Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

The door opened and the two women fell silent as the housemaid entered carrying a tray bearing three lit oil lamps. They watched as she moved around the room, carefully placing one of the lamps beside the samovar whence she would serve them their tea, a second on a small table at the far corner of the room so that its light illuminated the pen and ink drawing of the Professor in academic robes and the third on a larger table beside the sofa. When she had gone, Madame Wrensky gripped the worn arms of her chair and leant conspiratorially towards the woman beside her.

“Yeliena, I am glad that you arrived before the others, because I want you to help me with a little problem.”

At once, Madame Tortsova turned solicitously to face her, concern puckering her brow.

“You are not feeling unwell I hope, Anastasia Christianovna?”

“No, no my dear,” the old woman rasped testily, “but thank you for asking. My problem is a question of logic. One that needs a sharper mind, and a younger pair of legs, than mine to find its solution.”

Leaning further over the arm of her chair, she brought one shaking crooked finger to her quivering lips to signify the need for silence. Together they listened to the distant rattle of crockery from the rear of the house as Mariya loaded the tea trolley with glasses and saucers. Only when she was satisfied that they could not be overheard did her hostess speak again.

“Can you tell me,” she asked, speaking slowly and deliberately, “why the wife of our idiot Mayor bought ten arshins of material from Delyanov’s haberdashery store this morning?”

Yeliena stared anxiously into the depths of the old woman’s unblinking pale blue eyes. Had Anastasia Christianovna finally become simple? She decided not. Her hostess’s remarks about Anton Ivanovich had been much too acute to have sprung from a wandering or disordered mind. She had no option but to take her question at its face value.

“To have a dress made up?”

The old woman nodded her head impatiently, tutting at her friend’s slowness.

“Tchah! Well of course it’s for a dress, my dear,” she snapped. “But why? And why now? She has already more than enough clothes, paid for out of the taxes her husband has filched. We all know that. More than enough dresses for her sort, anyway. Why does she want a new one? And why buy the cloth from Delyanov’s when she usually waits until she goes to the stores in Tobolsk in the spring while she is visiting her sister?”

“Perhaps she just felt like a new dress?” Yeliena hazarded. “As you say, they have more than enough money.”

Her voice trailed away as she realised that her gaze had dropped from Madame Wrenskaya’s lined face to the worn and old-fashioned black dress that she wore in ostentatious mourning for her unlamented second husband.

“No,” decided Madame Wrenskaya, sitting back in her chair. “Nowadays, only a very rich woman buys dress material for no reason at all. A woman who is merely well off has to justify the expenditure to herself, if not her husband. She says it is for this play’s first night or for so and so’s ball. A woman of Matriona Pobednyev’s station needs at least two or more reasons why she should pay the exorbitant prices Delyanov charges before parting with her money. No, it is no idle whim. Of that I am certain.”

“But is it important?” wondered the doctor’s wife.

“It may not be. But,” Madame Wrenskaya replied with a hint of a smile, “if you forgive an old woman her stupidity, it does seem curious that the Mayor’s wife should be in such a hurry to spend over thirty-five roubles on ten arshins of navy blue barathea at the end of January when Easter is over two months away.”

Yeliena repressed the urge to laugh. It was very unlikely that Anastasia Christianovna had ever considered herself to be a stupid woman, young or old.

“So you think there is a purpose behind her extravagance?” she asked. “What do you think it might be?”

Before her hostess could reply, the maid Mariya appeared again, pushing a wooden trolley in front of her. From where she sat Yeliena could spy glasses and saucers, cutlery, a jug of cream, a saucer of sliced lemons, a stack of small tea plates and two larger ones. These latter bore a selection of almond cakes and Madame Wrenskaya’s favourite spiced biscuits.

“It seems obvious to me, my dear,” said Madame Wrenskaya. “Either she is planning to make a journey somewhere or she is preparing to meet someone here.”

“But she would not travel at this time of year, not if she had any sense,” suggested Yeliena.

“Exactly my thoughts,” the old woman agreed warmly. “Which means that someone is coming here to Berezovo. And since Matriona Pobednyev can be of no earthly interest to anyone, we must assume that whoever this mysterious personage is, the purpose of his visit must concern the Mayor himself and probably in some official capacity. Beyond that I am quite puzzled.”

“Who could it be?” asked Yeliena. “Maybe a government inspector or somebody from the district office.”