Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Tipping its driver five copecks, Alexander Vissarionovich Maslov alighted from the sleigh at the foot of the steps outside Madame Wrenskaya’s house in Ostermann Street. Once the building had been the finest in the street, but the years of neglect had taken their toll. Icicles now hung from its leaking gutter and the cracked roof tiles and untreated timbers all contributed to the general air of decay. The sight of so splendid a home being allowed to fall gradually into ruin depressed him. Not for the first time did he wish that the property was his.

Old Wrensky certainly knew what he was about when he bought this, he thought. Just look at it now!

Climbing the steps he tugged the rusty bell pull and stepped back to survey the worn front fascia of the house. Was it parsimony, he wondered, or a profound disregard for outward show that had caused Wrensky’s widow to allow it to fall into such dilapidation? With anyone else of her age he might have supposed it was senility. It would be quite understandable if, for example, she was bedridden and so not physically able to see the outside, but Anastasia Christianovna left her home every Monday to tour the shops and pay her social calls. He could not believe that she had not noticed how decrepit the house had become.

The front door opened. Madame Wrenskaya’s maid peered at him warily from the gloom of the hallway. Madame Wrenskaya was expecting him, he told her, holding up the small package he was carrying as proof of his visit. Would she be so kind as to announce his arrival?

Beckoning him across the threshold the maid invited him to wait in the hallway and to please close the door behind him.

As he waited, Maslov wondered who the old girl would leave it all to. From past conversations, he had learned that she had quarrelled with the few relatives she had. It seemed unlikely that any of them had more than a sentimental claim on her possessions. He recalled that she had once hinted that she intended to convert her estate into cash; an intention that had struck him then, as now, as being faintly obscene. Cash was for the living: corpses had no need of it. As for the house, who would buy it as it was? However much it cost, he reflected enviously, it was beyond his means.

A flickering light appeared at the far end of the hallway and a moment later Mariya had returned, bearing a lit candlestick of ancient silver. Setting it down on the hall table, she helped him off with his coat.

“How is Madame Wrenskaya this morning?” he asked softly.

With a gesture all of her own, the maid rolled her eyes and shrugged.

“She’s got it on her today,” she muttered darkly. “You watch yourself, sir. She thinks she’s being robbed.”

The librarian sighed.

“The delusions of old age, I’m afraid,” he said sympathetically. “We must all be patient.”

“Easier said than done.”

With this observation, the maid picked up the candlestick again and led the way along the hallway to Madame Wrenskaya’s salon.

The old woman was sitting in her usual position by the window, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Holding the package he had brought her behind his back, Maslov greeted her.

“Good morning, Madame Wrenskaya.”

“Good morning Maslov. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

With a flourish, he produced the package.

“The book you ordered, Ma’am.”

“You’ve found it?”

He nodded.

“Bring it here,” she ordered.

Walking across the room, he handed it to her saying apologetically, “It’s only the third edition, I’m afraid.”

Snatching the book from him, she began tearing at its wrappings.

“Such things do not matter to me,” she said. “Although the Professor, God bless him, would never have let it into the house. ‘First or nothing’, that was his motto.”

Ah, yes, thought Maslov. The Professor’s library. I wonder where that is now.

He watched as Madame Wrenskaya smoothed down the outer wrapping papers, and laid the book on her lap.

“Chateaubriand’s Memoires d’outre-tombe,” she crooned affectionately. “I had this once; a rather better copy than this, I fancy. Someone stole it.”

“Oh, dear. I am sorry.”

Looking up, Madame Wrenskaya smiled at him.

“There’s no need to apologise. It wasn’t you,” she assured him. “You have done well, Maslov. Will you stay and take some tea with me? Or perhaps would you prefer something stronger? I like to see a man with a drink in his hand.”

“Just tea will suffice, thank you,” he replied, picking up the bell and ringing it. “I must keep a clear head.”

Accepting her invitation to be seated, Maslov watched as Madame Wrenskaya stroked the book’s worn leather casing.

“I am most grateful to you for this,” she said. “I know how much trouble you must have gone to. Naturally, I shall pay you for your inconvenience.”

He held up his hands in mock protest.