On each side of the bookcase was a picture not the classical scenes his grandfather would have favoured, but bright, informal studies, one of a country landscape at sunset, the other of a wrinkled peasant's face. These paintings by the new school, known as The Wanderers, gave him huge pleasure. 'They are the first truly Russian painters since the makers of icons,' he would say. 'These young fellows paint Russian life as it really is.' Indeed, in his study, he even had a little sketch by the best of these, the brilliant Ilya Repin, which showed a humble barge-hauler on the Volga, straining on his harness as if he were trying to be free. And when young Nicolai had shown some talent for drawing at school, Misha had urged him: 'You try to draw like these young men, Nicolai just as you really see things.'

Further evidence of the landlord's character lay on the round table, in the form of several thick periodicals. These were the so-called 'fat journals' which had become such a feature of Russian intellectual life at that period. In these might be found, in serial form, the latest works of the great novelists of the day: Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky and Turgenev. But they also carried political commentaries and essays of the most radical kind, so that their presence in the salon was a declaration by Misha Bobrov that said: 'You see, I keep abreast of all that is going on.'

It was by this table that the landowner, with a great show of cheerfulness, greeted the two young men when they came down. It was clear to them both that he was holding himself in. As if nothing unusual had happened he conversed idly about the capital, the weather, the fact that his wife would be down shortly. And only after several minutes, with a show of nonchalance that almost made Nicolai burst out laughing, did he remark: 'I hope you enjoyed your time in the fields today; but might one inquire what exactly you were doing?'

To which the young men answered just as they had agreed they would.

It seemed to Misha that the meal was going well. The red wine was excellent. In the warm light of the candles, under the gaze of his ancestors on the walls, he sat at the head of the table, happy and flushed, and doing most of the talking. His wife Anna tall and dark, not clever but with decided opinions graced the other end.

So the young men wanted to study village conditions. It was a novel idea, to work side by side with the peasants like this, but to Misha it seemed rather commendable. And when young Popov added that he was collecting folk tales, Misha was delighted. 'I know most of Krylov's fairy tales by heart,' he told his visitor. 'But my old nanny Arina is the one you should really talk to. She knows hundreds.'

Misha Bobrov believed he got on well with students. For a start, he was interested in education. He had been busy all that year with the district zemstvo zemstvo trying to improve the local schooling. 'We now give a basic education to one boy in six and one girl in twenty at Russka,' he told them proudly. 'And it would be twice that if Savva Suvorin didn't place every obstacle in our way.' trying to improve the local schooling. 'We now give a basic education to one boy in six and one girl in twenty at Russka,' he told them proudly. 'And it would be twice that if Savva Suvorin didn't place every obstacle in our way.'

He also let them know that he hated the Minister of Education. For some reason the Tsar was devoted to this man, a certain Count Dimitri Tolstoy a distant kinsman of the great novelist whose regime at the Education Ministry was so reactionary that he was known as 'The Strangler'. And when Misha learned that Popov had studied at the medical school, where there had been a huge student strike some years before, he was quick to declare: 'With that cursed Tolstoy at the Ministry, I can understand any student who wants to revolt.'

He spoke easily of literature, the latest radical essays in the journals, and politics: where he even took the line highly unusual for a provincial landowner that as well as the local zemstvos zemstvos there should also be a Constituent Assembly, freely elected by the people, to advise the Tsar on national affairs. In short, Misha Bobrov gave such proof of his progressive views that he felt sure that, although the two young men did not say much, he must have impressed them. there should also be a Constituent Assembly, freely elected by the people, to advise the Tsar on national affairs. In short, Misha Bobrov gave such proof of his progressive views that he felt sure that, although the two young men did not say much, he must have impressed them.

It was towards the end of the meal that he received a surprise.

He had been watching Yevgeny Popov with some interest during these conversations. In his day, nearly all the university students had come from his own gentry class; but since the mid-century, a new generation of educated people had begun to appear; sons of priests, minor officials and merchants men like young Popov. Misha was all in favour. The doctors, teachers and agricultural experts whom the local zemstvos zemstvos were employing mostly came from this class. But Popov, he sensed, was more intellectual than most. What kind of fellow was he? Another thing Misha noticed was that when Popov spoke, he was rather abrupt, as though scorning useless civilities. So much the better, Misha thought. He's direct. And he took care to be direct himself whenever he addressed him. were employing mostly came from this class. But Popov, he sensed, was more intellectual than most. What kind of fellow was he? Another thing Misha noticed was that when Popov spoke, he was rather abrupt, as though scorning useless civilities. So much the better, Misha thought. He's direct. And he took care to be direct himself whenever he addressed him.

But he could not quite restrain his original curiosity about the ginger-haired student's family; and so it was, when they were well into their second bottle of wine, that he politely enquired: 'I noticed, my dear sir, that your patronymic was Pavlovich. Would you by any chance be the son of that Paul Popov whose father was once the priest at Russka?'

It was a perfectly polite question, but Popov scarcely bothered to look up from his food when he answered: 'Yes.'

Fearing that he might have offended him in some way, Misha graciously added, though with flagrant untruth: 'A most distinguished man.'

'Was he? I've no idea.' Popov continued to eat.

Slightly puzzled, still curious, and feeling vaguely that, having begun to ask after his family, it would be impolite not to follow through, Misha ploughed on. 'I hope your father is well.'

Still Popov did not trouble to look up. 'He's dead.'

'I'm sorry.' It was Anna Bobrov who, scarcely thinking, had spoken. After all, it was only common courtesy. But to her amazement, Popov now looked up at her calmly.

'No, you're not.'

'Excuse me?'

'You're not sorry. How could you possibly be sorry if you never even met him?'

Anna looked confused; Misha frowned; and Nicolai smiled with amusement.

'Yevgeny hates shams. He believes one should only tell the truth.'

'Quite right,' said Misha, hoping to smoothe over the little awkwardness. But to his surprise, young Popov only turned to look at him with a mild contempt.

'Then why did you say that corrupt old idiot my grandfather was distinguished?'

This was gross impertinence; yet, to his astonishment, Misha Bobrov felt himself blushing guiltily. 'You're my guest,' he muttered. Then, irritably: 'One should show some family respect.'

'I can't see why, when there's nothing to respect.'

There was an awkward pause. Then Anna spoke. She was not sure if she understood any of this, but one thing at least she knew. 'Family feeling is the most important thing in the world,' she said firmly.

'Nonsense. Not if the feeling is insincere.'

Her mouth opened in astonishment; but Nicolai smiled at her, then at his father, and explained: 'Popov is the most sincere fellow in the world. He believes we must strip away falsehood from everything. Destroy it, no matter what it is.'

'You mean,' Anna tried to fathom this, 'that anything, even kindness to others, good manners, should be destroyed? What on earth would you have if everyone did that?'

And now, for the first time since he had arrived, Popov smiled.

'Truth,' he said simply.

Misha Bobrov also smiled. Now he understood the fellow. 'You're what they call a Nihilist,' he said. Every educated Russian knew something of these radical fellows after they had been described in Turgenev's famous novel Fathers and Sons Fathers and Sons a few years before. They followed the Russian philosopher Bakunin who urged that all society's falsehoods must be destroyed and that this destruction of outworn ideas, no matter how painful, was creative. 'I am with you absolutely, my dear sir,' he declared. 'I understand.' He felt rather pleased with himself. a few years before. They followed the Russian philosopher Bakunin who urged that all society's falsehoods must be destroyed and that this destruction of outworn ideas, no matter how painful, was creative. 'I am with you absolutely, my dear sir,' he declared. 'I understand.' He felt rather pleased with himself.

'No, you don't.' Popov was looking at him with a calm disdain. 'You're just typical of your generation. You talk endlessly, make a few half-hearted reforms, and actually do nothing.' And he shrugged contemptuously.

Misha Bobrov gasped. His fist clenched. For a moment he said nothing, but forced himself, very carefully, to drink the rest of his glass of wine. As he did so, he noticed that his hand was shaking. It really was outrageous: this rudeness in his own house. And yet this was the awful thing could it be that there was some truth in what the young man said? Misha suddenly had a vision of dear old Uncle Ilya, sitting in his chair, as the weeks, months and years passed, reading, talking and doing nothing, just as Popov had described. Surely he was not like that himself, was he? 'The reforms of the present reign have been real,' he said defensively. 'Why, we abolished serfdom before the Americans abolished slavery.'

'In name but not in fact.'

'These things take time.' He paused and looked seriously at the young man. 'Do you really believe that everything in Russia is rotten?'

'Of course. Don't you?'

And there, of course, was the problem. As Misha Bobrov gazed at Popov, he could not honestly deny the charge. Russia was still pitifully backward. The bureaucracy was famous for its corruption. Even the elected zemstvo zemstvo assemblies, of which he was so proud, had no influence at all on the central government of the empire, which was the same autocracy as in the days of Peter the Great or even Ivan the Terrible. Yes, of course, his beloved Russia was rotten. But wouldn't it improve? Weren't enlightened, liberal-minded men like him making a difference? Or was this rude and frankly unpleasant young man right? assemblies, of which he was so proud, had no influence at all on the central government of the empire, which was the same autocracy as in the days of Peter the Great or even Ivan the Terrible. Yes, of course, his beloved Russia was rotten. But wouldn't it improve? Weren't enlightened, liberal-minded men like him making a difference? Or was this rude and frankly unpleasant young man right?

Only now, as he silently pondered this question, did Anna Bobrov suddenly speak up. She had listened to their exchange. Of the philosophical content she had understood not a word. But one statement she had clearly grasped. 'You say that the state of Russia is rotten, Mr Popov,' she declared, 'and you are absolutely right. It's a disgrace.'

Nicolai turned to his mother in surprise. 'And what should be done about it, Mother?' he enquired.

'Done?' She looked astonished. 'How should I know?' And then, speaking unconsciously for the vast majority of the Russian people, and in a tone of voice which proclaimed that the statement was obvious: 'That's for the government to decide!'

'Madame,' Popov smiled ironically, 'you have just solved the entire problem.'

And it was clear to them all that God bless her she certainly thought she had.

The discussion ended after that. But, as well as feeling hurt by Popov's words, Misha Bobrov was left with the sad and uncomfortable feeling that a gulf had opened between him and his son: that there was something about Nicolai and his friend that he did not understand.

In the days that followed, the weather swiftly grew warmer. In the Bobrov house, everything seemed very quiet. The two young men went out, each day, to work with the villagers and returned home tired. Everyone avoided further discussions, and when Misha occasionally asked if their researches were progressing well, they assured him they were. 'Young men do get strange enthusiasms sometimes,' he remarked doubtfully to his wife. 'I suppose there's no harm in it.'

'Being out of doors is very good for Nicolai,' she replied. And Bobrov had to agree that the boy looked uncommonly fit. Young Popov, he thought, sometimes looked rather bored.

For his part, Nicolai was delighted with everything. He enjoyed the physical work and the company of the peasants who, though he could never really be one of them, seemed to get used to him; indeed he was delighted when, after a week, Timofei Romanov actually forgot for a moment who he was and cursed him as thoroughly as his own son for digging a trench in the wrong place.

Above all, though he had moved amongst the peasants since his childhood, it was only now, he realized, that he really understood what their lives were like the crippling payments, the shortage of land, young Boris's need to get out from the nagging claustrophobia of his parents' house, and the resulting, miserable prospect of the Suvorin factory for Natalia. And it's our fault, the gentry's, that they have to live like this, he thought. It's true that we are parasites upon these people, who have nothing to gain from the way that Russia is run.

Yet as he observed the village, he noticed other things too. He had learned a little from books about agricultural methods in other countries; and so he now understood that the practices followed at Russka, as in most of Russia, were medieval. The ploughs were wooden, since iron ones were too expensive. The ploughlands, moreover, were still arranged in strips, with wasteful ridges of unploughed earth between them. And since these strips were regularly redistributed, no peasant ever had a personal holding he could call his own, which he might have cultivated more intensively. When Nicolai once suggested this solution to Timofei, however, the peasant only looked doubtful and remarked: 'But then some people might get better land than others.' Such was the immutable way of the commune. 'Anyway,' Timofei confessed to him, 'our greatest problem now is that every year, the crops we sow yield less and less. Our Russian soil is exhausted and there's nothing you can do.'

It was this statement that, for the first time, led Nicolai to question his father in detail about the village. Was Timofei correct? To his son's surprise, the landowner's answer was remarkably informed.

'If you want to understand the Russian village,' he explained, 'you have to understand that many of its problems are of its own making. This soil exhaustion is a perfect example. Six months ago,' he went on, 'the provincial zemstvo zemstvo hired a German expert to study the question. The basic problem is this: our peasants use a three-field system of crop rotation spring oats or barley, together with potatoes; winter rye; and the third field fallow. And, quite simply, it isn't efficient. In other countries they're using four-, five-, six-year rotations and growing clover and ley grass to replenish the land. But in our backward Russia we don't. hired a German expert to study the question. The basic problem is this: our peasants use a three-field system of crop rotation spring oats or barley, together with potatoes; winter rye; and the third field fallow. And, quite simply, it isn't efficient. In other countries they're using four-, five-, six-year rotations and growing clover and ley grass to replenish the land. But in our backward Russia we don't.

'However, the greatest problem here,' he continued, 'is Savva Suvorin and his linen factory.'

'Why so?'

Misha sighed. 'Because he encourages the peasants to grow flax for making linen. It's a valuable cash crop. The trouble is, they substitute it for oats or barley in the spring sowing and the flax takes more goodness from the land than anything else. So yes the land here is getting exhausted, and flax is the main culprit. It's the same all over the region.

'But do you know the two greatest ironies of all? First, our people do grow ley grass, which would replenish the land: but they grow it in a separate field instead of putting it into the rotation. So it does no good. Second, in order to compensate for the lower yields, they take more pasture land and put it under the plough; and by doing that they reduce the livestock they can graze the livestock whose manure is the only other thing they have to put goodness back into the exhausted land!'

'But that's a cycle of insanity,' Nicolai said.

'It is.'

'And what's to be done about it?'

'Nothing. The peasant communes won't change their customs, you know.'

'And the zemstvo zemstvo authorities?' authorities?'

'Ah,' his father sighed. 'I'm afraid they've no plans. It's all too difficult, you see.'

And Nicolai could only shake his head.

Yet there were cheerful times too. Nicolai and Popov would often sit in the izba izba with the Romanov family, and Anna would relate the very folk tales she had told Nicolai's father as a child. Popov usually sat quietly to one side he had not become close with the family but Nicolai would happily sit beside her and encourage her to tell him not only tales, but stories of her own life too. She several times told him of the awful famine of '39. And she would happily relate her life as a serf girl in the Bobrov household. with the Romanov family, and Anna would relate the very folk tales she had told Nicolai's father as a child. Popov usually sat quietly to one side he had not become close with the family but Nicolai would happily sit beside her and encourage her to tell him not only tales, but stories of her own life too. She several times told him of the awful famine of '39. And she would happily relate her life as a serf girl in the Bobrov household.

'I see you have that same gesture,' she once remarked to Nicolai, imitating the Bobrovs' gentle, caressing motion of the arm, 'that your father has. Ilya Alexandrovich had it too. And your great-grandfather, Alexander Prokofievich.'

'Really?' Nicolai was not even aware of this family characteristic. 'And Uncle Sergei did he have it?'

But for some reason this set the old woman off into a high cackle of laughter. 'Oh, no. He had something else, Master Sergei did!' And she went on laughing for several minutes, though nobody there knew why.

It was after one of these pleasant conversations however, when Popov had gone out, that Arina one evening drew him aside. She seemed unusually agitated. 'Master Nicolai, forgive a poor old woman, but I beg you, don't you get too mixed up with that one.' She gestured to the door.

'You mean Popov? He's a capital fellow.'

But she shook her head. 'Stay away from him, Master Nicolai.'

'What's he done?'

'That's what I don't know, see? But please, Nicolai Mikhailovich. He's ...' she looked confused. 'There's something wrong with him.'

Nicolai kissed her and laughed. 'Dear Arina.' He supposed Popov must seem strange to her.

Many subjects went through Popov's mind as he had made his way, one afternoon, along the lane that led through the woods to the little town of Russka. One of them concerned a hiding place.

What he needed, he thought, was a small but private spot. A shed would do. But it would have to be somewhere that could be locked up and where nobody ever came. There was nowhere like that at Bobrovo.

The article in question, carefully dismantled, was packed in pieces in a locked box in his room, which he had told his host contained only books. Soon, he judged, it would be time to use it.

Well, no doubt something would turn up.

Generally speaking he was pleased with his progress. Though he had some doubts about young Bobrov's character, it seemed to him that Nicolai would serve his purpose here quite well. He had also kept his eyes open for others who might be useful. Young Boris Romanov, for instance, had engaged his attention: a fierce spirit, he thought. Popov had spoken to him several times in a general way, but given the young man no inkling, as yet, of what was afoot. One had to be careful.

There was only one thing, really, which had taken him by surprise when he arrived at Russka: and this was the influence of the nearby factories and the Suvorins who owned them. Clearly they were important; he needed to learn more about them; and so, leaving Nicolai at work in the fields that day, he had come past the monastery, over the bridge and into the busy little town.

For some time he wandered about looking at the grim brick cotton mill, the warehouses and the sullen rows of workers' cottages. And he was starting to become rather bored, when he suddenly caught sight of a lone figure, walking dejectedly along by some stalls in the market place, who instantly engaged his attention.

He moved towards him.

It seemed to Natalia that she was making progress.

Grigory had let her kiss him.

The kiss had not been very satisfactory, it had been salty; and she had felt him grow tense, uncertain what to do with his lips; she realized he had never kissed before. But it was a start.

Though Natalia had not been sent to the factory yet, she was sure it was imminent. Boris had not changed his mind, and, since there was nothing to be done about it, the family would all help him to build a new izba izba at the far end of the village. Once he left, her own fate seemed inevitable. And though she had not yet told her father anything about her young man or her plans for him, she continued discreetly to meet Grigory every few days and to work on him patiently. at the far end of the village. Once he left, her own fate seemed inevitable. And though she had not yet told her father anything about her young man or her plans for him, she continued discreetly to meet Grigory every few days and to work on him patiently.

She often talked to him about life in the village. She also told him about the two strange young men.

Grigory enjoyed hearing about Nicolai and Popov. He was not able to understand why anyone would go and work in the fields if they did not have to, and he tried to imagine what they were like.

So it was with great curiosity, early one evening, that he turned when Natalia suddenly pointed across the market place in Russka and declared: 'Well, I never! There he is the ginger-headed one. I wonder what he's doing.'

And so indeed did Grigory. For the curious stranger was deep in conversation with young Peter Suvorin.

A month had passed; the ground was dry; spring was giving way to early summer and at Bobrovo all was quiet.

Why then should Misha Bobrov be so worried?

It was Nicolai. At first he had looked so well: he had come home each day from the fields, flushed from his work, but relaxed; he had even caught a little sunburn from the spring sun. Misha, though he was still consumed with curiosity about the two young men, had left them alone and carefully avoided any further discussions. So the days had passed: everything had been peaceful, even pleasant. And then something had begun to go wrong.

It was around the end of the second week that Misha had noticed the difference in his son. At first it was a slight pallor; then his face had started to look pinched and worried, and when they spoke together, there seemed to be a barrier between them. Nicolai had sometimes been defiant in the past, but he had never been cold and distant before. Yet now he seemed determined to become a stranger to both his parents. In the last few days he had become increasingly irritable too. What had got into the boy? Was it something about the village, perhaps? Misha asked Timofei Romanov if he had noticed anything; but the peasant told him that Nicolai seemed cheerful enough at his work.

It must be that friend of his, Misha concluded. I wish I knew more about him. Indeed, he confessed to himself, I wish I knew anything about what these two young men were thinking.

His chance came, rather unexpectedly, on a Sunday. It was Anna Bobrov who was the cause.

Misha only went to church on the great feast days, but his wife went every Sunday, sometimes twice; and it had always been the custom for Nicolai, when he was at home, to accompany her. She had been disappointed, therefore, when he had made excuses all this month. But the worst had come that morning when she had asked 'Are you leaving me to go to Russka alone again?' and Nicolai had turned on her irritably and, in front of Popov, told her in a cruel tone: 'I've better things to do than waste my time on you and your God.' She had been so shocked and hurt that Misha had put on his coat and gone with her himself; and that afternoon he had resolved: Something must be said.

It was late afternoon when he came upon the two young men. They were sitting in the salon. Outside, the light was starting to fade and Nicolai, who had been making a drawing of his friend by the window, was just closing his sketch book when Misha quietly entered the room, lit the lamp on the round table, and picking up a journal, sat down comfortably in an armchair. He nodded to Popov, who was staring thoughtfully out at the park, and then remarked pleasantly to Nicolai: 'Forgive my saying so, but your mother was rather hurt by you this morning.'

The rebuke was merited, yet instead of acknowledging his fault, Nicolai only turned and stared at him. Then, quite suddenly, he gave a high-pitched laugh. 'You mean because I didn't go to church?' He shook his head. 'The church is just a tavern where people get drunk on religion. I can get drunk on vodka if I need to.'

Misha sighed. He was not shocked. There was hardly an educated man since the Enlightenment who had never had doubts about God and organized religion. But why did Nicolai need to be so abusive? 'You can doubt God without insulting your mother,' he remarked irritably, 'and as long as you stay in this house you will show courtesy to her. I hope that is understood.' Then, having made his point, he turned grumpily back to his journal and assumed the conversation was over.