Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

In the Kavelin household there was little relish for the forthcoming evening’s entertainment, and considerably less good humour. The Great Silence that had reigned over the house since the confrontation with Irena Kuibysheva in the Hotel New Century’s mezzanine lounge on the morning of the Mayor’s disastrous luncheon was now entering its second week. Shiminski’s prediction that it was inevitable that, sooner or later, there would be a thaw in his domestic relations was not a conviction shared by Tatyana Kavelina. She knew that their household and their marriage had entered an Ice Age the duration of which was yet to be determined but could, in all likelihood, be measured in years rather than weeks and would, with equal likelihood, lead to a rearrangement of the marital landscape. The most recent humiliation of her husband’s unceremonious ejection from the Town Council had made things even worse. Her one comfort had been that in the hour of one’s greatest need her prayer in the church had been answered; her friends had stuck by her.

Willingly joining Olga Nadnikova’s cabal, Tatyana revelled in its malign purpose. They would all pay: her husband Leonid, Irena Kuibysheva, the Pobednyevs and Fyodor Gregorivich. The wives of Berezovo would know by whose hand they had been struck down. In the meantime she needed no guidance on how she should comport herself. Her friends would expect her to appear confidently sparkling at her husband’s side in public, at the same time enjoying the privilege of being silent, sullen and unforgiving at home. Now, as she put the finishing touches to her hair, dressing it with a nest of beads to complement her dress that she knew to be a finer shade of grey and of a more recent style than that possessed by Olga Nadnikova, she practised a cheerful outgoing smile at her reflection in her dressing mirror.

Elsewhere in the town, unaware of the terrible beauty newly born in the Kavelin household, servants were being dispatched to order sleighs, ponies were harnessed, and carriage lamps trimmed. From the poorer quarters, honest tradesmen and their wives, bearing lanterns, began to leave their dwellings, setting out on foot towards the distant barracks. Vociferous and laughing, the revolutionary exiles, already fortified by strong spirits for the grim spectacle of the bourgeoisie at play, mingled with the growing crowd. Not every person was going: this being a Sunday there would be, for example, no Father Arkady. Neither would Madame Wrenskaya stir from her sitting room, although she had sent her maidservant Mariya – now back in favour – to observe the proceedings from the back of the barrack hall and report upon the scene.

It seemed to Fyodor Gregorivich, as he polished the last glasses and stacked them neatly and readily to hand on his makeshift counter by the side of the auditorium, that by the size of the crowd that had already taken its seats, the Drama Committee had for once underestimated the attraction of their production. Captain Steklov had been heard to voice reservations about the evening, after the rowdy reception given by his troops the day before. Now even he was looking on approvingly at the front of the hall as his troops set about fulfilling his promise to Dr. Tortsov that he would “do something about the lighting”. Three chandeliers, fashioned out of gun carriage wheels with candles fixed in holders on their rims, were lowered, lit and hoisted high again above the growing crowd, each pull of their rope by the teams of soldiers cheered by the more boisterous members of the audience. In brackets that lined each side of the length of the hall and that, on the rare occasions that the Colonel of the Regiment visited, held the faded regimental colours, bayonets were fixed and more candles impaled on their tips, until the whole hall seemed ablaze with light and hot wax began to drip onto the napkins with which Fyodor Gregorivich had covered the trays of pastries and sweetmeats he had prepared for the interval.

At his post behind the ticket desk, Andrey Roshkovsky was growing increasingly anxious about whether the barracks would be able to contain the whole audience. The tin cash box on the table before him was already three quarters full of roubles and most of the seats had been taken. Still more people were entering, fractious at the length of time they had had to queue outside the barrack hall. When the Dresnyakovs appeared, he hurriedly explained the situation. The schoolteacher rubbed his hands together and regarded the complaining crowd with satisfaction.

“Don’t worry so, Andrey Vladimovich,” he said, “I shall take over now. Be so kind as to show my sister to her seat, would you? She is in the first row, I believe.”

Turning to the waiting spectators, the schoolmaster began effortlessly to restore order.

Chapter Twenty Three

Sunday 18th February 1907

Berezovo, Northern Siberia

Onstage, Skyralenko was peering anxiously through a slit in the stage curtain.