‘It must be so, for Russia has so little to offer of its own, and what we have belongs to the Dark Ages. Look at our laws!’ He turned from one to the other. ‘Just a few years ago our noble Speransky at last completed the great codification of Russian laws, and what do they reveal? A concept of justice that would have looked barbaric in the west a thousand years ago. The individual has no rights; there are no independent judges; no trial by jury. Everything may be done – even to landowners like us – at the whim of the Tsar. And to this we Russians cheerfully submit like oriental slaves. No wonder progress is impossible.
‘My plan is simple. I shall go to England, France and Germany to gather material for an outline for a new Russia. A Russia modelled on the west. A complete re-structuring of our society.’ And he gazed at them in triumph.
‘But, my dear brother,’ Sergei laughed, ‘if you say things like that, people will think you are mad.’ It was true that only a few years before, a distinguished Russian thinker who had espoused a similar view had been declared officially mad by the infuriated authorities.
Ilya, however, was not at all abashed. ‘The fault of that author,’ he declared, ‘was that even he did not go far enough. For here,’ he tapped the arm of his chair excitedly with his finger, ‘here is the true originality of my approach. I shall show that the key to our spiritual salvation lies not in religion, not in politics, not even in justice, but in economics. And here,’ he smiled complacently, ‘I have my bible and my prophet: I refer of course to the great Scotsman, Adam Smith, and his book The Wealth of Nations.’
Indeed, the writings of Adam Smith, the father of capitalist economics and free markets, were well known to Russian intellectuals at this time. The first Russian translation of Smith had appeared back in 1803. Ilya now expounded, with relish, the great economist’s ideas on enlightened self-interest and economic efficiency. ‘Everything flows from this,’ he declared, ‘even the freeing of the serfs.’
If Alexis had looked bemused during most of this, he now suddenly became attentive.
‘Freeing the serfs?’ he demanded. ‘Why?’
‘Because, my dear brother,’ Ilya explained, ‘numerous Russian economists over the last two decades have conclusively shown that, all other considerations aside, if you free your serfs, you yourself will actually be better off.’ He smiled. ‘Think of it. A free peasant, paid for what he produces, has incentive. Your serf, forced to work for no reward, does as little as he can get away with. It’s as simple as that.’ He paused. ‘I promise you, this view is well understood even in official circles. Only our Russian inertia holds us back.’
For several moments Alexis was quiet while he considered this. But when at last he spoke, he did so not in any anger but in genuine puzzlement.
‘Do you really mean then,’ he asked, ‘that each individual in society should act for himself, considering his own interest paramount? Do you mean that the peasant should strive to get as rich as he can and rely only upon his own hard work?’
‘Yes. Pretty much.’
‘And if his fellow peasant, who is weaker, falls behind, is he to be allowed to suffer?’
‘He may be helped, but, yes.’
‘And what about families like ours? Our whole role in history has been to serve the Tsar and our country. Should I be at home looking for profit like a merchant instead?’ He shook his head sorrowfully.
‘We all want to serve a cause, Alexis,’ Ilya explained, ‘but I am speaking of money and of markets.’
‘No,’ the other rejoined. ‘You are speaking of men and their actions. And if all men act only for themselves, as you suggest, then where is religion, where is discipline, where is obedience and humility? I see only chaos and greed.’ It was not often that Alexis was brought to such eloquence. It was obviously heartfelt. ‘I’m sorry, Ilya, but if that is your idea of progress, it is not mine. This is the evil, self-centred way of the west – and you are certainly right that it comes from the west. It is what Russia has fought against for centuries. I, and our Church, and even I suspect our serfs, will oppose it as long as we have breath.’
And sadly he got up, bade them both goodnight, and left them.
For a long time after he had left Sergei and Ilya continued to talk. They discussed Ilya’s journey, which he planned to begin that very autumn; they discussed literature, philosophy and many other matters. And it was far, far into the night when Sergei finally turned and said: ‘You know, my dear brother, Alexis was not altogether wrong about your ideas. You insult our poor old Russia, yet you are also wrong about her.’
‘How so?’
Sergei sighed. ‘In the first place, you want to bring efficiency to Russia. I tell you frankly, it cannot be done. Why? Because Russia is too big, and the weather is too bad. This is the wasteland the Romans never conquered. The west joins its towns by roads. Yet what have we got? One! One metalled road in the whole empire, from Moscow to St Petersburg – planned by Peter the Great but not executed until 1830 when he’d been dead a hundred years. Europe has railways. What have we? They started building one from the Russian to the Austrian capital last year and the Tsar himself has declared he thinks it is dangerous for people to move about so much. Russia is not the bustling west, my brother, and it never can be. Russia will be slow and inefficient until the Second Coming. And shall I tell you something? It doesn’t matter.
‘Which brings me to my second objection. Your prescription for Russia comes from the head. It is logical, reasonable, clear-cut. Which is exactly why it has nothing to do with the case.
‘The Russians will never be moved by such things. That is what the west will never comprehend. It is the deep weakness of the west, as we see it, that it does not know that to move Russia, you must move her heart. The heart, Ilya, not the mind. Inspiration, understanding, desire, energy – all four come from the heart. Our sense of holiness, of true justice, of community – these are of the spirit: they cannot be codified into laws and rules. We are not Germans, Dutch, or English. We are part of Holy Russia, which is superior to all of these. I, an intellectual, a European like yourself, say this to you.’
‘You are one of this new group then, who claim a special destiny for Russia, apart from the rest of Europe, whom people call Slavophiles, I take it?’ Ilya remarked. He had read a little of this group lately.
‘I am,’ Sergei said, ‘and I promise you, Ilya, it’s the only way.’
And so at last, their minds full of these grand and universal thoughts, the two brothers affectionately embraced each other and retired to their beds.
At eleven o’clock the next morning, Sergei departed for the Ukraine.
As he strolled through Vladimir that August morning, Alexis Bobrov was in a rather good temper.
Just before leaving, he had received a letter from his son Misha announcing that he would be joining his family at Russka for ten days on his way from his regiment to St Petersburg. He should be arriving at the very time I get back, Alexis thought contentedly. How pleasant that would be.
The summer had gone rather well. That accursed Savva Suvorin had kept quiet. On the estate, despite widespread failures in some areas, prospects for an excellent harvest looked promising. In the village there had been a marriage: Arina’s daughter Varya had married young Timofei Romanov, Misha’s childhood playmate. He liked them both. The Romanovs were always respectful. He had taken a particular interest, let the young couple off a year’s obrok, and thoroughly enjoyed giving them his blessing at the wedding. Whatever Ilya might say, that was how things were meant to be in Russia.