Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Father Arkady’s hand rested longer than usual upon the lace that covered her elegant coiffure and for an instant an expression of profound sorrow could be detected beneath the priest’s heavily bearded features. Spreading her arms like a wild goose in flight, Madame Roshkovskaya allowed herself to be helped to her feet by her husband, assisted by Fyodor Gregorivich, the proprietor of the Hotel New Century. Slowly, the huddled trio, Roshkovsky half supporting, half cradling her in her arms, took the first steps in the laborious journey to the door. Unable to help and unable to watch, some of the waiting men turned their heads away while others fixed their gaze keenly on her eyes, willing her on, baring their teeth with the effort as they tried to pour the strength of their muscles into hers. Aware of the feelings in the hearts of their menfolk, the women looked on sombrely.

The queue moved forward again as, in rapid succession, Maslov, Belinsky and Delyanov all knelt before the priest. Standing on tiptoe, Pirogov peered over the shoulder of the man in front of him and saw that there were at least another dozen people before his turn would come. A flicker of hope began to burn within him. Perhaps Dr. Tortsov would already have gone. But when, at last, he had received Father Arkady’s benediction and had reached the outer door of the church, he found that Fyodor Gregorivich, still supporting the land-surveyor’s wife, was blocking the way out to the street and that the doctor, standing in the centre of a small group of people, was deep in conversation with Andrei Roshkovsky. Seeing Pirogov hesitate as he approached, the owner of the Hotel New Era edged to one side to let him through, but the carpenter shook his head and pointing silently at the doctor, indicating that he had cause to speak with him. Without pausing in what he was saying, Dr. Tortsov turned and acknowledged him with a nod then carried on with this conversation. Pirogov waited, turning the worn brim of his hat nervously in his hands.

“Remember now,” the doctor was saying, “seven o’ clock this evening at the hotel for casting. I don’t think it should take long this year. Now, are you sure that you would not prefer to take my sleigh home, Nina Vassileyevna?”

“It’s very kind of you, Doctor,” replied Madame Roshkovskaya, “but Fyodor Gregorivich has kindly offered us seats in his. Besides, you have just as far to go as we have and the town would not forgive me if you caught a chill on my account.”

The doctor laughed.

“I’m too busy to catch a chill at the moment. Besides,” he added, jerking his head towards the carpenter, “I have to attend to Pirogov here, or rather his wife. You have heard of his good fortune, I suppose?”

Hearing his name mentioned, Pirogov took a step forward, smiling sheepishly.

“Good fortune, Gleb Yakovlevich?” asked Madame Roshkovskaya. “Why? What has happened to you?”

“I have a son, Madame,” he admitted. “A fine boy.”

The land surveyor’s wife leant forward on her two sticks, her eyes widening with delight.

“A son! How marvellous! When was he born?”

“A week ago today, Madame.”

“A Sunday child. He will be lucky.”

Twisting her body with some effort, Madame Roshkovskaya turned to face her husband.

“Andrei, haven’t we some blankets in the upstairs cupboard that are not being used? Perhaps Madame Pirogova could make better use of them than we can, if Gleb Yakovlevich would allow us to lend them to her?”

For a few seconds, the carpenter felt too moved to reply.

“Thank you, Madame,” he said gruffly. “I’m sure she could find them useful for the babe. Just for a few months, until the warmer weather comes, you understand.”

“Then that’s settled,” said Madame Roshkovskaya lightly. “You may call for them any time you like. But remember to tell Mariya Nikoleyevna that they will need to be aired before she uses them.”

With a tired smile, she took her leave of them, the roughly dressed peasants that had begun to stream past the group hanging back so that her supporters could safely negotiate the ice-covered steps down to the street.

Pirogov shook his head in admiration. Madame Pirogova! he thought proudly. Mariya Nikoleyevna, if you please! That will buck the old girl up.

Undeniably, there was something about Madame Roshkovskaya that made the heart feel full again. It was more than lending blankets and remembering people’s names, though both went a long way towards explaining it. The nearest he could get to the secret of her mystery was ‘breeding’ and that was close enough for him. Happier now, he turned back to face the doctor, who was busy fastening the top button of his fur collared coat. Warmed by Madame Roshkovskaya’s unexpected generosity, he decided that perhaps five roubles could be found after all. It wasn’t the end of the world.