Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Anastasia Christianovna, my only regret is that I cannot make you a present of it!” he murmured. “You and I are the only souls in this town who care for such things. But alas,” he continued with a heavy sigh, “commerce is a hard taskmaster. However, I insist that the account shall be only for the book itself. The pleasure of finding it was all mine.”

Madame Wrenskaya acknowledged this concession with a small inclination of her head that conveyed simultaneously her recognition of his generosity and her expectation to receive nothing less.

The librarian developed his theme further as Mariya returned bearing a tray of tea and sweet things and silently dispensed their refreshment.

“Some people hunt bears and deer and mink and such!” he declared. “I hunt books. Books! Through them the greatest minds in Creation are opened for our inspection. They are our staff and our comforter. With books we may travel through time and space without leaving the safety of our armchair. We may rise with Homer, breakfast with Aristotle, walk out with Shakespeare and dine with Diderot. And, before sleep closes our eyes, we meditate upon the Glory of the Heavenly Father… how? By reading a book, the greatest Book of all. Books free us and yet entrap us. They allow us to dispense with the social niceties. A boor is never tolerated for more than a page, then he is flung aside. If only we could do that in real life, how much sweeter existence would be! Yet how many times has my supper gone cold because a book has me in its grip? More often than I care to admit! And this is more than mere bibliophilia, Ma’am, for if history tells us one thing, it is that all great men have this in common: that they have all written books. Like calls to like across the centuries. Napoleon, we are assured, studied Caesar. Who Caesar studied, we do not know; who will study Napoleon’s writings, we cannot guess, but doubtless the chain will be unbroken. Priests read priestly accounts of the saints. Lawyers unearth parchments inscribed by advocates long dead and call it ‘precedence’. Even diplomats signal to each other from beyond the grave,” concluded Maslov, waving a teacake towards the volume in Madame Wrenskaya’s hands. “Why, I believe that very copy came from the library of a gentleman attached to the Swedish embassy at St Petersburg. I think you will find the front paper bears an inscription to that effect, though it is a trifle indistinct.”

Donning her spectacles, Madame Wrenskaya carefully opened the book and peered at the spidery inscription.

“Svodberg? Svedberg?” she read doubtfully. “I knew a Svedberg once. He married a horse. It might be him. Dead, eh? I shouldn’t wonder. Probably died in the madhouse, or the stables.”

Maslov drained his cup and placed it back in its saucer. He wondered whether he had been too effusive in his peroration. The thought of the old woman’s library made his palms itch. Although he had never been permitted to see it, he knew that Madame Wrenskaya’s collection contained all the rare volumes that, over the years, he had acquired on her behalf. More importantly, it was based upon the library amassed by Madame Wrenskaya’s first husband, the Professor, who he knew to have been a noted collector in his time. How foolish he had been to waste even a second lamenting the wretched state of disrepair the house had fallen into! Here were far greater treasures, hanging like overripe fruit on the bough. It only needed for him to become more closely attached to their owner for them to fall into his lap. But how? To suggest that he should catalogue them would be far too blatant. Definitely, a more circuitous route was called for.

“I did have one reservation about your order, Anastasia Christianovna,” he said. “It occurred to me that your maid, Mariya, would have great difficulty reading the French to you. I would be happy…”

“Mariya?” interrupted Madame Wrenskaya. ”Heavenly Father! I doubt very much if she can even read Russian, much less French. I read all my own books, thank you very much.”

“I didn’t mean to imply…” began Maslov hastily.

“Here she is now. You may ask her,” said his aged hostess as her maid reappeared. “Mariya, do you ever read to me?”

The maid looked at her in surprise.

“No ma’am.”

“Who does?”

“No one ma’am,” replied the maid in some confusion. “You do it all by yourself.”

“Mariya, can you read?” asked Maslov.

“Oh yes, sir. My name. And our address at the general store.”

“Liar!” scolded Madame Wrenskaya. “Go and wash your mouth out. Then bring us some more tea. Shameless lies!”

With a meaningful glance at her guest, the maid retreated.

Maslov shifted nervously on his seat.

“I was just afraid that the typeface was rather small,” he said lamely.

“There’s nothing wrong with my eyes, or my ears for that matter. So tell me, what is new in the town?”