For a while she found it hard to believe. Her mother and the Socialist? And apart from her disgust she had thought: How could she do such a thing to poor Papa? Yet he tolerates her. He is a saint. And ever since, though she said nothing, she thought of her mother as a secret enemy.

And it was unfortunate, therefore, that on the very evening of Mrs Suvorin's remark about Karpenko, Popov should have chosen to come again.

Had Nadezhda known Popov's mission that night, however, she would have been still more astonished. Even more, perhaps, than was Mrs Suvorin when she heard it.

'Would you like,' he asked simply, 'to run away?'

How strange. When he was younger the idea would have been unthinkable, but now he was wondering whether to give up.

A few years ago, he had hoped to extract money from the Suvorins for the Bolshevik cause. Knowing all he did, he supposed he might have. Yet he had not.

God knew, the party needed funds. Not long ago a new Bolshevik newspaper had been started with articles by a strange young fellow from Georgia whose writing reminded one of a priest intoning the liturgy. 'Stalin' he had called himself, in the revolutionary manner man of steel. All that year Popov had tried to find funds for Pravda Pravda, but he had never asked Mrs Suvorin.

She had become a being apart. He supposed he loved her. And now he was thinking, instead, of asking her to finance their personal flight.

For in 1913, Popov was weary. There was no hope of revolution. Lenin's attempt to reunite the Socialist left had met with little success. There had been more arrests. Even young Stalin had been exiled to Siberia. Truly, it seemed to him, he had done all that reasonably could be done.

'We could go abroad,' he suggested.

And, to her own astonishment, Mrs Suvorin, for a long moment, considered it.

He was an extraordinary man. She had learned much from him. He had caused her to think long and hard about her life; and he had even altered her political outlook. 'I do think we must have democracy,' she had finally confessed. 'I just can't see anything else that's fair. I still want, personally, to keep the Tsar; but we need a Constituent Assembly.' It had become a point of secret passion with her.

Yet he also troubled her. Talking to him about the revolution it was as if, sometimes, he had grown a protective covering a carapace that shut out all human feelings that might interfere with the business in hand. At such times she would think: He would kill and never care.

And now the revolutionary had surrendered. He was smiling almost sheepishly. And she wanted to take him in her arms.

The door burst open quite suddenly, as Nadezhda stepped into the room. She was wearing a long dressing gown and her hair was loose down her back. She was shaking, yet also smiling.

'Ah, yes,' she said calmly. 'My mother worries about my friends. Perhaps she would prefer it if they were Bolsheviks.'

Popov gazed at her, but said nothing.

'Would you, Mama?' she insolently asked. Then with sudden fury: 'Just so you know I know how you treat poor Papa.' And turning to Popov: 'You ought to be locked up. Perhaps you will be.'

'Nadezhda, go to your room,' Mrs Suvorin said promptly. But to Popov she had to murmur: 'You had better leave.' And to his look of enquiry she could only shake her head sadly. 'Impossible.'

Both mother and daughter knew, from then on, that they would never mention the incident again.

1914, August Slowly and solemnly, through the dusty summer heat, the procession wound through the streets. Priests in their jewelled robes, and wearing heavy mitres, led the way. Some carried icons, others huge banners. A choir was chanting. And as they passed, like waves unfurling themselves along a shore, a sea of hands rose and made the sign of the cross, while heads and backs bowed low. For this was Holy Russia still; and Russia was at war.

Alexander Bobrov watched with tears of emotion in his eyes. What a summer it had been. There had been a drought, and a total eclipse of the sun. Every peasant in every village had therefore known that some disaster was probably at hand. But now that it had come, here in the streets of Moscow, it was as if some wonderful religious transformation had taken place. Suddenly all differences were forgotten, all Russians became brothers, united in defence of the fatherland.

Behind the icons, someone was carrying a huge portrait of the Tsar. It might have seemed strange, had anyone paused to consider it, that this man with scarcely a drop of Russian blood in his veins, and who resembled his cousin King George V of England as much as anyone, should be the central figure in this almost Asiatic pageantry. His serious, rather unimaginative face with its short brown beard gazed out, not like some icon, nor like the grim rulers of Muscovite times, but in his own persona a puzzled, well-meaning, and rather reluctant German prince, trapped by destiny in an alien eastern empire. But he was the Tsar, the little father of all the Russians; and now as his portrait passed, the people bowed.

Alexander bowed too. He was in uniform now. And tomorrow he would leave to fight.

How had it begun, this gigantic mobilization that was about to shake the world?

The events down in the Balkans which had sparked the conflict off were simple enough. In 1908, when Austria backed by Germany had annexed Bosnia and Herzegovina, she had signalled her intentions to expand, but it had seemed the threat could be contained. The summer of 1914 ended that hope. When Bosnian terrorists assassinated the Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand at Sarajevo, Austria had insisted it was the doing of next-door Serbia and demanded an apology with humiliating terms. Serbia had at once complied. And Austria had then refused to accept it and prepared to move on her. 'There's no question now: Austria and Germany mean to dominate all the Balkan states. That means they'll control Constantinople and the Black Sea,' he had declared to his father. But apart from such an obvious strategic consideration, there was another which weighed with Alexander just as much.

'The Serbs are fellow Slavs, and fellow Orthodox,' he declared. 'Holy Russia must be their protector. We must go to their aid.' It was exactly what Russia had done.

Might it not have remained a regional conflict, though? God knows, there had been intermittent wars down in the Balkans for centuries. For a short time, with England's Lord Grey engaging in frantic diplomacy, it seemed that it might. But it was not to be: once put in motion, the juggernaut of war rolled on. Russian troops were sent to aid Serbia; Germany declared war on Russia; then France and Britain followed. By August, the civilized world was beginning a general conflict.

At least, thank God, it would be a short war. Everyone was agreed about that. That very morning, Alexander had received a thoughtful letter from his father, still a member of the Duma, in St Petersburg.

The whole point, my dear boy, is this: Germany has taken a huge gamble, that she can avoid a war on two fronts, against France in the west and Russia in the east at the same time.Her vaunted Schlieffen Plan is that she can race through Belgium into northern France, encircle Paris and win outright on the western front in under three months before Russia has time to mobilize. Then she will turn upon us.I can tell you, by the way, that certain people with good intelligence on this matter inform me that the Germans have quite detailed plans for us then. The empire is to be broken up into regions the Baltic provinces, the Ukraine, and so on, leaving us only ancient Muscovy. Think of it our mighty empire broken up!But it won't happen because the Germans have made a blunder. Russia can mobilize much faster than they plan for. And if we attack fast, with our vast resources of manpower, Germany will be faced with the very war on two fronts that she cannot sustain. She'll have to capitulate.The general opinion here both in our government circles and in the embassies is that the war will be over by Christmas.

Alexander had gone to volunteer at once. As the only son of his family, he was technically exempt, but he was longing to take part. Given his social status, of course, he would be an officer and he was off the next day to begin training. 'But by the time we've got through the existing reserve,' he was told, 'it will all be over. So you needn't expect to fight.'

He was wearing a uniform already. He was proud of that. It added to his mood of exaltation.

And only one thought troubled him. Soon he must go to bid farewell to Nadezhda. And after what had happened, would she even speak to him?

How could he have been so foolish? It had been two days before at the Suvorin house. He had gone there to tell Nadezhda he was going into the army. He had been feeling rather proud of himself: there was, even nowadays, something glamorous about a fellow in an officer's uniform.

And then he had found Karpenko there.

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 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.