Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

It was these invitations that Chevanin treasured most. In her husband’s absence, Yeliena Mihailovna could occasionally reveal glimpses of a happier and gayer side of her nature than the world normally saw. Conscious that it was his ability to amuse her that contributed to his enjoyment of these Sunday afternoons, Chevanin took pains to memorise the jokes, scandals and odd snatches of conversation that he sometimes overheard in the surgery waiting room and around the town. If he was able, he mimicked the speakers; his repertoire extending from Colonel Izorov’s ominous growl as he enquired after the health of a malingering subordinate to Nidovsky’s shifty evasiveness when confronted with a list of complaints from his tenants. Then Yeliena Mihailovna would laugh and for a few seconds the mask would slip revealing behind her staid exterior another, younger and more attractive, woman. Celebrating his power to effect this transformation, Chevanin had, in his innocence, never once considered that his behaviour could be regarded as harmful.

Not every visit was given over to high spirited jocosity. Sometimes they just sat quietly reading; he by the hearth, she on the sofa, enjoying the tranquillity of each other’s company. And, with the exception that Yeliena Mihailovna had not been reading but completing a long letter to her sister that would go with the post sleigh on the following Tuesday, so it had been while they had waited for Doctor Tortsov to return from his visit to Gleb Pirogov. In his seat beside the fire, Anton had perused an article on epidemic control that the Doctor had left out for him. Although he did not doubt the author’s expertise, he found the paper unhelpful on how to deal with the specific circumstances that now governed Berezovo. This was not unusual: too many journal articles addressed the treatment of diseases from an urban perspective and provided little or no practical guidance on the control of disease in outlying rural areas or within poorly served populations. The root problem was that the majority of factors that influenced health – ignorance, poverty, bad housing conditions, poor diet and education, unemployment and the tyranny of distance – were not within the power of medical men to remedy nor the editorial scope of their journals.

Casting the paper aside, he let his attention wander and his eyes had finally come to rest on the most decorative feature in the room, the person of his hostess Yeliena Mihailovna, who was occupied with writing her letter to her sister. He recognised that, as a doctor, the epidemic represented some personal danger to himself but he gave no thought as to his own death. He was, at that moment, wondering how the woman opposite him might react on hearing the news that he was stricken. Would she come to his bedside? It was possible.

He regarded her more closely. There was something in the look of concentration on her face, her absorption in her task, that made her seem passionless yet wholly admirable. He noted with pleasure the way that the lamplight by which she wrote cast gentle shadows against her cheek and the lashes that hid her downcast eyes, and illuminated the shapeliness of her neck beneath the luxuriant bun of her hair. Her pale complexion entranced him, its pallor continuing down the delicate curve of her jawline to melt against the starched whiteness of her ruffed collar. The only visible hint of colour upon her face was to be found upon her roseate lips with their slight upcurve, contoured by the faint lines that had become enigmatically engraved about her mouth. He felt himself becoming captivated by her lips and tried to imagine them in their private moments, first in anger and then whispering words of love. As he gazed at them he saw her smile tighten and then deepen. Looking up he realised with a shock that he had been discovered. She was now watching him and had been for he did not know how long.

He stammered an apology for his rudeness. He had been dreaming, he said. He had not meant to stare.

Furious with himself, he had pretended to continue his study of the journal article, fearing at any moment her quiet suggestion that he should take his leave. What explanation would she give to her husband on his return to explain his departure? Perhaps it would be better for him to take the initiative and invent some excuse for leaving? That would be the proper thing to do… Yet still he had sat in his chair, unable either to fight or flee until, with a sigh, she had laid aside her pen and asked:

“Tell me, Anton Ivanovich, what do you do with yourself after you have finished a day’s work?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, my husband cannot keep you working every hour of the day and night. What do you do? How do you entertain yourself?”

Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Chevanin wondered what she meant. Surely she could not be asking him to tell her everything he did?