Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Well then,” announced the doctor as he pulled on a thick pair of gloves, “since we have my sleigh after all, let us go to your house and see this famous baby of yours. He must be wondering where his father has got to.”

Hunching their shoulders against the cold, the two men walked towards the line of waiting sleighs.

* * *

The Pirogovs lived on the opposite side of town in the heart of the artisan quarter: the warren of grim streets that ran between the rear of the hospital and the great Tobolsk Highway. Their house was one of a half dozen modest properties owned by Nadnikov the grain merchant. The family’s accommodation consisted of two small, dank rooms on the upper storey, the whole of the ground floor being given over to a single large room which served as the carpenter’s workshop and store house. It was a far cry from Ostermann Street. Here, the poorer inhabitants of Berezovo huddled together for warmth and profit. Christian carpenter lived cheek by jowl with Jewish tailor, and sub-let rooms, if he had them, to atheistic exiles. It was said amongst the political exiles (of which Berezovo boasted a colony of around 200 souls) that so striking was the difference between this southern section of the town and its wealthier northern counterpart that it was virtually impossible, on seeing one, to suppose that the other existed, unless, of course, you were a Marxist; the joke being that one usually had to be a Marxist to find oneself in the situation to begin with.

In his own way, Gleb Pirogov was himself having difficulty bridging the gap between the two worlds as he climbed self-consciously onto the driving board of the doctor’s sleigh. Unaccustomed to being driven home from church, he sat staring straight ahead throughout the journey, one hand tightly holding onto the edge of the plank so as to steady himself as the thick-coated ponies bent their heads to their task.

Sensing his passenger’s unease, Doctor Tortsov asked genially:

“How is your wife? Is she taking the tonic that Dr. Chevanin left her?”

“She is quite well, thank you Doctor,” Pirogov replied. “As well as can be expected, anyhow.”

“I expect that she is tired, though.”

“Yes, she is tired. But I make sure she has her two spoons full, just as you ordered.”

“Good. I am sorry that I was not there to deliver the boy myself. There’s a lot of sickness about at the moment. I understand from my assistant that the delivery went well. Your wife is a healthy woman, so I wasn’t worried. I see no reason why she should not bear you more sons.”

“God willing,” responded Pirogov hastily and crossed himself.

“Did my assistant remember to leave his bill with you?”

“No, Doctor,” admitted Pirogov, adding quickly, “But, if you can see your way to waiting for another ten days, or at least a week, then I can have the money ready for you.”

The doctor frowned and looked sideways at him sharply.

“I see. Well, naturally, you will have to settle your affairs with Dr. Chevanin, but I dare say he’ll wait a day or so. After all, none of us are millionaires, are we?”

“No sir,” replied Pirogov humbly.

The two men fell silent as the doctor wrestled with the reins, pulling the ponies’ heads round to the right so that the sleigh turned off the broader street they had been travelling on and began to move down the narrow side street that would lead them to Pirogov’s house.

“As a matter of fact,” the doctor announced suddenly, “I might be able to do you a service in the meantime. The drama committee needs some chairs for one of the plays we are producing. If the price is right, I might be able to persuade them to commission them from you.”

“What kind of chairs do they want?”

“Nothing too heavy, but they must be suitable for a well-appointed sitting room. The trouble is, they also have to be easily breakable.”

“Breakable?” echoed Pirogov doubtfully.

“Yes. One of the characters in the play loses his temper, you see, and starts breaking them, one by one. It’s quite funny, actually.”

“You mean, like trick chairs?”

“Yes. Exactly so. Do you think you could make such a thing?” enquired Dr. Tortsov, pulling abruptly on the reins.

They had arrived. Pirogov considered his strange request as he helped the doctor down from his seat and held open the wicket gate through which customers gained entrance to his premises. As they crossed the snow-covered yard, the greasy smell of overcooked stew wafted from the house to meet them and the doctor surreptitiously took a deep breath before ducking his head beneath the weather stained lintel of the workshop doorway.

“When would you want them by?” asked Pirogov as he pulled the door to behind them, plunging the room into near darkness.

“We shall need them by next Sunday. That would give us time to rehearse and make any necessary changes.”

“Well I don’t know,” Pirogov said, rubbing his chin. “How many did you say you wanted?”

“Three for the play and possibly another one for the rehearsals. Four in all.”