Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Yes, I believe Tolkach is taking part in this play your husband is presenting this Sunday.”

“Actually, Vasili is presenting two plays,” she informed her. “I am in the first play. Modest Tolkach is in the second. Will you be attending the performance on Sunday? It starts at eight o’ clock, at the barracks.”

“Certainly not,” answered Madame Wrenskaya firmly. “It will be well past my bedtime. One play is bad enough but two? And in the barracks! Heavens, no!”

“Yes, I sympathise with you. Vasili is finding it quite a strain. He is holding rehearsals every evening this week,” Yeliena said, adding loyally, “of course, it gives him great pleasure and he does not let it interfere with the Town practice.”

Madame Wrenskaya gave a tut of impatience.

“Men are such dreamers, even your husband. Forgive me, my dear but it is so. It is we, the women, who always have to be practical.”

“Do I take it that you disapprove of what he is doing?” asked Yeliena.

“I have nothing against the stage. On the contrary, when I was younger and lived in St. Petersburg, I regularly attended the theatre. They were splendid evenings, which I enjoyed immensely. Everybody was dressed in their finest clothes and on their best behaviour, even in the boxes,” she recalled nostalgically. “But the managers and the actors, they were professionals. That is the difference. That is what they were paid for: to entertain the audience. The trouble nowadays is that everybody is dissatisfied.”

“I am not sure that I understand,” said Yeliena.

“Nobody wants to do the thing they were born to do,” said Madame Wrenskaya irritably. “It doesn’t seem to be enough anymore. In my day, you were born to do something: you did it and there was an end to it. Nowadays, it’s all so different. That is why there is so much trouble in the country. If everybody just stuck to their own calling and did not try to be better than they were, they would be much happier. Instead they want to overturn everything.”

“But surely this is a little different?” asked Yeliena.

“No it isn’t,” insisted Madame Wrenskaya coldly. “Take your Vasili Semionovich, for example. He is a fine doctor, there’s no use denying it. So why should he want to be a producer of plays, staying out every night, when he should be healing the sick and being a good husband? Admittedly, he is a man, but that is little excuse. And we woman certainly cannot afford to appear to be other than what we are.”

“Are you saying,” protested Yeliena, “that it was wrong of me to accept the part? I can assure you, I was given no opportunity to refuse!”

“There is nothing wrong with appearing on the stage, nothing at all,” repeated Madame Wrenskaya, “provided you are a professional actress. Even such pastimes as charades and other parlour games are relatively harmless if performed in the privacy of your own home and among friends or associates of one’s own class. But a lady hesitates, as a matter of decency, before going further.”

“But I am only doing it for Vasili’s sake,” said Yeliena. “Simply because he is the director and he insisted I take part. It is all perfectly innocent.”

She felt Madame Wrenskaya’s eyes bore in to her, sharp as pins. There was an uneasy silence.

“Are you sure, Yeliena? Are you certain that it is all as innocent as you say?”

Yeliena felt her face grow pale. Guiltily, she looked down at her lap.

“Of course,” she murmured.

Madame Wrenskaya gave a sigh of disappointment.

“I see. Well then, it appears there is nothing more to be said. Would you please be so kind as to summon your maid and tell her to fetch my coat and call my driver? I am leaving.”

“But why? What is the matter? Have I upset you?”

“I am an old woman, Yeliena,” Madame Wrenskaya said in clipped tones. “And I may find it hard to get about, but I am not a fool. When you lied to me just then, I knew I was too late.”

She raised an imperious hand to forestall Yeliena’s protest.

“Oh yes, I know. You have spoken untruths to me before, but they were harmless things said to please. You have told me I look well, that you believed I would feel better when the warmer weather comes, although it is plain to everyone that I am dying. These things do not matter. They are said to avoid the awkwardness of the truth. I ignore them. But just then, when you denied your sin, that was a barefaced lie. It is the first time you have ever lied to me, and the first sign that you are on the road to damnation.”

Yeliena stared at her miserably, but said nothing.

“Tcha! Do you think that just because I am virtually bedridden that I do not know what it going on in this town? That people do not come to me with their hateful gossip? I know everything! It’s that young pup Chevanin, isn’t it?”

Yeliena shook her head violently.

“You are mistaken, Anastasia Christianovna!” she cried. “Anton Ivanovich Chevanin and I are only friends, that is all.”