Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Leaning over the banisters, the doctor shouted hoarsely down the stair well.

“I won’t let you do it, whatever it is! I’ll stop you!”

But the Mayor had already gone. Exhausted by his emotion, and by the events of the day, Dr. Tortsov slowly limped down the staircase. Reaching the last step, he sat down and cradled his head miserably in his hands.

The day had turned into a nightmare. All he had wanted to do, he told himself, was to heal the sick and direct a play. Was that too much to ask of Heaven? It seemed so. He had succeeded only in catching a cold, making a fool of himself in front of the Mayor and nearly breaking his own leg.

Hearing a discreet cough, he looked up. Fyodor Gregorivich was standing in front of him, smiling sympathetically. In his arms he carried the doctor’s hat and coat.

“Time to go home, Doctor.”

Resigned to his defeat, Dr. Tortsov got to his feet and allowed the proprietor to help him on with his coat.

Fyodor Gregorivich is right, he thought. It is time to go. No doubt tomorrow will bring its own crop of humiliations.

Fyodor Gregorivich watched Dr. Tortsov follow the Mayor out into the night and shook his head sadly. There was something about the artistic temperament, he decided, that made people go a little mad. Picking up a tray, he went into the lounge to see if there were any more glasses for the kitchen staff to wash.

Book Two The Rising Storm

Chapter One

Monday 5th February 1907

Berezovo

It was still dark on the morning after the casting of the actors when Anton Chevanin locked his door and carefully felt his way down the iron fire escape that was attached to the side of the decrepit building where he boarded. Once he had reached the ground he patted the pockets of his overcoat and, having satisfied himself that he had not forgotten the keys to the surgery, set off for work. In the summer months it took him no more than ten or fifteen minutes to walk from his rooms in Tower Street to the corner of Hospital Street and Skinners Street where the Doctor had his surgery. This morning, because of the heavy fall of snow during the night, he had allowed himself half an hour to complete the journey.

Out of habit, he glanced up at the tall fire tower which gave the street its name, and saw that the sentry’s lamp was still lit. Preoccupied with his own thoughts, he ignored the soldier’s cheery wave as he trudged towards the hospital at the far end of the street. He had made a fool of himself at the Tortsovs’ and he knew it. Worse: his sense of honour would not allow him to forget that he had insulted the woman for whom he cared so much. At that moment he would have given all he possessed to relive that hour he had spent with Madame Tortsova and repair the damage to his self-esteem. Life had never looked bleaker.

Although he knew that he should not blame his employer, he still felt that the situation had in part been the Doctor’s fault. Pirogov’s wife was as strong as a horse and the birth – which he had personally attended – had been without complications. There had been no cause for the Doctor to visit her on a Sunday, unless it was to check up on him. If Dr. Tortsov had not rushed off after the church service to see her, none of what had subsequently occurred would have happened. But the Doctor had gone to Pirogov’s workshop, and Chevanin had escorted Madame Yeliena Tortsova home and there was nothing to be done about it.

It was not uncommon for the Tortsovs to invite him to join them at their midday meal. Over the course of a year Chevanin shared his employer’s table often enough for him to be able to count upon it supplementing his frugal diet. The offer of a free meal and an afternoon’s good conversation in warm and comfortable surroundings was not to be refused. Besides the small salary that he received from the Doctor, he had only an allowance of some 300 roubles per annum that had been settled upon him after his graduation from the medical school by a distant uncle in Tiumen. As generous as this sum was, it only amounted to six roubles a week; barely enough to cover the rent to Nidovsky and a change of bed linen. In the beginning he had felt uncomfortable about accepting these invitations, but he had allowed himself to be persuaded by the Doctor’s insistence that, in time, he would be in a position to return their hospitality. Nor did the invitations cease when Dr. Tortsov was absent from Berezovo, attending to his far flung practice. On the contrary, on those occasions Chevanin became almost a fixture at No. 8 Ostermann Street, helping Madame Tortsova to while away the dreary Sabbath afternoons.