Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

In this he spoke no less than the truth. Privately Fyodor Gregorivich held the Mayor’s wife in the lowest regard, calling her the Great Elephant Cow of Berezovo or, alternatively, The Stranded Whale. He would not wish to have his afternoon of recreational voyeurism spoilt by the discovery that in his absence she had been left unattended in his office to snoop to her heart’s content.

Madame Pobednyeva looked around the office speculatively.

“I am sure that I would be quite comfortable sitting here at his desk. I wouldn’t be in the way.”

With a gliding motion the head waiter moved deliberately to a position between the desk and the Mayoress.

“No, Madame,” he insisted gently, “I am sure that Fyodor Gregorivich would much prefer that I make you comfortable in our Mezzanine Lounge and bring you a tray of tea, courtesy of the Hotel, of course. You can sit on one of the sofas there, so much more comfortable than the hard chairs here in this office, and enjoy looking at the latest fashion papers from Petersburg.”

“Well…”

“And I can also bring you a selection of the biscuits from Gvordyen’s that have been made to a new recipe especially to accompany the dessert at tomorrow’s luncheon.”

“Biscuits?” repeated Madame Pobednyeva, mollified by this new inducement.

“Yes! We would greatly appreciate your discerning opinion about them. We do not want anything to spoil such an important occasion.”

“Yes, it is an important occasion,” she agreed, “which is why I simply must speak to Fyodor Gregorivich this afternoon about the seating list.”

“Ah yes, the list. Yes, that is most critical,” the head waiter said sympathetically as he continued to steer her out of the office. “I will make sure that Fyodor Gregorivich comes to see you immediately he returns to us.”

The Mayoress allowed herself to be escorted upstairs to the mezzanine lounge which she found to be unoccupied except for one other person. Fyodor Izminsky sat snoring gently in a chair on the far side of the hearth. Having made Madame Pobednyeva comfortable on one of the three plush sofas the Lounge boasted, the head waiter skilfully withdrew, leaving her to contemplate the sleeping banker.

She was surprised to see that Izminsky had fallen asleep while reading a copy of the Birzhevye Vedomosti, pages of which lay draped across his chest and tumbled to the floor. She had not formerly regarded him as a natural supporter of the Kadets, nor as a reader of a popular rag. Opening her purse she took out a small notebook and pencil and jotted down the initials ‘FFI / BV’ as a reminder to herself to mention the detail to her husband. It was a trifle, but she knew from experience how such small facts could be deployed to great effect in the hurly burly of town politics. Replacing the notebook, she sat back against the cushions that Sasha had solicitously provided for her and waited for her tray of refreshments.

* * *

Sitting in the palatial drawing room of Fyodor Izminsky’s house, Tatyana Kavelina waited patiently for Madame Izminskaya to reappear. Looking around her at the costly furnishings she reminded herself that, despite all its grandeur, she did not envy her friend’s existence. They had known each other since schooldays, and she had been pleased to receive her invitation to take English tea with her that afternoon. Privately she considered Raisa to be the only genuine friend that she had in Berezovo, and as a young woman she had wept when she had first learned of her friend’s betrothal to Fyodor Fyodorovich Izminsky. The banker’s house, despite being one of the five buildings in the town that could truly be regarded as being “stone-built”, had always struck her as being more of a temple than a home. Yes, she admitted to herself, she did envy Raisa the tidiness of her surroundings – she knew that her own household must look almost slovenly in comparison – yet even the tidiness had been taken to an extreme degree, creating an atmosphere of hygienic repression rather than ordered comfort.

It was curious, she reflected, how deep the imprint unthinkingly made by men was upon the supposedly “female” domain of the home. Here, in the house of the town’s sole banker, one found oneself passing through an uncatalogued exhibition hall, whereas Irena Kuibysheva’s household reminded one strongly of an exotic department store-cum-bazaar, so festooned was it with semiprecious trinkets, expensive ornaments, statuettes, paintings and wall hangings; souvenirs of the fur merchant’s frequent travels abroad. In contrast the house of the grain merchant Pavel Nadnikov was almost bare; as if his wife, Olga, acquiescing to his inherent suspicion of anything that might provide a hiding place for vermin, had foresworn a life cluttered by ornaments and soft furnishings.