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A Allen: Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

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A Allen Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic
  • Название:
    Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic
  • Автор:
  • Издательство:
    Canelo
  • Жанр:
  • Год:
    2017
  • Город:
    Beaconsfield
  • Язык:
    Английский
  • ISBN:
    978-1-788-63049-8
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    4 / 5
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Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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An epic novel of love and revolution. Russia, 1907. The revolution has failed. Leon Trotsky is one of a group of political prisoners being escorted by armed police, in a convoy of horse-drawn sleighs, to a secret location in the icy north of the country. Here they will be exiled as political prisoners. If, that is, they survive the journey. Meanwhile, in the small Siberian town of Berezovo, the doctor’s assistant is terrified of mis-stepping as he attempts to manage his developing admiration of his boss’s wife. The police and the Town Council are now awaiting with interest and horror the arrival of the exiles, and in the dark passageways of the Jewish Quarter, whispered arguments are rife over how best to receive their once-admired leaders. As the convoy nears its destination, the lives of the prisoners and townsfolk are on a collision course that will make history. Berezovo contains the three previously published novels A Small Town in Siberia, The Rising Storm, and Journey’s End.

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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.

“Two hundred souls,” he mused. “Hmm… Eighty seats at one rouble each and a hundred and twenty bench seats at 40 copecks. No, let us say 70 benchers just to be on the safe side. How much will Polezhayev want for the costumes and alterations? No more than ten, surely? Twelve perhaps… no, ten roubles or the Jew can go hang himself. Then there’s Belinsky, of course. He will bump up his prices the moment work begins, complaining that his men are being kept from more profitable labour. Allow at least twenty roubles for him. Scripts, programmes, posters, advertisements and extras… another twelve. Now, if everybody brought their own chairs like last year… And we could persuade Fyodor Gregorivich to provide seating from the hotel for free in exchange for the sole licence to sell refreshments… And perhaps a full case… no, half a case of wine to the good captain for the use of the barracks… that would leave how much? Sixty roubles at the very least. Probably more, if we include standing tickets at ten copecks each. All in all, a very respectable profit for one night’s work.”

Rubbing the palms of his hand together with satisfaction, he turned his attention back to the four men standing arguing in the centre of the room. Despite the assurances of Dr. Tortsov and Roshkovsky, Belinsky – who quite possibly was by now a little drunk – had not been persuaded that ‘this Chekhov fellow’ was not a propagandist for revolution and criminal outrage.

“But that is ridiculous!” Roshkovsky was saying, waving his hands above his head. “How can you be so prejudiced? Just because he was born in the South it doesn’t follow that he supports terrorism.”

“Andrey Vladimirovich is right!” Maslov broke in excitedly. “Do you think Colonel Izorov would have allowed us to proceed with this production if the plays were not of the highest moral calibre?”

It was fortunate for Belinsky, who was no admirer of the colonel, that the unflattering retort already forming in his mind died before it reached his lips. For at that precise moment, the double doors that separated the lounge from the landing outside were thrown back with a crash, revealing the stocky figure of the Chief of Police himself standing in the doorway.

For a second or two there was an embarrassed silence, then Dresnyakov gave a mirthless chuckle.

“Welcome, Colonel. We were hoping that you would be able to attend our little meeting.”

Standing sandwiched between Roshkovsky and Belinsky, Maslov felt himself quail as Colonel Izorov took a few steps into the room and closed the doors softly behind him. The policeman seemed not to have heard Dresnyakov’s greeting or, if he had, he had chosen to ignore it. Instead, he was glaring accusingly at each of them in turn, as if committing their faces to memory. Involuntarily, the librarian gave a low groan of despair. The colonel looked as if, for two copecks, he would arrest them all. One never knew with Izorov. Almost certainly the Chief of Police must have heard him mention his name.

But there is nothing wrong with that, surely? Maslov told himself. I said nothing wrong. It was all perfectly innocent.

Unless… Unless Chekhov had become a proscribed writer. The librarian’s head began to swim as the silence lengthened. He had no fewer than a dozen scripts sitting on his office desk at that very moment; more than sufficient to land him in trouble.

Perhaps he is not angry about the play at all, he thought. Maybe something else is bothering him.

But this hope was dashed to the ground the moment the policeman spoke.

“This play… When do you intend to perform it?”

Dresnyakov, to whom the question had been addressed, glanced warily at the other men and then back at the colonel.

“Actually, the doctor is in charge of the production,” he replied, “but I think we had all agreed upon Sunday the eleventh of next month.”

The unsmiling features of the Chief of Police betrayed nothing as he digested this piece of intelligence.

“Impossible,” he said at last.

“I beg your pardon?”

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