Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

If she had not been so irritated by the Doctor’s tardiness, Nina Roshkovskaya would have found room in her heart to be concerned for her benefactress’s safety. Unlike some of the other wives who visited her, she found Irena Kuibysheva to be an agreeable companion and between the two women there existed, if not a closeness, then at least an amicable understanding. Once they were alone together, all Irena Alexandrovna’s brassiness disappeared and, safe in the knowledge that it would go no further she openly confessed her unhappiness. She was not the only woman to confide in Madame Roshkovskaya; many of Nina Vassilyevna’s visitors felt the same urge to bring their troubles to her and to ask her advice. It was something that exasperated her, but there seemed little she could do about it. As she had often remarked to her husband, it appeared that just as the most urgent jobs were given to the busiest person, so the problems and anxieties of her acquaintances were placed on the frailest of shoulders.

Listlessly, she turned the pages of the magazine. There was little there to claim her attention: an account of a ball given at Archduke Michael’s palace; a series of first night reviews of plays and ballets that she would never see in the capital that she would never visit. Articles on modern dress fashions copied from the Parisian designers of haute couture; costumes for women who could walk without the aid of sticks. Resting her head back on the pillows behind her, she let the magazine slip from her fingers. When it slid off her lap onto the floor, she did not trouble herself to try to pick it up again.

Hearing the magazine fall, Andrey Vladimovich looked up, then returned to his task. He knew better than to try to talk with his wife when she was in this mood. It was the same every time the Doctor visited, for Nina did not bother to pretend any more that the old man’s ministrations served any practical purpose. There was simply nothing that could be done for her. Once, perhaps, they had shared a glimmer of hope: Tortsov had told them of clinical experiments that were being carried out in St. Petersburg but the results had been inconclusive and his wife had refused to be experimented on. That had been over a year ago. The most the Doctor could do now was to monitor her deterioration and prescribe increasingly stronger drugs to alleviate her pain. The reason for her agitation now was only that the delay in the Doctor’s arrival was prolonging her anticipation of the discomfort she would have to endure during his examination. They both knew that, once the Doctor had left his medicine and she had rested in her bedroom, his wife’s mood would lift and her good spirits would be restored.

He returned his perusal of the large green leather bound book of maps in front of him. Upon its cover was embossed the Imperial Insignia, showing it to be the 1900 library edition of the atlas that had been published to celebrate the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Tsar’s accession to the throne. A gift from Nina on the occasion of his name day in that year, it was one of the few tangible links he had with the time they had shared before the disease had struck, and he treasured it as much for that as for the large plates of carefully engraved maps that described every part of the Russian Empire.

Yet, as with his own domestic situation, the maps had been surpassed by events. They were already out of date. They did not show, for example, the full extent of the railway constructed by Count Witte (if such an undertaking could be said to be the work of one man) that now linked West to East. He had drawn in the line in himself, annotating his symbols in the margin of the pages with a neatness and accuracy that did not disgrace the work of the imperial cartographers. Now he was occupied with repeating the exercise, this time sketching in the route of Baron Tol’s proposed railway eastward from Archangel. Momentarily distracted by the memory of his conversation with the three exiles the previous day, he turned his attention northwards and looked for the convoy’s final destination. Finding the approximate location for Obdorskoye he discovered that, as large as the scale of the map was, the cartographers had not deemed so small a settlement fit for inclusion. With a frown, he printed the word “OBDORSKOYE” in faint letters at what he judged to be the appropriate place, then sat back to admire his handiwork.

Even if the Archangel – Obdorsk railway line detoured to include the Bogoslovosk mines, it could hardly be considered a profitable exercise once the cost of its construction and the necessary maintenance was taken into account. Instinctively, he knew that it would never be built. Any company who attempted to do so was doomed to commercial failure, although doubtless there would be money to be made by financial speculation in its shares.