Popov spoke quietly, and well. Though from time to time Nicolai recognized flashes of the cold, conspiratorial fellow he had known in his student days, it soon became clear that Popov had developed into something broader since then a man of larger ideas. A few details of his personal life also emerged. He had been married, but his wife had died. He had been sent to Siberia for three years and spent another year in prison. He had visited a number of European countries, including Britain.

Nicolai knew that, over the years, quite a number of Russian radicals had had to leave and live abroad. He had some idea of their life: constantly on the move, often travelling with forged papers and different identities; agitating, attending revolutionary conferences, writing articles for illegal journals smuggled into Russia; picking up a meagre living by tutoring and translating, or borrowing from sympathizers, or possibly stealing. It was hard not to pity this state of rootless wandering. Such people, it seemed to Nicolai, became trapped in a tiny, conspiratorial world, dedicated by sheer force of habit to the service of an idealized revolution which, quite probably, would never come.

Yet now, as he listened to Popov, it soon became clear to Nicolai that his former friend knew far more about the world than he did. Popov gave him an account of the radical movements in Western Europe, from the workers' trades unions to the revolutionary political parties. How sophisticated they sounded, compared to anything in Russia. He gave an amusing account of some of the exiled revolutionaries abroad. But above all, as the cosmopolitan Popov explained the European situation, there was something else that struck Nicolai even more forcibly. It was his certainty.

For whereas, when he was young, Nicolai remembered men speaking of revolution and a new world order as articles of faith, he noticed that Popov now spoke in a very different manner, as if everything that was passing were part of some concrete, historical process that he well understood. When he expressed this thought, Popov smiled.

'Of course. Have you not read Karl Marx?'

Nicolai had heard of Marx, and tried to remember what he knew. The fellow was a German Jew who had lived a long time in England and died a few years ago; an economist and a revolutionary. And there had been a disciple who was still active: Engels. But the works of these formidable men were only just beginning to appear in Russia and Nicolai had to confess he had read nothing.

The theories of Marx, Popov explained, derived from the great German philosopher, Hegel, propounded at the start of the century. 'And no doubt you remember the great world system of Hegel from your student days, don't you?' Popov chided.

'I think so.' Nicolai searched his mind. Yes, he did remember. 'It was called the Dialectic,' he said.

'Exactly. The Dialectic. That is the key to everything.'

Nicolai remembered it all now Hegel's beautiful, cosmic system which showed that the world was progressing towards an ultimate state of perfection: the Absolute. And the process for getting there? It was all done in stages a seemingly endless clash of ideas, but each clash marking a step forward. Thus a Thesis one seeming truth met its opposite or Antithesis. And from the two emerged a new idea: Synthesis better than the idea before, but still imperfect. And so the Synthesis would now become Thesis, and the whole business start again. Normally, Nicolai recalled, each Thesis collapsed because it had some flaw, some inner contradiction. Thus, for instance, men had thought the earth was flat until the evidence contradicted what at first had seemed obvious. Then they supposed the earth was the centre of the universe with the sun circling round it until this too was shown to be false. He liked the Dialectic: it suggested progress. It was compelling.

'And the greatest master of the Dialectic was Karl Marx,' Popov stated. 'For by it he has explained the whole history of mankind and its future too,' he added.

Marxism: Nicolai listened, fascinated, as Popov outlined the system. 'Only matter exists,' he began. 'That is the great truth that underlies everything. Hence the name we give Marx's system: Dialectical Materialism.

'For it's the material means of production that determines everything,' he expounded. 'How we feed ourselves, clothe ourselves, how we extract minerals from the earth and manufacture. Man's whole consciousness, his society, his laws, all derive from this economic structure. And in every society to date there are two classes fundamentally: the exploiters and the exploited. Those who own the means of production and those who sell their labour.'

'And the Dialectic?'

'Why, the class struggle that's the Dialectic. Think of it. In feudal Europe, who held the land? The nobles. And the exploited peasants worked it. But gradually that structure fell apart. A new world arose: the bourgeois world which has led to full-scale capitalism. Now the exploiters are the factory owners and the exploited are the workers the proletariat. Thesis and Antithesis.'

'And the Synthesis?'

'The Synthesis is the revolution. The workers take over the means of production. Capitalism destroys itself and we enter the new age. It's quite inevitable.'

'What happens in the new age?'

'First Socialism. The workers' state owns the means of production. Later we progress to perfect Communism where the state, as we know it, will not even be needed.'

'So we are still progressing towards the new world we dreamed of as students?'

Popov nodded. 'Yes. But our mistake back in '74 was to try to make a revolution with the peasants. The revolution can only come from the proletariat. And the big difference is that now, thanks to Marx, we know what we're doing. We have a framework.' He tapped his finger on the table. 'The revolution has become scientific.'

Though Nicolai was not sure he understood perfectly, he was impressed. 'Are there many Marxists in Russia?' he asked.

Popov shook his head. 'Only a few so far. The leader of Russian Marxism is Plekhanov, and he mostly lives in Switzerland.' He reeled off a few more names, none of which meant anything to Nicolai.

'And what does all this tell us about the revolution in Russia?' Nicolai asked. 'How and when will it come?'

Popov gave a wry grin. 'Sometimes, Nicolai Mikhailovich, it seems there are as many opinions as revolutionaries.' Then he grew serious. 'Briefly, however, there are two views.

'Consider,' he went on. 'Formal Marxism says that everything happens in its proper time. First an agricultural, feudal economy, then a bourgeois state. From this capitalism develops, becomes more and more centralized and oppressive until finally it collapses. The workers break their chains: the Socialist revolution takes place. A clear and logical sequence.

'Now Russia,' he explained, 'is still primitive. She has only just entered the bourgeois stage of development. Her proletariat is small. If we had a revolution of our own, it would probably be like the French Revolution throw out the monarchy and leave the bourgeoisie in charge. Only Europe can have a Socialist revolution, and then maybe Russia could become absorbed into the new world order Europe will create.'

'So, the revolution can't start in Russia?'

'According to classical Marx no. But as I said, there are two views. The other which even Marx himself admitted was possible is this.

'What if Russia is a special, a unique, case? Consider, Nicolai: a rotten autocracy; a weak noble class completely dependent on the Tsar and with no economic power of its own; a small middle class, hardly developed; and a peasantry traditionally organized in communes. Nothing like England or Germany at all, therefore; a brittle, out-dated regime. Maybe Russia could have a sudden revolution that would move directly to some kind of primitive Socialism after all. No one knows.'

Nicolai listened, fascinated. 'And what do you think?' he asked.

Popov shrugged. 'I've no faith in the peasants, as you know. I believe the main doctrine of Marx Russia must first pass through a bourgeois and capitalist state. The proletarian revolution can only follow after that.'

'So you don't think the revolution will begin here?'

'I'm sure it won't.'

During all this time, Nicolai had noticed that Ulyanov had been content to say nothing, though once or twice, when Popov had been talking of Marx, the lawyer had nodded in agreement. Now however he spoke, very quietly.

'Marxism is clearly correct. But we should remember, Marx was also a revolutionary, and revolution is a practical as well as theoretical business.' He nodded to Popov. 'Russia is immensely backward, of course, but industry is developing rapidly now. The proletarian class is growing. The basic Marxist conditions for revolution may exist in Russia in our lifetimes. And then this is the key the proletariat will need to be educated and led. You'll need a trained cadre at the centre, otherwise it won't work.' It was said quietly, yet with certitude. Clearly, when this lawyer gave his considered opinion, he did not expect it to be questioned.

Nicolai studied Ulyanov. A revolutionary cadre: the leaders or the new men, as he and Popov used to call themselves years ago. And suddenly remembering the arguments with his own father in those days, he asked the strange-looking fellow: 'Tell me your cadre: should it use any means to promote the revolution?'

The lawyer stroked his beard thoughtfully.

'I should say yes.'

'Including terrorism?'

'If it's useful,' Ulyanov responded calmly, 'why not?'

'I just wondered,' Nicolai said.

The conversation moved on after this, to other things. Nicolai tried to find out a little more about what Popov was doing, but soon gave up, and shortly afterwards Ulyanov announced that he felt tired and would retire to his carriage.

It was just before they parted, however, that one scrap of conversation occurred which, for some reason, always stuck in Nicolai's mind afterwards. They had been discussing the famine, and he had told them about his father's letter. 'It's quite true,' Popov told him. 'Things are terrible in the central provinces.'

And then Ulyanov spoke.

'It's a great mistake,' he remarked.

'What is?' Nicolai asked.

'This attempt at famine relief. We should do nothing to help. Let the peasants starve. The worse things are, the more it weakens the tsarist government.' It was said quite calmly, without any anger or malice, in a detached, matter-of-fact voice.

'He's been saying that all week,' Popov laughed.

'I am correct,' the lawyer replied, in the same tone. And it occurred to Nicolai that it was this very lack of emotion which might make this curious Chuvash rather formidable.

They parted in a friendly manner. Nicolai supposed he might never see either of them again. And, formidable or not, he certainly had no premonition that the balding lawyer with the little reddish beard would ever place himself at the head of a revolution.

It is a favourite hobby of those who study Russian history to choose each having his own theory a particular year from which, he will argue, the Russian revolutionary process began, and was perhaps inevitable. 'This was really the beginning,' he or she will say.

For Nicolai Bobrov, however, there was not just a year, but a single day: a day on which a tiny domestic scene took place that was witnessed only by himself. And though he participated afterwards in many of the great events that were seen on the stage of world history, it was to this small and unknown incident that he would always return in his mind and say: 'That that that was the day when the revolution began.' was the day when the revolution began.'

It took place some five months after the conversation in the train.

If Nicolai had wondered if his father might be exaggerating the difficulties at Russka, that suspicion died the day he arrived home.

The situation was desperate. The harvest of '90 had been poor, not only at Russka, but down on the Bobrovs' other estate in Riazan province too. In '91 therefore, Misha Bobrov and his fellow members of the zemstvo zemstvo board had tried to save the situation by urging the peasants to sow a mixed crop. 'Extra potatoes,' Misha had said. 'Even if the cereals fail, there will be something to eat.' But nothing had gone right. The entire potato crop had been blighted; every other crop had failed too. There had been nothing like it since the terrible year of 1839, and by autumn it was clear there would be famine. board had tried to save the situation by urging the peasants to sow a mixed crop. 'Extra potatoes,' Misha had said. 'Even if the cereals fail, there will be something to eat.' But nothing had gone right. The entire potato crop had been blighted; every other crop had failed too. There had been nothing like it since the terrible year of 1839, and by autumn it was clear there would be famine.

Something else Nicolai quickly realized was that, for his father, the famine was also a personal crisis. Though seventy, and not in the best of health, Misha Bobrov had plunged into activity with a fervour that was almost reckless. 'For the fact is,' he confessed, 'as a member of the zemstvo zemstvo gentry, I feel a double burden these days.' gentry, I feel a double burden these days.'

Nicolai knew very well what he meant. Ever since the elected zemstvo zemstvo assemblies had been set up by the reforming Tsar Alexander, the government had tinkered with its membership. Sometimes the present Tsar had simply refused to confirm people, even when elected, if their loyalty was suspect. But the crunch had come in 1890, when the Tsar had simply decided to alter the voting rules so drastically that the electorate was often reduced by more than half, and the gentry composed the vast majority of the board members. It was a shameful business, a calculated slap in the face of the simple Russian peasants, and Nicolai knew that his liberal-minded father had felt deeply embarrassed. 'We gentry really have to prove ourselves,' he repeatedly said. 'Otherwise what are we good for?' The result of this was that Misha Bobrov had worked himself into the ground; the tragedy was that he had achieved so little. assemblies had been set up by the reforming Tsar Alexander, the government had tinkered with its membership. Sometimes the present Tsar had simply refused to confirm people, even when elected, if their loyalty was suspect. But the crunch had come in 1890, when the Tsar had simply decided to alter the voting rules so drastically that the electorate was often reduced by more than half, and the gentry composed the vast majority of the board members. It was a shameful business, a calculated slap in the face of the simple Russian peasants, and Nicolai knew that his liberal-minded father had felt deeply embarrassed. 'We gentry really have to prove ourselves,' he repeatedly said. 'Otherwise what are we good for?' The result of this was that Misha Bobrov had worked himself into the ground; the tragedy was that he had achieved so little.

It was not his fault. The zemstvo zemstvo had organized grain stores; it had carefully monitored food allocations; Misha and others had toured the area continuously. But nothing could alter the fact that supplies were running low. 'In another eight weeks, all the grain will have gone,' Misha told his son. 'After that God knows. We've been trying to buy grain from other provinces not so badly hit. But ...' He spread his hands. 'Nothing.' had organized grain stores; it had carefully monitored food allocations; Misha and others had toured the area continuously. But nothing could alter the fact that supplies were running low. 'In another eight weeks, all the grain will have gone,' Misha told his son. 'After that God knows. We've been trying to buy grain from other provinces not so badly hit. But ...' He spread his hands. 'Nothing.'

While they themselves were not short of food, it was clear to Nicolai that the strain of the famine around them had been too much for his parents. His father looked grey and sunken, his usual optimism entirely gone. Anna, usually so decisive, seemed wan and hesitant. But she did take him aside and tell him firmly: 'Nicolai, you must take over. Your father can't go on.'

He toured the village. It was always the same. To his delight he found that Arina was still alive a small, shrivelled little babushka babushka, but with eyes as keen as ever. Timofei Romanov and his wife gave him a warm welcome. Their daughter, baby Arina as Nicolai thought of her, was now a pleasant, rather square-faced girl of seventeen. Only Boris seemed cold towards him; but Nicolai did not place great importance on that. Throughout the village, he found a calm resignation. The elder saw to it that each family had a little bread. There was still salted meat in some izbas izbas. And most families went out each day to try to catch fish through holes in the ice. 'But,' as Timofei remarked, 'I dare say you'll bury us, Nicolai Mikhailovich.'

At the monastery, which had grain stores, the monks had taken over the feeding of the nearby peasants, giving them flour each day. 'We have nine weeks' supply,' they told him.

'But the man upon whom everything now depends is at Russka,' his father told him. 'And that's Vladimir Suvorin.'

Vladimir: the elder grandson of that old terror Savva, and the brother of the unfortunate Peter Suvorin. Back at the time, deeming it unwise, Misha had never told his son about the incriminating letter of Peter's and how he had used it to blackmail old Savva. Since then he had preferred to keep the incident closed. Of Peter therefore, Nicolai knew only that he had run away, and appeared again some time later. 'I believe he's a professor in Moscow,' Misha told him. 'He never comes here.' Of Vladimir Suvorin, on the other hand, Nicolai had heard more. The powerful industrialist ran his factories firmly in Moscow and Russka, but fairly. His workers never laboured more than ten hours a day; no children were used; there were numerous safety precautions and both work and living quarters were clean; there were no cruel fines for minor infractions. And unlike some of Russia's leading industrialists, he had never suffered from a strike. In Moscow, Nicolai had heard, Vladimir had a huge house; but he came to Russka often. Having been away so much himself, however, Nicolai had never met him. 'What's he like?' he asked.

'Huge. And impressive,' his father had replied, so that Nicolai had a vision of some tall and forbidding figure like old Savva.

It was on the second morning that Vladimir Suvorin arrived at the Bobrov house. He was huge, all right. But not as Nicolai had supposed. In fact, he was unlike anyone Nicolai had seen before.

Vladimir Suvorin was six feet tall and built like a bear; but there any resemblance to the animal kingdom ended. Even as he stepped off the sled and walked towards the waiting family, his presence seemed to fill the place with a sense of authority as, pulling off a grey glove, he extended a huge, rather fleshy hand to old Misha and smiled kindly.

'My dear friend.' He seemed to envelop them all.

This impression was even more striking once they were inside. His big frame was encased in a beautifully cut coat that made his slight paunch seem only a fitting adjunct to his imposing chest. His large, square-cut face had just enough fleshiness to suggest controlled good living. His hair was thinning but cut short; his nose large but regular; his dark brown moustache and short beard perfectly manicured. Around his neck was a soft, grey silk cravat fixed with a large diamond pin. And about his person there was a faint and pleasant scent of eau de cologne.

Nicolai watched him, fascinated. Like all those who lived in St Petersburg, he had a slightly superior attitude to Moscow. Moscow was provincial, a place for merchants. In St Petersburg, Nicolai had moved in the best circles. He knew the men of the imperial court, cosmopolitan aristocrats. He knew nobles with great houses. Yet here was a man grandson of one of the Bobrov serfs who did not belong to these upper-class circles and yet who was, Nicolai sensed at once, even more cosmopolitan than they. He spoke Russian elegantly; by a few words he let fall, it was clear he spoke French. And in fact, though Nicolai did not then know it, Suvorin was comfortable in German and English too.

But what was this extraordinary aura that Suvorin had? He's like a monarch, or an eastern potentate, Nicolai thought. His black eyes, set wide apart, seemed to possess a comprehensive intelligence; above all, there was about him an astonishing sense of comfort and of power. He has perfect manners, yet he says and does exactly as he likes, and everyone obeys him, Nicolai guessed. It was the first time he had met a member of that special group, the cosmopolitan very rich. For though aged only forty-one, Vladimir Suvorin had long ago grown accustomed to the pleasant idea that, if he chose, there was almost nothing he could not buy. This knowledge, when combined with intelligence and culture, could make even the grandson of a serf into a prince.

And so, at once, the great man took them all over. Nicolai he immediately treated as a trusted colleague. 'Thank God you are here, Nicolai Mikhailovich.' Towards old Misha he was both courteous and protective. 'You have done so much, dear friend. It's time to let the younger generation take some of the burden now. But I know you will keep an eye on us all.' In two minutes, Nicolai felt proud to be swept into his orbit.

'There is news from the provincial governor,' he said. 'The government will supply grain. It's being shipped from the Ukraine and we shall have it in a month. As you know, we still have about eight weeks' supply left. I am going myself to speak to the governor, to make sure there are no slip-ups. So all we have to do is keep everyone in good heart. Yes, thank you, chere Madame chere Madame, I should love a glass of cordial.' And he sat down amongst them comfortably.

During his visit, Nicolai learned a little about Suvorin. He had lost a wife, married again and had a son. Normally he liked to travel two months a year. He knew Paris as well as he did Moscow. He knew personally such artists as Renoir and Monet; he knew the great writer Tolstoy and had been down to his estate at Yasnaya Polyana. Tchaikovsky he also knew. 'And his unfortunate wife,' he added with a sigh. This was a glittering world of literary men, crowded salons salons, connoisseurship and judicious patronage a world where high rank or extreme wealth were a passport to entry, as they are everywhere, but where only talent and excellence were tolerated. It was clear that, on top of this, Suvorin was a formidable man of business. Nicolai also, learned much about the work that the zemstvos zemstvos had done in the last few months. 'Without men like your father,' Suvorin told him frankly, 'the local administration would have broken down entirely. It's the had done in the last few months. 'Without men like your father,' Suvorin told him frankly, 'the local administration would have broken down entirely. It's the zemstvo zemstvo people in town and country who have held things together, not the central government at all.' people in town and country who have held things together, not the central government at all.'

And after he had gone, Misha remarked admiringly: 'Thank God we have him with us. He makes things happen. The authorities daren't ignore him.'

Though he had noticed Boris Romanov's coolness towards him, Nicolai would still have been surprised to hear the dispute raging in the izba izba of Timofei Romanov round that same time. of Timofei Romanov round that same time.

The disputants were old Arina and Boris. Timofei and his wife said little; as for the subject of the quarrel, the seventeen-year-old girl, her grandmother's namesake, no one thought of asking her at all.

'You can't do it,' Boris was fairly shouting. 'Those people are our enemies, only you're all too stupid to see it.' At this Timofei looked uncomfortable and old Arina shrugged contemptuously. 'Besides,' Boris cried, 'she should be here to help her parents.' But old Arina was obdurate. 'It would be one less mouth to feed,' Timofei's wife remarked at last.

'Better to starve,' Boris growled.

The years since the tragic fire that killed Natalia had done nothing to assuage the feelings of Boris Romanov. Indeed, as time passed, his sense that the Bobrovs and the entire gentry class were conspiring against him had grown even stronger. To Boris, the evidence was clear. Ten years ago, for instance, when it was rumoured that the government would finally abolish the burdensome payments the peasants had been making to their former owners ever since the Emancipation, the administration finally announced only a niggardly reduction of twenty-five per cent. 'And what the devil is the use of that?' Boris protested. Now the peasants' voting rights to the zemstvo zemstvo assemblies had been almost wiped out. 'Another swindle by the gentry,' Boris stormed. 'Now they even take our votes away.' And when, during the famine, old Timofei had pointed out the good work that Misha Bobrov was doing, Boris had only replied contemptuously: 'If that old criminal can do it, an honest peasant could do it better.' assemblies had been almost wiped out. 'Another swindle by the gentry,' Boris stormed. 'Now they even take our votes away.' And when, during the famine, old Timofei had pointed out the good work that Misha Bobrov was doing, Boris had only replied contemptuously: 'If that old criminal can do it, an honest peasant could do it better.'

His grandmother's decision that her granddaughter Arina should join the Bobrov household had therefore filled him with fury. Yet, since his father was head of the family, and Timofei was not prepared to contradict the determined old woman, there was nothing he could do.

'I think it would be best,' Timofei finally agreed, 'if they'll take her.'

And the old woman was certainly adamant. It was astonishing what force of will could be contained in that small frame; it was strange, too, how her determination to ensure the family's survival had now caused her to shift all her thoughts from her own beloved daughter to the next generation. Her memories of the last great famine, perhaps some guilt from the time she had nearly exposed her as a baby, now caused old Arina to fight for the girl with an implacable determination. If things got worse, there was only one house where there would certainly be food. 'I'll speak to them,' she said quietly. 'They'll take her.'

So it was that, shortly after Vladimir Suvorin had left, the Bobrov family was faced by old Arina and the girl. The old woman did not even have to say much. Anna Bobrov understood perfectly. 'Of course we'll take her,' she promised. And then, with a smile: 'My husband is tired. I'm sure he'll be glad of her help.'

By that afternoon the girl was installed. 'Now you'll be safe,' her grandmother whispered to her as she left. But there was one other message that remained, for some time, in the girl's mind. For just as she had departed the village, Boris had pulled her to one side and muttered: 'Go to those damned Bobrovs if you choose; but just remember, if you ever become their friend, you won't be mine any more.'

The next six weeks were busy for Nicolai Bobrov. His mother's prediction that the young Romanov girl would be useful soon proved to be accurate: a few days later, relieved of the strain of, coping alone with the famine, Misha Bobrov suddenly fell sick. Day after day he lay on his bed, seemingly too weak to move, and if it had not been for the calm, steady presence of this peasant girl who nursed him, Nicolai believed they might have lost the old man.

What a treasure she was, this baby Arina. She was fair-skinned with very light brown hair, and though one could not exactly call her pretty, there was a quietness and simplicity in her rather square, peasant's face that was very attractive. She had a quietness about her, like a nun, that made her a pleasant, peaceful presence in any room she entered. She was very devout. Anna and she would often walk over to the monastery, shawls tied over their heads, so that from a distance one could not have said which was lady and which was peasant. Yet she had also learned from her grandmother a huge fund of folk tales, and when she recited these, her gentle face and blue eyes would seem to glow with pleasure and with quiet amusement. Besides her daily nursing, it was this knowledge in which old Misha rejoiced. 'Tell me, little Arina, about the Fox and the Cat,' Nicolai would hear his father's voice weakly rasping as he passed the room. Or: 'Pass me that book, little Arina those Fairy Tales Fairy Tales by Pushkin. He has a story like the one you tell.' by Pushkin. He has a story like the one you tell.'

'Your tales remind me of when I was a boy,' he would tell the girl. 'Isn't it funny? We used to call your old grandmother young Arina then. And the tales you know come from another Arina her aunt, I suppose who was still alive when I was young.' And to Nicolai he would say: 'This young Arina, you know, she is the real Russia, the enduring heartland. Always remember that.' And sometimes, looking at her affectionately, he would doze off and dream of those sunlit days when Pushkin was still alive, and his Uncle Sergei was putting on theatricals at Bobrovo.

'If your father gets his health back, it'll be thanks to that girl,' Anna told her son. And indeed, Misha did seem to be gradually recovering his strength.

After three weeks Nicolai made a brief visit to St Petersburg to see his wife and children. Then he returned.

But there remained one huge problem: the promised grain supplies never arrived. 'And I shan't get well,' old Misha declared, 'until they do.' Messengers were sent to the governor by the zemstvo zemstvo and by Suvorin. Nicolai offered to return to St Petersburg to try to see certain high officials there. Every few days news came that the arrival of the grain was imminent, and everybody prepared. They still had a month's supply in hand, then three weeks, then two. and by Suvorin. Nicolai offered to return to St Petersburg to try to see certain high officials there. Every few days news came that the arrival of the grain was imminent, and everybody prepared. They still had a month's supply in hand, then three weeks, then two.

It was in mid-February that the message came through to the local zemstvo zemstvo. It was quite simple.

It was regretted that, owing to problems of transport and storage, the grain shipments previously notified would not be made.

And that was all.

'Do they realize what this means?' old Misha gasped from his bed. 'It means the people here are going to die. No one's even caught a fish in the river for two weeks. Two-thirds of the livestock has gone. Our people will be finished. I can't believe that even those fools in the bureaucracy would do such a thing.'

The news was round the whole area in hours. And when Nicolai went into the village that day, he was hardly shocked when Boris Romanov shouted at him: 'So, the people in St Petersburg have decided to kill us is that it? Do they want our carcasses for meat?' Nor was he surprised that this was greeted by nods of approval from the other villagers.

A week passed. The peasants were sullen. Another week. Many of the grain stores were now empty. A silence descended upon the village.

And then, one morning, grain began to arrive.

It was an extraordinary sight, lines of sleds, arriving from God knew where: a dozen; two dozen; three dozen. It was like a supply train for a small army. The sleds made their way ponderously into Russka where, it seemed, Suvorin's managers were ready to receive them at one of the warehouses. But a dozen of the sleds peeled off and made their way through the woods towards the village of Bobrovo. When they reached it, they continued up the slope to the house of Misha Bobrov; and as they approached, and people came to the windows of the house to watch them in astonishment, it could be seen that, riding in the front sled, was a large and powerful figure a figure who, wrapped in furs, his face glowing in the icy air, for once truly did resemble a mighty Russian bear. And it was the bear-like Vladimir Suvorin who now, with a happy grin, got down from the sled, strode over to where Misha so excited that he had insisted on leaving his bed was standing wrapped in a blanket, and gave him a mighty, bear hug. 'There, Mikhail Alexeevich, I've brought you and your village some grain. We can't have my old friend going hungry.'

'I told you he'd do it!' Misha cried to his son and his wife. 'I told you only Suvorin could pull it off. But how the devil,' he remarked to the industrialist, 'did you manage to prize it out of the governor, after they told us they had nothing?'