Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Beyond the prison walls there were several citizens within the town who were already regretting the enthusiasm with which Berezovo had prepared to greet its infamous visitors. The Pobednyevs’ household remained in darkness, its curtains and shutters drawn as if in mourning. In the warmth of the breakfast room, still dressed in her night attire, Madame Pobednyeva sat at the table, drinking a cup of boiled water and contemplating the ruin of her husband’s ambitions. Her head ached, her stomach heaved; even her limbs felt as if they had been wrenched from their sockets overnight.

How could Captain Steklov have done it? the Mayor’s wife tormented herself. To pretend to arrest Illya Kuibyshev! It was unforgiveable. And why, oh why did we laugh so much?

One thing was certain: Irena Kuibysheva wouldn’t be laughing at that moment; nor would Leonid Kavelin. And what about her own poor Tolly and his statue? He had appeared so comatose that morning that he might have been dead. Wearily she put her husband’s health in the hands of his Maker and took another sip of the boiled water. Even the prospect of imminent widowhood could not stir her enough to face climbing the stairs to their bedroom. She groaned as a timid knock came at the door. It was her maid, Masha.

“Ma’am, these letters have arrived,” the girl announced as she laid several envelopes and a dish bearing a moist flannel in front of her, “and I’ve brought this to cool your brow.”

“Thank you, Masha.”

“Is there anything else I can do, Ma’am?” the maid enquired solicitously.

“No thank you. That will be all.”

Gathering up the flannel Madame Pobednyeva held it to her face and groaned again. She would never eat and drink so much again, she vowed. She would live on boiled water and rice, like a Chinaman. Dabbing at her temples with the flannel she began to examine the morning’s post. Three letters for herself and one for Tolly. One of the letters addressed to her bore the unmistakable classical script of Madame Wrenskaya. Laying the flannel down, she opened the envelope and shakily drew out a gilt-edged card. Madame Wrenskaya was at home to her that afternoon.

The thought of having to give the old woman the satisfaction of crowing over the collapse of her husband’s plans made her grimace. Flinging the card to the floor, she opened the second envelope. It was another “At Home”; this time from Raisa Izminskaya. If she wasn’t going to go to Madame Wrenskaya’s, she told herself crossly, she certainly wasn’t going to attend Raisa Izminskaya’s post mortem; not after she had fought her for a place on the reception platform the previous afternoon. Madame Izminskaya’s invitation fluttered down to join Madame Wrenskaya’s.

She opened the third envelope, telling herself that its contents could not be worse than those which had gone before. With relief, she saw that it was only a bill from Polezhayev the tailor, for his daughter’s handiwork. Despite her sour temper, Madame Pobednyeva put it to one side. The amount was, after all, not excessive; it was quite reasonable. She looked at it again. In fact it was very reasonable: about a third of what one of Delyanov’s outworkers would have charged, and the needlework had been particularly fine. Still, there was no hurry for settlement: the girl was a Jewess, after all. The bill could wait until the end of the month.

The remaining letter, addressed to “His Excellency the Mayor, Anatoli Mihailovich Pobednyev”, lay unopened on the table in front of her. Picking it up she held it to her nose, recoiling sharply at the scent of cheap scent. She turned it over in her hand. On the reverse was the legend “From the HOTEL NEW CENTURY, BEREZOVO”. Frowning, she slit it open and pulled out the sheet of paper inside and found that it was another bill.

What a fool Fyodor Gregorivich is! she thought. He should have addressed this to the Town Council.

Smoothing out the bill, she ran her eye over the itemised account and gasped. The total came to over sixty roubles! A cold hand gripped her heart. Was it possible that the proprietor had made a mistake? Had that fool of a husband of hers privately arranged to pay for the banquet, just as he had paid for the drinks at the Drama Committee Casting Night? Were there no lengths to which he would not go, she wondered, no excess to which he would not aspire in order to buy votes for his precious statue?