Vasily recognised Ryleev’s satirical ode of a few years earlier, in which the identity of the Emperor’s favourite had been barely concealed.

  ‘Did that one really get past the censor?’ said Ryleev, grinning as he passed round the bottle. ‘But seriously, when the time comes, I think the revolution will be fully supported, maybe even led, by some of these oppressed serfs and, of course, the soldiers and veterans now suffering in Arakcheyev’s miserable military settlements.’

  ‘We don’t want to see a repeat of the Terror in France,’ Nikita said. ‘That can’t – must not – happen in Russia. In the end, it would be self-defeating, as it proved to be there.’

  ‘If the people choose to rise up and wreak vengeance, no one should be surprised,’ Ryleev said. ‘And, personally, I shouldn’t try to stop them. You can’t cut down a wood without a few splinters flying.’

  They fell silent as Andrieux, the proprietor, came up to check that all was well. When he had left, the conversation moved on. Bestuzhev spoke with feeling about the savagery with which some of his fellow officers treated the common soldiers. Ryleev spoke of a cousin whose sister had been seduced and abandoned by a scion of the aristocratic Orlov family. Nikita discussed at some length the probability of a liberal-minded senator joining the movement when the time was right.

  Vasily listened, completely absorbed. Of course, at school, boys had passed round odes and pamphlets of a subversive kind, often childishly rude. Some had been penned by Ryleev. It had all seemed daring and exciting, even dangerous, when some boy got caught. But there had never been much substance behind it. It had seemed quite remote. These men, in contrast, might speak lightly and sound humorous, but there was nothing frivolous about their intentions.

  Eventually, some of the company stood up to leave. Vasily rose from the table, too. His head spun a little. Perhaps he would walk around for a while outside. As he made for the door, Ryleev called him back.

  ‘Vasily Nikolayevich,’ he said. ‘Could I detain you a little longer? And you, too, Mikhail.’ As they sat down again, Ryleev reached for more champagne. The lamplight illuminated his pale face. His strange eyes were glittering. He placed his hands on the table in front of him. ‘Why did you come along this evening, Count?’

  Vasily looked up, tempted to give voice to his growing convictions, but how far could he, should he, commit himself? He spoke slowly, considering his words. ‘I’m here because in recent weeks I’ve come to understand, to believe, that Russia needs to change. And it seems that the only way to bring about that change is to reform our way of government, end the absolute power of the Tsar. Mikhail has played his part in bringing me to that conclusion. He doesn’t let these matters rest, as you know.’

  Mikhail studied the tablecloth.

  ‘Since I returned from Europe,’ Vasily continued. ‘I’ve found it increasingly hard to ignore the evidence of my own eyes. You know, I suppose, that we witnessed that young workman being beaten insensible on Nevsky? I found that barely believable. And there have been other incidents since my return home, trivial in the overall scheme of things, I suppose, but crucial to those whose lives were affected.’

  Ryleev was nodding his head.

  ‘I had already begun to develop an interest in social and political theory,’ Vasily said, ‘but now I’ve moved beyond that. If you recognise that there is something rotten in our way of government, then I feel it’s shameful to do nothing about it. But I’m not an extremist, Ryleev; I agree with Nikita. I’m not sure violence achieves anything but more violence.’

  ‘But you do realise,’ Ryleev said, ‘what you’ve just said would in some circles be regarded as treason? Some would already consider you a confirmed revolutionary! What is revolutionary to an autocrat, of course, is to most right-thinking people merely a response to the spirit of the age. It’s an impulse to force our beloved country to swim with, rather than against, the tide of progress.’

  Ryleev leant across the table. ‘Look, Vasily. You’re plainly a man of conscience and a lively thinker. You owe it to yourself to develop your recently aroused interests. You already understand, you have already seen, that despotism drains politics of all morality, that it’s an affront to the country you love, and, therefore, as a moral being, you have no option but to fight for change.

  ‘At the very least you should come along to our meetings. We have what you might call a discussion group. It meets privately here in the city from time to time. We are not alone; we are not unique; there are similar societies elsewhere, and of course, there are people in the government now, men of influence, who will certainly rise up and join the struggle when the time is right.

  ‘I understand what you say about violence. There’s no need, you know, to commit to more than supporting our cause. You must take an oath of secrecy, of course, but you won’t have to take up arms. There are others who are better suited to that. They’ll force the issue when the moment comes.’

  Ryleev paused and leant back, rubbing his chin. He looked at Vasily and held his gaze. ‘But you should have no illusions. Although I confess that, at present, the day of reckoning, of sacrifice, seems some way off. In the end, there will be resistance, violence, blood will be spilt. Your blood might be spilt. The danger is greatest for those who move first! But it will be worth it; it will be a price well worth paying. You must see it as a debt incurred for mankind’s better future. You will think about the lives that will be saved, the generations of people who will be liberated.’

  Ryleev took another sip of champagne. His unblinking eyes seemed to paralyse Vasily, his eloquence disarm him.

  Twice he opened his mouth to reply, and twice he shut it again. The silence seemed to stretch across the table like something physical. He tried to weigh the poet’s words. He had a choice, of course, but he knew his heart had already made it.

  ‘Yes, Kondraty Feodorovich, I will join your cause. I feel I have no option.’

  Ryleev gave the sweetest of smiles and swayed back on his chair. Mikhail rose to his feet and, embracing Vasily, said, ‘Oh, Vasya. So you will join us! I hoped you would.’

  Later, Vasily and Mikhail sat wrapped in furs in the chilly divan room in the Prince’s palace and talked through the night. As he left just before dawn, Mikhail turned back and said: ‘Well, Vasily my friend, together we shall be famous! We shall make history.’ Pulling on his cap, he disappeared into the chill of the morning.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Two days later, Mikhail’s orderly brought a message asking Vasily to join him at the Russian American House after dinner. As he read it, his heart beat faster. What did this mean? What did Ryleev want with him? Would he now have to take some sort of oath?

  When he arrived, Ryleev, Mikhail and Captain Bestuzhev were already deep in conversation. The poet waved him to a window seat. Bright lamps lit up the poet’s huge desk. Bookcases flanked a painted dresser, and on the walls were scenes of Alaska and a wooden Russian church perched on the Californian coast. Ryleev’s small daughter warbled somewhere nearby, accompanied by the softer tones of his wife.

  They had just lit cigars when a note was brought in. As Ryleev read it, his pale face came alive. ‘So he’s finally called him out!’

  ‘Who’s called who out, Kondraty?’ Bestuzhev blew smoke into the air and smoothed the braid on his dark uniform.

  ‘I told you the other evening, I think, about my cousin Konstantin Chernov, the young guardsman whose sister has been so vilely treated by that prig Novosiltsev? Well, Konstantin has challenged the scoundrel and asked me to be his second. I’ll agree, of course.’

  ‘Is there no hope of a compromise?’ Vasily asked.

  ‘Of course, I must try to arrange one, but I doubt I’ll succeed. Konstantin is determined to fight. His sister’s reputation is at stake; Maria is a great beauty, and Novosiltsev was very taken with her. The hussar led the girl to believe that he would marry her. They became very close; too close, if you take my meaning. But he simply disappeared when his distinguished family insisted that he abandon what seemed to them an entirely inappropriate connection. Chernov wrote to him seeking an explanation. The man played him along with excuses for a while, but it’s clear that Novosiltsev has no intention of keeping his word. His arrogance and dishonesty are astounding, but of course that’s only what one might expect from one of his sort.’

  Ryleev set the note aside and perched on the edge of his desk. ‘Well, I shall need some support, gentlemen. Can any of you accompany me? You’ll have to leave town tomorrow to avoid attention.’

  Vasily’s stomach turned over. Were they expecting him to go?

  ‘I’ll come along,’ said Bestuzhev, his thin boyish face bright beneath his unruly curls. He seemed young to be a captain. ‘Chernov’s a decent sort, deserves support.’

  Mikhail shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Kondraty, I can’t be there. We’re on guard duty at the Palace this week. If it got out I’d dodged that to come fighting with you, my promotion prospects would be set back for years.’

  Ryleev turned towards Vasily, his bright eyes narrow and a smile around his lips. ‘What about you, Belkin? I think you’re pretty free at present.’

  Mikhail sat up. ‘Oh, no, Vasily can’t come…’

  ‘Why not? Let him answer for himself. Do you fancy a drive out into the country?’

  ‘No, really, Kondraty, he’s too… and his uncle…’

  ‘Let him answer for himself, Mikhail,’ Ryleev repeated. ‘Come on! Your brother Ivan, his classmate, has been fighting in the Caucasus for years.’

  Mikhail shrugged and settled back. Vasily considered. Duelling was illegal, but participants rarely seemed to face punishment. It should be safe enough. Only Irina might miss him. His uncle was busy and distracted; the Prince had taken to his bed with a chill. Besides, if this was some sort of test of his courage, of his resolve, he knew he mustn’t fail it. He stretched out his legs and tried to look unconcerned.

  ‘Of course I’ll come with you, Kondraty Feodorovich.’

  The woods were flat and grey in the hour before sunrise. Pines, a few oaks, larches and groves of birch stretched in all directions. The track from the main road along which they had come wound back through the gloom. The duel was due to start in half an hour, but there was no sign yet of Ryleev and Chernov, or of the party supporting his opponent.

  Vasily and Bestuzhev had driven out of town yesterday afternoon with Yakov and the Captain’s orderly and had put up at an inn some versts away. These woods, to the east of the city, were a popular choice for the resolution of matters of honour, and, although they could have been travellers, or out hunting, the landlord had appraised them with knowing eyes.

  Despite anxiety about the morrow, they spent a companionable evening. Bestuzhev told Vasily of his years in the navy: how he had joined as a cadet at the age of twelve and had been occupied after the war transporting troops from France. He had also served for two dull and chilly years with the northern fleet in Archangel. Later, the government’s neglect of the fleet had prompted him to join the army. As a lieutenant in the Moscow Guards Regiment, he had rapidly come to the attention of his superiors, due, he said, to his skill in drilling troops effectively without recourse to brutality. He had recently been promoted to staff captain.

  Now, in the chill September morning, Bestuzhev was pacing backwards and forwards, crunching over pine cones at the edge of the broad glade. His orderly sat on a fallen tree, surrounded by browning drifts of ferns, their spear-shaped leaves rimed with a razor edge of frozen dew.

  They heard the carriage before they saw it. It came to a halt and stood, swaying, some distance away. A bright coat of arms shone on its glossy panels. Four men climbed out: Novosiltsev’s party. An older man wore the uniform of a Captain of Hussars; the other three, like Vasily and Bestuzhev, wore frock coats and top hats. It was easy to identify Novosiltsev. Bulky and blond, he was the youngest of the four, and his forced cheerful laugh could be heard from some distance away.

  Finally, a few minutes after the appointed time, Ryleev and Chernov arrived in an open gig. They passed Novosiltsev’s supporters and, crossing the clearing, came to a halt within a few yards of Vasily and Bestuzhev. Ryleev leapt out and, clapping his hands together, stepped forward to greet them. Chernov remained seated in the gig for a moment, looking up at the trees and the sky.

  Vasily, his throat tight, watched as the guardsman climbed down from the carriage. A slight figure who looked younger than his twenty years, he moved with the light step and lithe grace of a deer. His soft brown hair curled above a fine-boned face that could only be described as beautiful – as beautiful, perhaps, as that of his forsaken sister. He shook himself and squared his shoulders. ‘Thank you for coming, gentlemen,’ he said in a clear firm voice as he shook their hands. He didn’t seem nervous. Perhaps all would be well. He turned towards Ryleev. ‘Well let’s get this job done, Kondraty, and then we can go for breakfast.’

  The Captain of Hussars, Novosiltsev’s second, stood on the grass in the centre of the clearing. Ryleev now moved to meet him. Formalities had apparently already concluded, as well as final attempts at reconciliation. A box was being carried from the carriage. As Ryleev weighed each pistol in his hands, Vasily could see the gleam of their fine silver fretwork.

  ‘I’m told they’ve agreed eight paces…’ Bestuzhev said. ‘They seem to mean business.’

  Vasily swallowed. Eight paces were close to the minimum permitted under the Code. The guns were loaded. Chernov and Novosiltsev moved to join their seconds and took their weapons. They stood back-to-back. The seconds withdrew, and the signal was given.

  Vasily had to force himself not to look away. As the men walked forward, leaden time seemed to linger over each step. They turned. Less than a second divided the two shots that shattered the silence. Stinking smoke curled across the clearing and the grating calls of startled crows sounded in the sky. Both men were on the ground. It was over.

  ‘I think Chernov’s hit in the thigh,’ Bestuzhev said. ‘But we must stay here.’ Vasily couldn’t have stirred had he wished to: the Captain was holding his arm in a ferociously strong grip.

  The hussar lay hunched on the ground, groaning with pain. One of Novosiltsev’s party, clearly a doctor, hurried to examine him. The major removed his coat and held him while the doctor pressed a wad of white silk to his abdomen. A minute or so later, he was supported to his carriage. Then the doctor turned to Chernov. Shaking his head, he knelt and exposed the young man’s pale shirt. Blood was pumping freely onto the sand. The bullet had found not the guardsman’s thigh but the soft flesh of his stomach.

  ‘It seems I was wrong.’ Bestuzhev released Vasily and stared at the ground.

  Ryleev stood by the gig, his pale face impassive. The doctor finished his work. There was little difficulty in lifting Chernov’s light frame into the gig. Vasily drew out his kerchief and twisted it helplessly. The slender trunks of the pine trees seemed to blur. Nausea rose in his throat.

  Bestuzhev took his arm again, more gently now. ‘There’s nothing more for us to do, Vasily Nikolayevich. We’ve given our support. We must just wait and pray.’ He extracted a flask from his pocket, took a swig, and offered it to Vasily, who shook his head. The brief wave of sickness had passed, but his heart was heavy. What a meaningless waste of life! Why had he agreed to come?

  The vehicles carrying the wounded men rolled away up the track. A sudden breeze caught the trees, troubling the yellowing leaves. Bestuzhev’s man fetched their carriage, and, after some minutes, they followed the slow cavalcade back to St Peterburg.

  Later, they sat, subdued and thoughtful, in Ryleev’s rooms. The poet had taken his cousin to his quarters at the barracks of the Semenyovsky Guards a short distance away. Now he walked in briskly showing no sign of grief, or even of concern, and, going to his desk, started to pile up some papers.

  ‘Well?’ Bestuzhev finally asked.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no hope for him… he’ll linger for a day or so, perhaps, but…’ Ryleev didn’t look up.

  ‘And Novosiltsev?’

  ‘They’ve taken him home to his family. He’s in much the same state. Two fatalities! An unusual outcome, I must say. But Konstantin, at least, has made his peace with God and seems resigned to his fate.’

  Ryleev turned towards them, setting down his sheaf of papers. ‘But the important point is this, gentlemen: my cousin should not – must not – die in vain! It’s vital that his terrible fate delivers a strong message to the world.’ He paced backwards and forwards across the room, waving his arms. ‘His funeral will be an ideal time to express in boldest terms the contempt of all right-thinking people for the vile behaviour of the aristocratic elite. We have a perfect example in Novosiltsev’s arrogant and shameless conduct! Yes, we must make sure that Chernov’s funeral is an unanswerable protest on behalf of the weak against the strong!’

  Vasily looked at Bestuzhev. He was nodding in agreement. Had both men forgotten that their friend was dying? Was a political gesture the only thing of importance? Had Ryleev sought a victim, a death, simply to make a point? Had Konstantin Chernov been deliberately goaded into fighting this duel? Surely that couldn’t be so, but it was clear that the poet wasn’t going to miss this opportunity to exploit his tragedy. What had Ryleev said at Andrieux’s? Blood will be spilt, perhaps your blood will be spilt. In a war, casualties couldn’t be avoided. Chernov’s death must be seen as a sad but necessary sacrifice, evidence of commitment to the cause they had all chosen to embrace. Vasily’s heart seemed to swell within him, whether from exhilaration or fear he couldn’t tell.

  On the day of Chernov’s funeral at the Smolensky Cemetery, a great throng converged on the burial place of the young officer. A cortege of some two hundred carriages blocked the city streets, while a looping procession of mourners followed the coffin on foot.

  As Vasily stood with Mikhail by the freshly dug grave, waiting for the ceremony to begin, he recognised a tall figure standing some way distant.

 

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