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Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Two hundred souls,” he mused. “Hmm… Eighty seats at one rouble each and a hundred and twenty bench seats at 40 copecks. No, let us say 70 benchers just to be on the safe side. How much will Polezhayev want for the costumes and alterations? No more than ten, surely? Twelve perhaps… no, ten roubles or the Jew can go hang himself. Then there’s Belinsky, of course. He will bump up his prices the moment work begins, complaining that his men are being kept from more profitable labour. Allow at least twenty roubles for him. Scripts, programmes, posters, advertisements and extras… another twelve. Now, if everybody brought their own chairs like last year… And we could persuade Fyodor Gregorivich to provide seating from the hotel for free in exchange for the sole licence to sell refreshments… And perhaps a full case… no, half a case of wine to the good captain for the use of the barracks… that would leave how much? Sixty roubles at the very least. Probably more, if we include standing tickets at ten copecks each. All in all, a very respectable profit for one night’s work.”

Rubbing the palms of his hand together with satisfaction, he turned his attention back to the four men standing arguing in the centre of the room. Despite the assurances of Dr. Tortsov and Roshkovsky, Belinsky – who quite possibly was by now a little drunk – had not been persuaded that ‘this Chekhov fellow’ was not a propagandist for revolution and criminal outrage.

“But that is ridiculous!” Roshkovsky was saying, waving his hands above his head. “How can you be so prejudiced? Just because he was born in the South it doesn’t follow that he supports terrorism.”

“Andrey Vladimirovich is right!” Maslov broke in excitedly. “Do you think Colonel Izorov would have allowed us to proceed with this production if the plays were not of the highest moral calibre?”

It was fortunate for Belinsky, who was no admirer of the colonel, that the unflattering retort already forming in his mind died before it reached his lips. For at that precise moment, the double doors that separated the lounge from the landing outside were thrown back with a crash, revealing the stocky figure of the Chief of Police himself standing in the doorway.

For a second or two there was an embarrassed silence, then Dresnyakov gave a mirthless chuckle.

“Welcome, Colonel. We were hoping that you would be able to attend our little meeting.”

Standing sandwiched between Roshkovsky and Belinsky, Maslov felt himself quail as Colonel Izorov took a few steps into the room and closed the doors softly behind him. The policeman seemed not to have heard Dresnyakov’s greeting or, if he had, he had chosen to ignore it. Instead, he was glaring accusingly at each of them in turn, as if committing their faces to memory. Involuntarily, the librarian gave a low groan of despair. The colonel looked as if, for two copecks, he would arrest them all. One never knew with Izorov. Almost certainly the Chief of Police must have heard him mention his name.

But there is nothing wrong with that, surely? Maslov told himself. I said nothing wrong. It was all perfectly innocent.

Unless… Unless Chekhov had become a proscribed writer. The librarian’s head began to swim as the silence lengthened. He had no fewer than a dozen scripts sitting on his office desk at that very moment; more than sufficient to land him in trouble.

Perhaps he is not angry about the play at all, he thought. Maybe something else is bothering him.

But this hope was dashed to the ground the moment the policeman spoke.

“This play… When do you intend to perform it?”

Dresnyakov, to whom the question had been addressed, glanced warily at the other men and then back at the colonel.

“Actually, the doctor is in charge of the production,” he replied, “but I think we had all agreed upon Sunday the eleventh of next month.”

The unsmiling features of the Chief of Police betrayed nothing as he digested this piece of intelligence.

“Impossible,” he said at last.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said impossible. The play is cancelled.”

Dresnyakov opened his mouth to speak but the policeman had already turned to go, leaving the other members of the committee to regard each other with dismay. Only Belinsky did not seem unduly surprised at this sudden reversal of their plans. Advancing once more towards the half empty flask on the small wall table, the builder laughed softly.

“Ha! Yalta! I told you.”