Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

From the cartoon’s sunken cheeks would protrude an exaggerated proboscis, surpassing in its dimensions even that of the moneylender Goldstein. Once the caricature was completed, the boy would begin scrabbling amidst the debris that littered the yard in search of ammunition. Offcuts of timber, discarded remnants of rusting locks and bolts; all served his purpose. As his father looked on with approval, he would hurl them at the hated visage until his arm grew tired and his aim wild. Only then would he return happily to the hearth, to sit beside his father as the builder smoked his pipe in the dark low-ceilinged room that served both as living quarters and kitchen.

Belinsky treasured those moments most of all: feeling the soft skin of his son’s small hand clasped in his as they sat side by side beside the fire, staring into the witches in the flames. Wasn’t a son the finest house a man could build? Made of skin and bone, but built just the same; designed in his own image and raised from the earth with discipline, patience and understanding. It was not that he had no respect for people of learning: folk like Dresnyakov. On the contrary, he believed the schoolmaster to be a competent teacher and did not question his right to deal with his pupils as he saw fit. Nowadays, having a strong pair of hands was no longer enough. A young man also had to have a head upon his shoulders, a head full of facts and figures; in short, an education.

The builder’s meditations were punctuated by a sharp cry of despair from Maslov as Dr. Tortsov reached out to seize his queen. Sprawling back on the sofa, Roshkovsky chuckled approvingly as the discarded chess piece rattled into its box. Half turning, he looked up at Belinsky to see if he had shared his amusement at the librarian’s gaffe, but was rewarded with only a sullen stare. Shrugging, Roshkovsky turned back again to watch the doctor close in for the kill.

Moodily, Belinsky took another sip of vodka. Despite having often had dealings with Roshkovsky, sometimes for weeks at a time, he recognised the distance between them was too wide, the chasm too deep, for there to be even the pretence of friendship between them. It went far beyond the natural antagonism between trade and profession. If pressed, he would grudgingly concede that Roshkovsky knew his stuff and was a reliable land surveyor and a good draughtsman. Yet, as he liked to tell his drinking friends at the Black Cock, like so many so-called ‘educated’ men the land surveyor had little common sense and entertained the stupidest of ideas. He was a dreamer of dreams, who believed that his country’s problems could be solved merely by people being nice to each other and standing meekly by while everything was being torn up or turned upside down. In a word, Roshkovsky was a Liberal. With a sour expression, Belinsky drained his glass and was on the point of returning to the small wall table in order to pour himself another when the raised voices of the players signalled that their game of chess was over.

“Well done, Doctor!” Maslov was exclaiming effusively. “A nice piece of work.”

Dr. Tortsov muttered a few diplomatic words in response. The game had held little interest for him. His opponent’s moves had been unimaginative and his own had lacked finesse. Ordinarily he would have avoided playing Maslov precisely because his game was so dull and his demeanour so fawning but, faced on this occasion with the alternative of either playing or having to listen to the librarian’s conversation, he had chosen the least tiresome occupation. He was grateful when Roshkovsky, yawning, proposed that they should no longer wait for Colonel Izorov’s arrival.

“I agree,” said Dresnyakov, neatly folding his newspaper and gathering together his pile of handwritten notes. “Whatever is keeping the colonel, it must be more important than our deliberations.”

Remembering the weary rider he had watched from the window, Roshkovsky made room for Belinsky to join him on the sofa but the builder ignored him. Instead Belinsky crossed to the fireside and lowered himself into a chair opposite the schoolteacher, grumbling as he did so. “About time too. Let’s get on with it.”

“With your permission then, gentlemen,” continued Dresnyakov, “I shall begin by reading the minutes of our last meeting.”