Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Hullo, Alexandra Dresnyakova has arrived,” he announced in an excited whisper. “She is making her way to the piano. One of the violinists looks drunk, and the other one has just broken a string. The front row is filling up. The Mayor has just arrived and is talking to Kostya Izorov. It won’t be long now.”

Standing beside him Yeliena, her face a mask of white greasepaint with heavily shaded cheeks and carmine lips, listened to the noise of the audience. Hidden from view it sounded like a roaring wave.

Skyralenko gave a low whistle.

“Irena Kuibysheva has just turned up,” he announced cheerfully, adding, “She’s still alive then. I must say, she looks something.”

Standing in the wings, Chevanin watched Yeliena turn away and begin pacing nervously to and fro across the stage. He was aware that, following their conversation at lunchtime, and fearing that he would make a scene, she had taken great care to ensure that they had not been alone together. Feelings of hopelessness and loss welled up within his breast. So intent was he on his unhappy thoughts that the sound of the trio of musicians beginning to tune up barely registered on his consciousness.

From the other side of the stage, Dr. Tortsov appeared and gathered them together.

“We have seven minutes to go,” he told them. “The curtain parts at the end of Hail to the Tsar. Don’t be nervous. Start straight away once the curtain parts.”

“I think I’ve forgotten my lines,” said Yeliena quietly.

“Don’t worry about that,” the Doctor said. “I shall be sitting at the side of the stage. If you begin to dry up, just look at me and I will give you a prompt. Just remember your first line, ‘I shall never go out. Why should I?’”

Turning to Skyralenko, he asked:

“Dimitri Borisovich, what are your first lines?”

“‘It isn’t right Madame. You’re just destroying yourself. The maid and the cook have gone off fruit picking…’”

“Yes, yes, very good,” said the Doctor. “Anton Ivanovich, what about yours?”

“‘You fool, you’re too fond of talking’,” recited Chevanin dully. “‘Madame, I have the honour to present myself…’”

“Excellent, but you must try to put more vim into it. You sound much too sad. Remember, this play is a comedy. People should be laughing. Remember all the tricks I showed you. Give them plenty of time to laugh, and plenty of business to laugh at. Right! To your places, and good luck!”

As they moved away, Anton caught Yeliena by the arm.

“Yeliena!” he began. “I…”

“Not now,” she whispered. “Afterwards.”

She turned away and then turned back, concerned by his troubled expression.

“Don’t worry! You’ll be marvellous.”

He shook his head. It is hopeless, he thought. She does not care.

Misery overwhelmed him. Tears began to well in his eyes, and he felt his face crumple.

“I can’t live without you, Yeliena,” he gasped brokenly.

In alarm, Yeliena took his hand and pushed him towards the side of the stage.

“Don’t cry!” she urged softly. “Oh, please don’t cry! You will ruin your make up.”

Despite his misery, Chevanin gave a tremulous smile at the incongruity of her warning. Without thinking, he lifted up his sleeve to wipe his face, but Yeliena pushed his arm away.

“Don’t,” she whispered, “you’ll make it even more of a mess.”

In the front of the curtain, the musical trio broke into the first bars of the National Hymn and the barracks was filled with the sound of chairs being scraped back.

Seeing them together in a huddle, Skyralenko hurried over.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Yeliena quickly, steering Chevanin around so that the prison director could not witness his wretched state. “Anton Ivanovich has just got some dust in his eye, that’s all. Go and take your place on the stage while I try and get it out for him.”

When he had gone, she quickly pulled out a handkerchief from the band of her costume dress.

“Listen to me,” she whispered urgently as she began drying his eyes. “You must be very brave. All is not lost. We can’t talk about it now. Wait until the play is over.”

“Then you still love me?” he asked tremulously.

“Later,” she promised, turning away. “We’ll talk later.”

* * *