Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

From his vantage point beside the fire Belinsky studied the faces of the other men. To his eyes they were all the same. Men of letters; smooth men of polished words and endless committees. They would spend weeks and weeks agonising over who was going to be responsible for what and why, forgetting that it was only he – Yuli Nikitavich Belinsky – who could bring substance to the play. He would be the one who built the sets and painted the scenery; who made sure the doors opened properly and that the curtains didn’t collapse (as they had done two years ago when that blockhead Tachminov had been in charge). That is what this country needs, he thought. A few more practical men like myself who know how to get the best out of the materials that are to hand… Who know how to boot arses and don’t have to go grovelling to the Jews every time their money runs out.

Having completed reading the minutes, Dresnyakov turned to the second item on the meticulously written agenda that lay upon his knee. Nodding to Maslov, he invited the librarian to present his report. Nervously adjusting his cravat, the small man sprang to his feet and, after acknowledging his colleagues with a series of bows, addressed the other members of the drama committee.

“As you may recall,” he began, “I ordered the scripts of the two sketches we are to produce, namely The Bear and A Tragedian Despite Himself by Anton Chekhov, from the General Book Distributors in Tobolsk. I am pleased to report that these have now arrived and are, at this very moment, awaiting the committee’s pleasure in my storeroom.”

This news was not unexpected and his announcement was greeted by wry expressions of congratulation. He had informed each of them individually of the scripts’ arrival several times since the Committee’s last meeting. Neither were the other members of the group tempted to ask what good the scripts were doing in the library storeroom when their rightful place was in the hands of those charged with their translation into the spoken performance. They knew the librarian too well. Alexander Maslov would cling onto the scripts until the very last moment, enjoying the frisson of power conveyed by their possession.

“I have also taken the liberty,” Maslov went on, “of extracting one or two articles from theatrical magazines in my possession concerning the special problems presented by a production of these works. I thought that, since it is the good doctor’s first excursion into the thespian art, they may be of some small service to him.”

Dr. Tortsov’s smile tightened as he watched Maslov delve into a pocket and produce a thick sheaf of papers. He steeled himself for yet another lecture from the town’s self-appointed dramaturge.

Catching his eye, Dresnyakov hastily intervened.

“Thank you, Alexander Vissarionovich. Now, may I ask…”

But Maslov was not to be stopped so easily.

“If you will just allow me to observe,” he continued, “the great dramatic theorist and director Stanislavsky says that Chekhov presents his characters from within, or rather…”

“Yes, thank you, Alexander Vissarionovich!” repeated Dresnyakov.

“Or rather,” persisted the librarian, “he allows us to see the inner compulsions which activate his people, whilst letting the exterior actions or…”

“THANK YOU, ALEXANDER VISSARIONOVICH!”

This time there was no mistaking the schoolmaster’s determination to uphold the authority of the Chair. So loud had his voice been that it sent the little man scurrying back to his seat, twitching apologetically as he looked around him.

“Really, gentlemen!” said Dresnyakov with mock severity. “If we are to get through our business we must learn to limit our contributions to the subject in hand, otherwise, we shall never be finished. Now, if we may proceed,” he continued, pointedly overlooking Maslov’s upraised hand. “I shall now call upon Andrey Vladimirovich to tell us of the progress he has made regarding acquiring the venue for the production.”

“Certainly, Nikolai Alexeyevich,” responded Roshkovsky easily.

Unlike the previous speaker, the land surveyor did not rise from his seat but contented himself with leaning forward and ticking off the points of his report on the fingers of one elegant hand as he dealt with them.

“I have spoken with Captain Steklov. Once again he has kindly allowed us the use of the barracks for our production. Incidentally,” he added, turning to Belinsky, “the captain told me that you could take the measurements for the stage area any time you like, but that he would be obliged if you could restrict the construction of the scenery itself until the Wednesday before the performance.”