and Tatiana by the bright light of a hundred candles, while the servants and the two Arinas watched with broad smiles.

But the star of the evening was little Karpenko. He borrowed a balalaika and led the musicians in haunting Ukrainian melodies. Then he danced for them wild, Cossack dances, crouching almost on the ground while he kicked out his legs, and next, leaping high into the air while the musicians kept up a frenzied beat. Once, drawing himself up and arching his back, and jamming a tall, sheepskin hat upon his head, he gave a brilliant version of a stately Georgian dance moving across the floor with precise little steps, turning his body from side to side as he went, so that he seemed almost to be floating. 'He's good,' Pinegin remarked. 'I've served down there so I should know.' He smiled wryly. 'He even manages to look two feet taller.' And it amused Olga very much that a few minutes later, the Cossack disappeared on to the verandah outside with young Arina, and was gone for some time.

It was towards the end of the evening, when the others were outside, that Olga found herself dancing alone with Pinegin. As usual he was wearing his white uniform, but now it seemed to her rather becoming. She also noticed that he really danced very well nothing flashy, his movements firm but controlled, and easy to follow. It was a pleasant sensation.

Then, suddenly, everyone was back. Sergei cried: 'A mazurka!' to the musicians. And scarcely waiting to ask Pinegin, he swept her away in a wild dance, whirling her round the room, stamping his feet, while Pinegin stood by the side of the room, silently. 'I was lucky,' Sergei explained to her. 'I got lessons from the great dancing master Didelot himself.'

But Olga found, rather to her surprise, that she would have preferred it if he had not interrupted her dance with Pinegin.

The opening thunderclap of the great storm that was about to engulf them took everyone, including Olga, completely by surprise. It came the very next morning, when Sergei was in the bath house.

No one in Russia, from the imperial family to the most miserable serf, could imagine life without the traditional Russian bath. Similar in kind to a Scandinavian sauna, the bath house contained a stove which heated a deep shelf of large stones, upon which the bather tipped water to fill the room with steam. To stimulate the blood he might also swat himself with birch twigs. In a city, the communal bath house would take scores of people at a time; the little bath house on the Bobrov estate took only three or four.

Sergei loved to take a bath: in summer he would run down afterwards and throw himself into the river; in winter he would roll in the snow. And it was just as, tousle-haired and gasping, he emerged from the water that morning that little Misha came running down the slope towards him, crying out: 'Uncle Sergei! You'll never guess what's happened. They've come to arrest the priest at Russka.'

It was true. Two hours earlier the big, red-headed priest had been astonished by the arrival of three blue-coated gendarmes of the Third Department who methodically proceeded to ransack his house. Within an hour the town, the monastery, and even the village of Bobrovo were buzzing with the news. What could it mean?

Olga guessed at once. She guessed and her heart sank.

'Oh, Seriozha,' she whispered. 'What have you done?'

'Nothing much,' he confessed with a sly grin. He had sent an anonymous letter to the Department saying the priest was operating an illegal Masonic press and distributing pamphlets. And to her protest that this accusation was unlikely, he replied: 'It's unbelievable. But the gendarmes don't seem to think so, do they?'

'Oh, Seriozha.' She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. It was well known that Benckendorff's department was being snowed under with false accusations from all quarters, and that some of their investigations had been strange, to say the least. 'God help you when Alexis finds out,' she said.

It was noon, just as the gendarmes, having found nothing, were leaving when Alexis, returning from a morning ride, passed through Russka and the shaken priest told him his story. Like Olga, Alexis guessed the cause at once.

And so it was that, seeing Sergei that afternoon, sitting with the family, he gave him a look of chilling scorn, and without the need of any further explanation said quietly: 'You will regret this very much, I promise you.'

Alexis was surprised, early that evening, when Sergei's manservant requested a discreet interview with him.

To the Bobrov serfs, Sergei's position had always been a little puzzling. When his father died, they saw that the estates went to his brothers; but though Sergei's different looks had caused some ribald speculation, it was more generally assumed that his youth and wild ways were the reason for this exclusion. One thing was certain however: if there was any choice to be made between their master Alexis and young Sergei, there was no doubt about whose side to be on.

Nothing is ever hidden from household servants. The growing rift between Alexis and Sergei had been noticed at once. Within minutes of their angry encounter that day, everyone knew. And it had caused the young serf to consider his position very carefully before, that evening, giving the older brother a careful account of a certain matter. When he had told his story, the landlord seemed pleased.

'You were quite right to tell me this,' Alexis said. 'You will speak of it to no one,' he added, 'but if it ends well, then I'll let your family off a year's obrok obrok.' The manservant was delighted.

And that very day, Alexis put certain enquiries in motion.

Afterwards, Olga blamed herself. Yet she had meant so well.

The tension in the house, all the next day, was terrible. Alexis looked like thunder. They dined in near-silence. In the evening, she tried to persuade Sergei to come out for a stroll with her, but he obstinately refused and sat at one end of the salon while Alexis, at the other end, ignored him entirely. Everyone spoke in low tones, but Olga, looking at the two brothers, was terrified that at any moment, some careless word might start a quarrel. Sergei, in particular, looked as if he was ready to provoke his older brother. What could she do to keep the peace?

It was then that, looking at Karpenko, she suddenly thought she had had an inspiration.

'Why don't you tell us,' she suggested, 'a Cossack story?'

He blushed with pleasure. He understood very well what she wanted. How glad he was to be useful to Olga and Sergei, these two people he loved. And so, in a quiet voice, he began.

He was intensely proud of his Cossack ancestry. In no time they were all spellbound as he told them tales of the ancient days, of the wild Cossacks riding over the open steppe, and of the great river raids from the Zaporozhian camp down the mighty Dniepr. Tatiana sat with mouth open in wonder; Ilya put down his book; Pinegin nodded with approval and murmured: 'Ah, yes. That is good.' And even Alexis did not notice when Sergei moved his chair closer, in order to hear better.

What a gay, thrilling world the little Cossack opened before them. What mad feats of bravery, what good fellowship, what wild freedom! Olga congratulated herself on her choice: and if the young fellow was a little carried away, surely there could be no harm in that.

For there was something else about the tales, too: a haunting beauty, an air of nostalgia and even melancholy that she discerned in his tone as there always is when one speaks of a world that has entered its twilight. 'The old Zaporozhian sich sich is gone,' he said quietly at one point. 'Catherine the Great destroyed that.' And later, rather sadly: 'The Cossacks are all good Russians now.' If he felt a tinge of regret for the past, Olga didn't blame him. The disciplined Tsarist regiments of today's Cossacks were fine in their way, but a far cry from the freedom of older times. is gone,' he said quietly at one point. 'Catherine the Great destroyed that.' And later, rather sadly: 'The Cossacks are all good Russians now.' If he felt a tinge of regret for the past, Olga didn't blame him. The disciplined Tsarist regiments of today's Cossacks were fine in their way, but a far cry from the freedom of older times.

Ilya in particular was captivated. 'My God,' he exclaimed, 'you tell your stories so well that if you want to make a literary reputation, you should write them down. Have you considered it?'

And it was then that the trouble began. For having blushed with pleasure and admitted that he had, Karpenko then added a curious and unexpected statement. 'Actually,' he confessed, 'what I really want is to write them in the Ukrainian language. They sound even better that way.'

It was a perfectly innocent remark, though undoubtedly surprising. 'Ukrainian?' Ilya queried. 'Are you sure?' Olga, too, found herself puzzled. For the Ukrainian dialect, though close to Russian, had no literature of its own except one comic verse. Even Sergei, always willing to support his friend, couldn't think of anything to say in favour of this odd idea.

And it was now that Alexis spoke.

Though he had obviously enjoyed the Cossack's stories, Olga had noticed her elder brother's expression gradually become rather thoughtful. She had not attached too much importance to this; though when the Ukrainian spoke of Russia, she had noticed that once or twice he frowned. Now, at this last suggestion, he shook his head.

'Forgive me,' he said calmly, 'but the Ukraine is part of Russia. You should write in Russian therefore.' His tone was not unkind, but it was firm. 'Besides,' he added with a dismissive shrug, 'Ukrainian is only spoken by peasants.'

There was silence. Olga glanced anxiously at Karpenko. Then Sergei spoke: 'How boorish.'

And Olga trembled. Was this the start of the quarrel she dreaded?

The little Cossack saw her face and understood at once. 'It's quite true that Ukrainian is the peasant's language,' he readily agreed. 'But that's why I'd like to use it for writing about village life, you see.' If he thought, however, that he had saved the situation, he was premature.

'Quite right.' Sergei was determined to defend his friend. 'After all, our own Russian literature has only existed for a generation. Why shouldn't the Ukrainians start their own?' He smiled contemptuously. 'Or is having their literature strangled at birth by an illiterate Russian to be another benefit of the Tsar's rule?'

Olga caught her breath: a gratuitous insult. Alexis went pale; but with an effort he ignored Sergei. Turning to Karpenko, however, he asked dangerously: 'Do the people of the Ukraine dislike the Tsar's rule?'

The Cossack smiled gently. He could have said that the Ukrainian peasants had no special love for Russia; he might have mentioned that, under the programme of Russification, the towns were losing all their ancient liberties. He could have remarked that even his own family remembered bitterly that their ancestor, a proud Cossack landowner, was sent in chains by Peter the Great to his new capital in the north, and never heard from again. But instead he was tactful.

'When Napoleon invaded,' he quietly reminded Alexis, 'the Tsar had no more loyal troops than the Cossacks. And on the eastern side of the Dniepr, where I come from, the landowners have been glad of Russian protection since the time of Bogdan. On the western side of the Dniepr, however, where there's more Polish influence, Russian rule is accepted but not particularly popular.' It was a fair assessment, and even if it was not quite what Alexis wanted, he could hardly argue. For the moment, he relapsed into silence.

And it was now that, casting about in his mind for a more cheerful topic, and without thinking too much, young Karpenko rattled on.

'Do you know,' he remarked, 'funnily enough, about ten miles from where we live, there's a place where my family used to have a farm once. It has a new name now, but in Peter the Great's time it was called Russka.'

This, as he hoped, diverted their thoughts. Nobody had heard of it, though Ilya at once remarked: 'Many northern place-names derive from the south. The Bobrovs formerly came from near Kiev, you know, so the village you speak of may once have been ours.' He smiled. 'There's something we have in common, my friend.' The fact that the Cossack's ancestor had run away from the northern Bobrov estate and discovered this Russka in the south was unknown to them both.

'I wonder what sort of place it is now,' Olga said.

And then Karpenko made his great mistake. 'Actually,' he confessed awkwardly, 'it's a military colony.'

He realized his error the moment he had spoken. Alexis sat bolt upright. Sergei grimaced. And Alexis suddenly smiled. Now was his chance to put everyone in their place.

'A military colony,' he said with a triumphant look. 'There's a splendid improvement.' And despite himself he could not help it' the Cossack winced.

For of all the changes that the Tsar's government had made in the Ukraine, the military colonies were the most universally loathed. There were about twenty of them, each large enough to support an entire regiment, and they covered a huge area. Since Karpenko could think of nothing to say in favour of these terrible places, he bit his lip and said nothing.

But Sergei, quietly simmering, had no such inhibitions. 'If Alexis had his way, you see,' he said quietly, 'the whole of Russia would be a single military colony. Like Ivan the Terrible and his Oprichnina Oprichnina, eh, Alexis?'

His face became stony. 'Young people should speak of things they understand,' he stated with dry scorn. 'Like making rhymes,' he added bitterly. And he shifted his chair so that Sergei was presented with his back. Then, looking about for someone trustworthy, he remarked to Pinegin: 'If all the empire were governed like a military colony, things would be a lot more efficient.' To which Pinegin quietly bowed his head.

It was time to end the discussion and end it quickly. Olga glanced round, wondering what to do. She signalled to her mother, who nodded, remarked placidly 'Well, well, this has all been very pleasant' and made as if to rise. But before she could do so, Sergei's voice cut through the air.

'You're surely not suggesting, Alexis, that the military are efficient?'

Why, oh why, could he not for once keep silent? Olga saw a muscle flicker in Alexis's cheek. But he did not turn. He merely ignored the interruption. Olga began to rise.

'I said,' Sergei repeated with an evenness that showed he was now angry, 'do you believe the military are so efficient?'

In the silence that followed, one might have thought Alexis had not heard. But then he turned to Pinegin again and coolly remarked: 'I think, my friend, I heard a dog yapping somewhere.'

And Sergei went scarlet. Olga knew then that there was nothing she could do. Sergei exploded. 'Do you know how our wretched soldiers are taught to shoot a volley?' he burst out to the whole room. 'I'll tell you. All together. Perfect timing. There's only one problem they aren't trained to point at anything. It's a fact. I've seen it. No one minds where they shoot, as long as it's together. The chances of a Russian volley hitting the enemy are almost nil! But this,' he sneered contemptuously, 'is my brother's military efficiency.'

Alexis had lost his calm now. He seemed about to turn and strike. But it was Pinegin who spoke. Olga had never seen him like this before. He was very quiet, but his eyes glittered, and there was something strangely menacing as he asked: 'Are you insulting the Russian army?'

'Oh, much more than that,' Sergei shot back. 'I'm criticizing the whole Russian Empire which thinks that by imposing order on the human spirit no matter how absurd or cruel the order it has achieved something. I'm criticizing the Tsar and that dog Benckendorff with his idiotic gendarmes and his censorship: I despise your military colonies, where you try to turn children into machines, and the institution of serfdom, which makes one man the chattel of another. And, yes, by all means I'm insulting the army, which is run by the same incompetents who are in charge of this whole vast sea of stupidity and rottenness that is called the Russian Government.'

He turned back to Alexis. 'Tell me, my efficient brother, how many rounds are Russian soldiers given each year for target practice? How many?' And when Alexis, too angry for speech, made no reply: 'I'll tell you then. Three rounds. Three a year. That's how your men are trained before you go off to fight the Turk.' He laughed savagely. 'And no doubt military organization is just what you are using so effectively to run down this estate now that it no longer has those Suvorins to prop it up!'

Olga gasped. It seemed that Alexis was about to throw himself upon Sergei. She looked at Pinegin desperately, beseechingly.

And the soldier in his white tunic smiled.

'Well, Bobrov,' he remarked with a dry laugh, 'if your brother had said that to me in our regiment, I suppose I should have had to play target practice with his head. But we won't mind. Let's have a game of cards.' And before Alexis could speak, Pinegin led him firmly away.

Thank God, Olga thought: thank God for Pinegin.

The following morning, Alexis announced that he had to go to Vladimir to see the governor. He expected to be back in a week.

'Would you stay here, my dear fellow, and keep an eye on my brother?' he asked Pinegin, to which the other quietly agreed.

By noon, Alexis was gone. With him he carried a letter that he had written late the night before. It was addressed to Count Benckendorff.

Did she still love Sergei? She was fond of him, of course; but could one love a man so self-centred? The quarrel with Alexis had been so unnecessary and his insults unforgivable. The next morning, when he took Misha out fishing, she ignored him.

All morning, she was occupied with her two babies. Old Arina was unwell that day, but young Arina helped her.

It was in the early afternoon, while young Arina was putting the two infants down for a sleep, that Olga, strolling towards the birch wood above the house, noticed the white uniform of Pinegin alone in the alley. Feeling she should speak to him, she followed him and soon came to his side.