Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Strategically seated across the Council table from each other, the Revenue Officer Sergei Kuprin and the town’s sole banker Fyodor Izminsky, the Two Thieves, exchanged meaningful glances. In matters of finance they both regarded Anatoli Pobednyev as a conservative, even backward, fellow, who regarded something as money only if you could scratch a window pane with it. The Mayor did not recognise that the world had changed; wealth was no longer kept in a pot under the floorboards or even in the town’s bank overseen by Fyodor Izminsky, but flowed in and out on tides of paper and certificates of joint stock capital in Russian banks that had attracted such a level of foreign investment from French and German banks that the Tsar’s government could not allow them to fail. It had taken the three other directors of the Cholera Fund Trust – their two selves and the absent Kuibyshev – several weeks to persuade the Mayor to agree to invest part of the Funds, along with their own personal money, in speculation on the St Petersburg Bourse. Early news of their success had been tantalisingly positive but they were having to wait until Kuibyshev’s return to hear the full account. Now here the Mayor was, apparently taking an uncharacteristically hazardous risk and presenting a bullish demeanour. It was intriguing. Given that he had had the advantage of a fortnight’s preparation, what had Pobednyev thought of that had not yet occurred to them? As to his assertion that he could personally bear the cost of the convoy’s visitation, did he genuinely have sufficient liquidity to meet such an expense? Sergei Kuprin raised one bushy eyebrow in silent enquiry and received a barely perceptible nod from Izminsky.

“I’m sure I speak for all of us,” said Kuprin slowly, “when I say that there is no question in our minds that, given the extraordinary circumstances, Anatoli Mihailovich is the man we would most like to steer us through this crisis. I am sure we all have every confidence in his leadership at this moment.”

Izminsky nodded slowly in agreement.

“I think,” said Kavelin unctuously, “that we may have been a little hasty in our criticisms. It is quite understandable. We were all a little shocked by the Colonel’s sudden news. We should have known that His Excellency would have already thought of a plan that would resolve all our problems.”

With varying degrees of doubt, the others gave their assent to this expression of confidence. They watched as the Mayor languidly stretched out his hand and swept his badge of office back into the desk drawer.

“So, what is it?” asked Izminsky.

“What is what?”

“Your plan, Excellency. What is your plan?”

Mayor Pobednyev leaned forward, suddenly business-like, and regarded them all with a stern eye.

“It is simply this. As you know, we did not invite these people here. They have been sent to us. And although we are the only sizeable town hereabouts, we cannot be the only community in this position. These bastards have travelled all the way by train from St Petersburg, and by sleigh from Tiumen with changes of horses and so on, and we aren’t their final destination. Undoubtedly a budget exists for such an operation as big as this. Our task is to find it. Perhaps it is residing in the drawer of the Provincial Treasurer in Tobolsk, or locked in a safe in Peterhof. But rest assured, payment is guaranteed. In the meantime we have bills to meet. I suggest that Fyodor Fyodorovich here,” he said, pointing to Izminsky, “issues promissory notes from the Bank that will be met when the Council funds are reimbursed.”

Izminsky’s protest was forestalled by a peremptory wave of the Mayor’s hand.

“Be patient, Fyodor Fyodorovich, and let me finish,” he insisted. “I repeat, this ‘crisis’ could benefit us all. If you don’t believe me, ask Leonid Sergeivich here. He is already counting the profits from the sales of timber that were bought to make the sleighs.”

Sitting next to Kavelin, Nadnikov swung round and glared at him accusingly.

“They paid cash,” the timber merchant explained with a shrug.

“Don’t be so upset, Pavel Stepanovich,” the Mayor told Nadnikov. “Think instead of the quantity of food and grain that will be needed to equip a convoy of forty sleighs for a fortnight. Think, Nikita Osipovich,” he added, turning to Shiminski, “how many extra blankets and rugs they will need? And they will also be paid for in cash, no doubt. The commander of the escort will have enough money with him to cover such expenditure.”

If this news mollified Nadnikov, it did little to persuade Izminsky that the interests of the town’s bank were being protected.

“But, Anatoli Mihailovich, what about the Bank? Tobolsk and Peterhof could take months fighting it out between them. The Bank cannot be expected to issue notes without a firm date of settlement.”