Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“That’s damned tight,” growled the builder. “I might not be able to get it all done; not without cutting into day work.”

“Captain Steklov is happy to lend you a squad of men to help,” the land surveyor assured him. “And we could easily borrow a wagon to transport any finished pieces from your yard.”

“I hope that the captain has made a note of when the play is to take place,” said Dresnyakov. “It would be most unfortunate if it conflicted with a visit from the general or someone.”

“Don’t worry,” replied Roshkovsky. “I saw him ring the date on his calendar myself. Sunday the eleventh of February, for one night only. I have also spoken to Lev Polezhayev. He is prepared to alter any existing costumes, or even run up new ones, at a discount. Without seeing the scripts, I couldn’t give him an idea of what might be needed, but his rates are usually reasonable.”

There was a general buzz of agreement.

“Finally, I have calculated that, if we did not use more than a third of the total area for the stage this year, we should be able to seat between a hundred and fifty and two hundred people in some degree of comfort. As to where we get the seating from, I shall let the committee determine that.”

Notwithstanding the problem with locating the necessary chairs and benches, this last piece of news was greeted with approval.

“Two hundred people!” cried Maslov. “What a production!”

Normally taciturn, even Doctor Tortsov was moved to express his enthusiasm and it was some moments before their chairman was able to restore order once more. When at last he had done so, he thanked the land surveyor for his report and called upon the doctor to furnish them with the last piece of intelligence they required: namely the date upon which the roles would be cast.

“Wednesday evening, the thirty-first of January,” announced Dr. Tortsov crisply.

“Then I declare this meeting closed, gentlemen. Our next meeting will be next Wednesday evening.”

As the five men rose to stretch their legs, Belinsky asked, “Who is this Chekhov then?”

Ignoring Maslov’s snigger of disbelief, Dr. Tortsov provided the answer.

“He is, or rather was, a playwright from Yalta who also wrote some excellent short stories. He died only recently; about two or three years ago, I believe.”

“Huh! I knew it!” growled Belinsky. “A soft southerner. I suppose the plays will be full of all sorts of rubbish glorifying queers and terrorists and such like.”

“On the contrary,” the doctor corrected him genially, “one of Chekhov’s most admirable qualities, and the reason for his enduring popularity, is that he touches upon only the more conventional subjects. Isn’t that so, Nikolai Alexeyevich?”

“Certainly,” agreed the schoolmaster. “Besides, both Father Arkady and Colonel Izorov have fully endorsed the doctor’s choice. I, for one, would not countenance any production that could be considered difficult or offensive.”

“All the same, nothing good ever came out of Yalta. I’m not working on anything that risks being closed down by the police, and that’s flat.”

“Yuli Nikitavich does have a point,” Maslov broke in nervously. “After all, it doesn’t matter what the script says, it’s the interpretation that you put on it. Remember that actor last year, the one playing the English detective Sherlock Holmes at the Moscow Theatre? He appeared to make a joke about the futility of siege law. They gave him three months for that. Our own Chaliapin was fined for refusing to sing patriotic songs as an encore. He had to pay over a hundred roubles in fines. Then there were those two sisters…”

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, Alexander Vissarionovich!” scoffed Roshkovsky. “There won’t be any singing in the barracks. Besides, the sooner you let us have the scripts, the sooner our friend Yuli here can sleep soundly in his bed.”

As the wrangling threatened to grow more heated, Nikolai Dresnyakov retreated once more to the safety of his chair by the fire. There was not the least doubt in his mind that the director’s choice had been based upon sound reasoning since much of it has been supplied by himself. He began mentally computing the profit that could be expected to accrue from their efforts.