Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

The knowledge that her party was still incomplete – that Madame Pobednyeva had still to arrive – filled her with gloom. The Mayor’s fat wife was more awful than the two women on the sofa opposite put together. For her own purposes, Anastasia Christianovna knew that she had no choice but to grant the wretched woman a special dispensation from her displeasure. Although Madame Pobednyeva would remain unaware of it, she travelled under the protection of circumstance. Until her hostess was more certain of her facts, she would enjoy a certain degree of immunity. But if her suspicions were proved correct, if the Governor General was expected, then the dogs of war would be loosed. That august official was a distant relative on her mother’s side of the family. He would have no choice but to listen to his own kin, especially when she had so much to tell him about the rottenness of this outpost of his province? About what had happened to the money for the cholera sanatorium? About Tolkach and the fate of his poor wife? About the banker Izminsky and his schemes with Kuprin, who had all too easily succeeded her second husband as revenue officer. She had it all written down. All that she asked was that the Heavenly Father would grant her the strength during the few precious months she had left to bring down the whole cancerous edifice.

The figure of Mariya appeared before her, offering her a replenished glass of tea. Automatically she accepted it and found that so powerful was the emotion that coursed through her, her hand was shaking uncontrollably. Gratefully she allowed Yeliena to take it from her.

She at least will be safe, she thought.

True, Tortsov was only a country doctor, not a man of the calibre of some of the Professor’s acquaintances, amongst whom were numbered several now hailed as pioneers in Russian medicine. But he was a professional man nonetheless, with the distinction of having a practice geographically only slightly smaller than France. A man who knew his duty and, with the help of only one assistant, Chevanin, did it as best he could.

Her anger began slowly to ebb away, to be replaced by a feeling of melancholy. At the back of her mind was the knowledge that soon, perhaps very soon, Yeliena Mihailovna would need her and she was afraid that somehow she would fail her friend. It would happen through a lack of percipience, or through being too busy with this Pobednyev business, or simply because she was a frail old woman. Too old, too frail, too near the brink of the grave to be of any use to those still rooted firmly in the mess of life.

From far away she heard her name being called out. Bewildered, she looked at each of her guests in turn, unsure as to whom had spoken her name.

“Back with us, dear?” asked Tatyana Kavelina shrilly. “That’s good. We were just telling Yeliena Mihailovna here that we are looking forward to the drama committee’s next production.”

Madame Wrenskaya scowled at the timber merchant’s wife. Why was she shouting at her? she wondered. Did the woman believe her to be an idiot?

“So refreshing after the theatre in Tiumen,” continued Madame Kavelina loudly, dabbing at her lips daintily with her napkin. “I do hope it won’t be anything too shocking. I hear that Colonel Izorov has already banned it once. Still, it’s so brave of the doctor to try to bring culture to the masses, that’s what I say.”

“You are mistaken, I think,” replied Yeliena. “The play has not been banned or even cancelled. It has merely been postponed. It will still be performed, only a week later than originally planned.”

Tatyana Kavelina cast an amused glance at her companion.

“How intriguing,” she said. “Is there any particular reason for this change? Or is it just a clever ploy to build up a feeling of suspense before opening night?”

“I am afraid I don’t know,” admitted the doctor’s wife. “You will have to ask Captain Steklov about that. It seems there was some confusion over booking the barracks hall for the production.”

“Confusion?” echoed Irena Kuibysheva doubtfully. “Surely not on Captain Steklov’s part. I have always found him a most methodical gentleman.”

Madame Wrenskaya cleared her throat noisily. It had been common knowledge that during the previous summer, Madame Kuibysheva had paid more than a passing interest in the manoeuvres of the garrison. Only the captain’s background and his sense of self-preservation had prevented the affair from becoming ugly.

“I must say,” murmured Tatyana Kavelina, “and please, Yeliena Mihailovna, I mean no disrespect, but I do feel that a more business-like approach is needed to arrange these things.”

“I agree,” chimed in Irena Kuibysheva. “It’s not that one doubts the doctor’s abilities – far from it – but surely he should be too busy tending to the sick to spare more than a few hours a week to the organisation of such an enterprise?”