Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Or the Governor General himself?” suggested Madame Wrenskaya. “Either way, you might be able to help me to find out. That is, if it wouldn’t be too tedious for you?”

“Of course not! But how, exactly?”

“I believe the Mayor’s wife still goes to Polezhayev’s daughter to have her dresses made. I recommended the girl to her myself,” admitted Madame Wrenskaya, adding doubtfully, “though I must say that Matriona Pobednyeva’s figure appears to have defeated even her skill with the needle. However, should you happen to be passing, or if the doctor is treating a patient nearby, you might ask young Mischa to call on me. I’m sure I can find one or two repairs for her to do.”

Catching sight of the sly glint in the old woman’s eyes, Madame Tortsova chuckled aloud.

“Anastasia Christianovna, of course I shall. But isn’t Madame Pobednyeva expected here this afternoon?” she asked. “Why don’t you ask her yourself? Or, if you like, I can.”

“Gracious, no!” Madame Wrenskaya said with some asperity. “That would be most improper!”

There came the sound of a knock at the front door. Motioning jerkily behind her, Madame Wrenskaya leant forward and allowed Yeliena to plump up the flattened cushions behind her. Settling back comfortably into her chair, she thanked the younger woman.

“That is better. Now, let us talk about something more pleasant. I understand the doctor is to direct the forthcoming dramatic production. You must tell me all about it.”

* * *

In the small hallway Mariya waited patiently while Madame Kavelina and Madame Kuibysheva divested themselves of their heavy walking cloaks. The cloaks were almost identical saving one important distinction: Madame Kuibysheva’s was thickly trimmed with sable, and Madame Kavelina’s was not. In that telling detail lay the difference between the first and second most profitable trading houses in Berezovo. Madame Kavelina did not let her companion’s ostentatious display of wealth rankle her. She was still feeling buoyed by an event that had occurred less than half an hour before, and she even condescended to smile at the bedraggled maid as her cloak was taken from her.

Earlier that afternoon her good friend Irena Kuibysheva had called upon her at home with an invitation to share her carriage so that she need not make her way on foot to Madame Wrenskaya’s. As unnecessary as this gesture was – all three women lived in the same street – Madame Kavelina had accepted her kind offer and was on the point of leaving when her husband Leonid had returned home early with news of an unexpected windfall. The sale of some stock in which the wood merchant had been speculating had been more lucrative than expected, and he was in the mood for celebration. He insisted that his wife and her friend should stay at home at least long enough to share a glass of wine with him in celebration. As she had taken pains to explain to Madame Kuibysheva, Kavelin never drank during the day as a rule but, just this once, she felt that they should indulge him. The three of them had settled themselves in her tastefully furnished reception room; so much brighter than the mausoleum she was about to enter. Making himself comfortable in his favourite chair Leonid had lit his cigar, Madame Kuibysheva having already asked if she might smoke a cigarette with her wine, and related to them a humorous encounter he had had with Madame Wrenskaya earlier that week. Entering the general store, he had discovered its proprietor, Pavel Stepanovich Nadnikov, recounting an ancestor’s exploits in the war in the Crimea to an audience of customers, one of whom was Madame Wrenskaya. Just as Pavel Stepanovich had reached the climax of his story, the old woman had interrupted him.

“I recall once dining with Menshikov,” she had declared baldly. “He was a very bitter man, very bitter, but a soldier none the less. A gentleman of the old school.”

“How interesting!” Leonid had cried, quick as a flash. “And was Tsar Peter there as well?”

Madame Kuibysheva had clapped her hands with delight when she heard the joke. To deliberately confuse the recently deceased general with the 18th century statesman sharing the same name that had been exiled to Berezovo in 1727 was a pearl of wit. It nicely exaggerated the decrepitude of Wrensky’s widow to whom they were accustomed to defer and whom the social etiquette of their position demanded they should visit at least once a month.