Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Moving closer to the edge of his seat, Maslov began his report. Despite his disappointment over the books it gratified him to think that, for all her wealth, Madame Wrenskaya was still dependent on him to bring her rumours of the outside world. He knew that others did the same, but only he brought the sort of news that she enjoyed and in the manner she liked. She appreciated wit, the drier the better; properly dressed and spiked with malice. Her appetite for gossip was almost tangible. She was well informed enough from her other sources for him to gloss over the more mundane topics of conversation. She already knew, for example, about the arrival and departure of the convoy.

“Fools and renegades,” was her verdict.

Describing the luncheon with the prisoners, he mentioned in passing Trotsky’s scheme to reverse the Ob.

“Extraordinary!” she declared. “And you sat down and ate with this madman?”

“It was Roshkovsky’s idea,” he explained defensively, “and I must admit to being curious to see what sort of fellows these people were.”

“And what were they like?”

“Quite disappointing, actually. They looked normal, almost banal.”

“I suppose that even banality is some advancement to the Great Unwashed,” observed Madame Wrenskaya. “What did Roshkovsky make of all this?”

“Well, you know Andrey Vladimovich,” replied the librarian, pulling a face. “He’s very impressionable. I think he was half taken in by the project.”

Madame Wrenskaya gave an exclamation of disgust.

“Why don’t they just leave things alone? Messing about with the Ob… Whoever heard of such nonsense? I would have thought that Andrey Roshkovsky had enough on his plate looking after his wife without bothering with such nonsense.”

“Ah yes, poor Nina Vassileyevna,” sighed Maslov. “Roshkovsky really is very worried about her. I was talking to Colonel Izorov yesterday in the street and Andrey Vladimovich walked straight past us, without saying a word. His face was quite grey. I fear her condition must be deteriorating.”

“I know I should feel sorry for her,” admitted Madame Wrenskaya, “but I can’t help thinking that all too much fuss altogether is being made about that particular lady. Health is God’s gift and if he wishes that you are to be gathered up whilst still young, then so be it. Contrary to popular opinion, Maslov, nobody is taken before their time. I mean, does she want to live forever? Of course not!”

Even for the librarian, this was too much.

“It seems very cruel,” he ventured bravely. “The pain and the sacrifice…”

“Life is cruel,” she snapped back. “Look at me. Perfect health in old age can be just as bad. I feel like a beached behemoth, or one of those mastodons that sometimes appears out of the ice and thaws. An object of curiosity left behind from a bygone age. People look at me and point. In the old days they might even have exhibited me at fairs. Not very dignified.”

“No, I suppose not,” agreed the librarian.

“All my friends are dead; my friends of youth and middle age, of course. There are no friends in old age, only kind acquaintances and dishonest servants,” she said bitterly, adding, “and possibly those who unwisely delude themselves that they have ‘expectations’.”

She pronounced the last word syllable by syllable with exaggerated relish.

Maslov gave an embarrassed cough. There was a short pause.

“What did the Colonel have to say for himself?” asked Madame Wrenskaya abruptly.

“The Colonel?”

“Yes, Colonel Izorov. You said that you spoke with him yesterday.”

“Oh, yes. We were discussing the convoy. He was as glad to see the back of them as anybody, even though His Excellency the Mayor made such a fuss over them.”

“He would!” interjected Madame Wrenskaya. “The buffoon!”

“One thing the Colonel did tell me,” continued Maslov, “he said that it was a shame about the children. He would have preferred for them to stay here than to be sent north.”

“How very odd,” observed the old women in puzzled tones. “Perhaps the strain of being Chief of Police has finally proved too much for him.”

“I can see his point,” said Maslov. “The children won’t have much of a future up there.”

“Hardly any future at all, I should think,” sniffed Madame Wrenskaya. “That will teach other parents to think twice before letting their heads be turned by troublemakers and guttersnipes.”

Her guest raised his eyebrows. Really, the old biddy was being more than usually callous.

“I suppose,” he murmured, “you have heard that Illya Kuibyshev has returned to claim his own again. Not quite Ulysses, I agree but then…”

“She is not quite Penelope?” suggested Madame Wrenskaya.

“Exactly.”

“Tell me, has anyone seen her in public since his return?”

“No,” replied Maslov, leaning forward, “but they have heard the screams.”

Madame Wrenskaya gave a small sigh of satisfaction.

“Ah yes, good. And what of Kavelin? Does he still walk the streets unmolested?”

“For the time being.”

“I imagine quite a few people are curious as to what the outcome of that folly will be.”

Maslov smiled knowingly.