Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Vasili, I don’t have any scissors with me. Could you ask Captain Steklov if perhaps we could borrow a razor or something?”

Turning, the Doctor regarded her silently for a moment, his hands repeatedly clenching and unclenching.

“Yeliena, I didn’t mean trim his moustache this very minute,” he explained patiently. “After the rehearsal will be perfectly adequate. For the time being, Anton Ivanovich may remove his beard and play his part without it. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Vasili,” she replied meekly.

“Then may we please continue?”

“Of course, Vasili.”

“Thank you.”

Turning on his heel, the Doctor walked stiffly back to his seat.

Fanning her face with her hand, Yeliena beckoned Chevanin to her side.

“Eduard, the Doctor says that you are excused beards.”

Clicking his heels together, Chevanin bowed.

“Thank you, ‘Madame Popova’.”

“Your Majesty,” she responded with a deep curtsey, adding under her breath as she rose from the floor, “and if your Majesty will permit, I shall attend to your needs in the salon at the end of the performance.”

Unhooking the beard, Chevanin smiled and bowed again.

“Go back to where you were, Anton Ivanovich,” came the Doctor’s voice from the rear of the hall. “Back to ‘Must I pay the interest?…’”

Clearing his throat, Chevanin began to declaim:

“Must I pay the interest or mustn’t I? I ask you! Must I pay or must I not? Suppose your husband is dead and you’ve got a state of mind and nonsense of that sort. And your steward’s gone away somewhere, Devil take him! What do you want me to do?”

* * *

Slowly, the hall began to fill with soldiers, drifting in in ones and twos, their duties done. When the play drew to a close with the final embrace, there was some applause and a few rough calls of encouragement.

Dr. Tortsov pushed his way through the small crowd that had gathered at the front of the stage.

“Curtains! Curtains!” he shouted. “Where is Belinsky?”

From somewhere behind the scenery he heard an answering bellow of coarse laughter. At the same time, the schoolmaster Dresnyakov appeared by his side.

“Well done, Vasili Semionovich!” Dresnyakov congratulated him as he clapped the Doctor on the shoulder. “It looks most promising.”

Tortsov muttered his thanks and made his way towards the side steps onto the stage, Dresnyakov following genially in his wake.

“Belinsky!” the Doctor called out a second time. “Where are you?”

The face of the builder, flushed from drink, appeared briefly at the window in the scenery then vanished again.

“Confound the man!” the Doctor said angrily, stamping his foot.

“What is the matter, Vasili Semionovich?” asked Dresnyakov. “What has he done?”

“It’s what he hasn’t done that matters,” replied the Doctor. ”At the end of the play he is meant to draw the curtains together. Then, as they come out front to take their bows, he has to oversee the changing of the scenery. Instead of which, he’s disappeared somewhere and is probably too drunk to be of any use.”

At that moment, having more or less successfully navigated the obstacles at the back of the stage, the builder reappeared.

“Now, now Doctor.” he said boisterously, “Hold your horses! Here I am, as large as life. Now, what is the matter? What’s all this fuss about?”

He looked blearily around at the scenery.

“Nothing’s fallen down, has it?”

“We are waiting,” the Doctor informed him icily, “for you to draw the curtains, if you would be so kind? You might have noticed that the play has finished, and on these occasions it is customary…”

“Now look here, Doctor,” replied the builder, “Don’t try and tell me my business. I know all about the curtains. We agreed, did we not,” he added heavily, “and correct me if I’m wrong, that I was to draw the curtains when the music began. Now am I right? When – the – music – began. Tell me, am I right or am I wrong?”

The Doctor shut his eyes for a few seconds and said nothing. When he opened them again, he answered evenly:

“No, Yuli Nikitavich. Of course you are not wrong. I apologise.”

He turned to Dresnyakov.

“Nikolai Alexeivich, where is Alexandra Alexandrovna? She is meant to be playing the pianoforte for us.”

“Ah! That is what I have come to tell you, Vasili Semionovich,” answered the schoolmaster equably. “My sister will be a little late. She is taking tea with Father Arkady and she expects to be delayed as the Father wishes to discuss the church accounts with her.”

“There you are then!” said Belinsky loudly. “Before you go sounding off about me you ought to…”

“Yes, quite, Yuli Nikitavich,” the Doctor interrupted. “I have already apologised. Now, please would you draw the curtains and oversee the changing of the scenery?”

Taking out his watch from his pocket, he looked at it and pursed his lips.

“You have exactly thirty minutes.”