Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Signing her name with a small flourish she set Raisa Izminskaya’s invitation carefully to one side, in order to allow its ink to dry. She took up a new sheet of note paper and then paused. She regarded Tatyana Kavelina as unintelligent and, what was more, a tremendous fool and spineless to boot, but the woman was essential to her plans. Although she had downplayed its significance when she had visited Tatyana earlier in the week, the outrageous adultery of her husband ‘Tiger’ Kavelin with Irena Kuibysheva was the entire engine of her campaign.

And where did that soubriquet came from? she wondered.

She had, she was certain, first learned of it from Pavel. Had that been before Kuibyshev’s return or the following day? It hardly mattered; the name had stuck fast, giving rise to many heavy puns in the town about the timber merchant “earning his stripes” with Irena, or being “striped” by Kuibyshev when the fur merchant learned, as it was inevitable that he would, that he had been cuckolded.

By all reports that moment had arrived, but she had been furious to learn that Kavelin had been stripped (rather than striped) of his seat on the Town’s council. It did Pavel Stepanovich little good to insist that Kavelin had excused himself on the grounds of ill health and that he was content to make way for the Hospital Administrator Modest Tolkach. Olga recognised Kuibyshev’s hand, and that of the Mayor, behind the timber merchant’s removal. Frustrated in her purpose – her intention was to isolate Kuibyshev, not to strengthen his position – she had added Tolkach’s name to her list of people to be taken into account, mindful that he also had a shadow hanging over him. Her pen still poised over the piece of notepaper, she forced herself to put all thoughts of the strange death of the Hospital Administrator’s wife from her mind.

The important thing now, she told herself, is to concentrate on the idiot Tatyana Kavelina. Solidarity in times of misfortune and strength through unity must be our watchwords.

“My dearest Tanya,” she began.

Half an hour later she gathered up her papers into a neat pile and locked them away in the drawer of her desk. It was time to complete her preparations for her appointment that afternoon with Madame Wrenskaya.

Walking to a cupboard in the corner of her drawing room she selected a slim key from the cord that hung from her waist and inserted it into the cupboard’s lock. As she opened the door the aroma of seasoned wood and old alcohol wafted towards her, raising, as it always did, fond memories of her father and his brothers. Although none of them had been great drinkers they appreciated fine liquor and had been careful to school her in the differing merits of grain and grape. On the shelves within, rows of bottles of different shapes, colours and sizes puffed out their chests like conscripted peasants on their first parade and presented their labels for her inspection. She cast a critical eye over them, picking up first one and then another to see whether they would suit. At length, she spotted an opened bottle of cognac proclaiming the name of the French emperor at the back of the cupboard, and smiled.

Yes, of course, we still have the Croizet, she thought. How appropriate!

* * *

Madame Wrenskaya had insisted on standing to greet her – she would not let this wife of a grain merchant think that she was decrepit – and now her maid Mariya was carefully lowering her back into her high wing chair.

“Stop fussing, girl,” the old woman scolded as the maid tried to cover her legs with a thick woollen blanket. “Get Madame Nadnikova something to drink.”

Feebly pushing the maid away she glared accusingly at Olga.

“I suppose you expect some tea now that you are here.”

Immune to her basilisk manners, Olga smiled in response. The purpose of her visit was to secure her hostess’s active support rather than her neutrality, or worse, her opposition. She had asked for an interview with her rather than with Father Arkady because she recognised that the widow of the town’s previous Revenue Officer was the de facto moral arbiter of Berezovo. Despite the old woman’s insufferable snobbery and barine airs and graces, it was important for the success of her plan that Anna Christianovna was on her side.

Delving into her bag she produced the bottle of brandy.

“Thank you, no. I have brought you a treat instead. I hope that you will allow us to try some together.”

“What is that?” snapped Madame Wrenskaya. “Cognac?”

“Yes, a Croizet Napoleon brandy. It was awarded a prize at the 1900 Paris Exposition.”

“How thoughtful of you,” said Madame Wrenskaya hungrily. “Yes, we should have a taste. Go and fetch some glasses,” she added, gesturing to her maid.