Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Madame Pobednyeva began to protest, but her husband quietened her.

“After all, it’s in a worthy cause,” he went on. “I would like to be thought of as, among other things, a patron of the arts.”

“You are very generous,” Maslov said gratefully.

“Don’t mention it. Just make sure that you tell Nikolai Alexeyevich, so there’s no confusion, eh?”

“Certainly, Your Excellency.”

With a magnanimous wave of his hand, the Mayor led his grim-faced wife and a watchful Modest Tolkach into the lounge. Their appearance together took sufficient numbers of people by surprise for there to be a noticeable dip in the level of noise, but the moment soon passed. Besides the occasional nudge of an elbow or upraised eyebrow, the company the Mayor chose to keep was not openly remarked upon. As the Pobednyevs progressed through the crowd with the hospital administrator in tow, only the slight tightening of smiles amongst the wives of the men they greeted indicated that, for Modest Tolkach, the road back to public esteem promised to be a long and difficult one.

Still standing out on the landing, Maslov was on the point of abandoning his watch and advising Nikolai Dresnyakov to open the meeting without further delay when the sound of heavy footsteps made him turn and he spied the top of the doctor’s grey head as he climbed the stairs.

Clutching the top of the banister rail and almost dancing with anxiety, he exclaimed: “Doctor, where have you been? The meeting should have started half an hour ago.”

Stooping with fatigue, the doctor did not reply, until he had joined the librarian on the top step.

“Good evening, Maslov,” he said. “I apologise for being so late. I have been wasting my time trying to locate our worthless Mayor. He isn’t at his house. They thought he was at the hospital. So I went there but, no…”

As he paused for breath, Maslov said quickly, “But he’s here! You’ve been keeping him waiting along with everyone else.”

“Here,” echoed the doctor incredulously. “The Mayor’s here?”

“Yes! Come on!”

Leading him by the arm, Maslov pushed his way into the crowd, crying out, “Make way for the director! Make way, please!”

Ironic cheers greeted the doctor’s arrival.

“About time too!” shouted Belinsky from the back of the room. “Get a move on!”

Standing on a chair, Nikolai Dresnyakov called for silence.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Before I call the meeting to order, I wish to say a few words.”

The schoolteacher ignored the chorus of groans that arose on every side of him as if they were no more than gusts of wind in the bulrushes on the riverbank.

“A few words of welcome, first,” he continued imperturbably. “A warm welcome to you all, and thank you for coming tonight, and also to Dr. Tortsov here, who has agreed to be our director in this year’s production. I’m sure that you will all join me in expressing our confidence in his powers to entertain us and in thanking him for taking up such an arduous position.”

By the time he had finished speaking, Dresnyakov found that Maslov was at his side, tugging at the hem of his frock coat. While the crowd dutifully applauded his little speech, he leant down and allowed the librarian to whisper in his ear.

When the clapping had stopped, he straightened up and continued, “On behalf of the committee, I would also like to thank His Excellency the Mayor, who has so kindly agreed to meet the cost of all the… ah… liquid refreshments we have consumed tonight.”

The applause that greeted this news was markedly more vigorous than that which had preceded it.

“I now call upon Vasili Semionovich,” concluded Dresnyakov, “to read us the list of roles that are to be cast.”

With a nod to the doctor, the school teacher stepped down from his chair. Removing a hurriedly written batch of notes from his jacket pocket, Dr. Tortsov settled his spectacles on his nose and faced the crowd.

“Thank you, Nikolai Alexeyevich,” he began. “Your Honour, councillors, ladies and gentlemen, I must first apologise for keeping you waiting for so long. It was unavoidable and I regret it. Secondly, although I believe one or two of you already know, I wish to announce the title, date and location of the production – or should I say productions? For this year, there are two of them; two one act plays. They are The Bear and A Tragedian in Spite of Himself. Two comic sketches by one of our finest modern writers, Anton Chekhov.”

“Hear hear!” cried Maslov, bring an immediate response of a hoarse raspberry from the back of the crowd. Belinsky grinned drunkenly at those around him.

Undeterred, the doctor pressed on.

“There will be one performance only of each piece, separated by a musical interlude. The plays will be performed on Sunday, the eighteenth of February at the barracks, by kind permission of Captain Steklov.”

Lowering his notes, he addressed the crowd directly.