Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Usually, after I’ve finished accompanying the Doctor on his rounds, I return to the surgery and prepare things for the following day. Then I go home and read for a few hours and then go to sleep.”

“What do you read?”

She sounded genuinely interested. He groped for an answer. At that precise moment he could not recall the title of the last book he had read, or indeed of any book.

“Medical books mostly,” he lied. “I find they come in use if there is an emergency and Vasili Semionovich is not there.”

“I see,” Yeliena replied slowly. “And what about the times when you are not reading? Do you go out and visit friends?”

Chevanin shifted awkwardly in his chair. He had not previously let his social relationships (such as they were) intermingle with his professional life. Was this now proving to be a mistake?

“Sometimes. It depends on which day of the week it is. If it is a Friday or a Saturday, then I might arrange to meet a few friends at the Hotel New Century. Other times I might visit them in their rooms.”

“And these friends,” she persisted, “are they young men of your age, or older? Or are they young ladies, perhaps?”

“One or two of the fellows have lady friends,” he admitted, “and sometimes they, the ladies, bring their friends. But mostly it’s just fellows of my age.”

Apparently satisfied with the answers she had received, Madame Tortsova picked up her pen and resumed her letter.

Chevanin gazed unseeing at the pages before him as he turned the exchange over in his mind. Had it been intended as a rebuke, or had the Doctor and Yeliena Mihailovna been speculating on the nature of his private life? In the absence of any visible proof to the contrary, had the Doctor assumed he was friendless, or worse, abnormal? Was the reason behind Madame Tortsova’s questions that the Doctor suspected him of being a pervert? The thought appalled him.

“Yeliena Mihailovna,” he asked, “might I enquire why you ask?”

Looking up, the Doctor’s wife smiled disarmingly.

“It’s not important, Anton Ivanovich. Do not let it worry you. It was just something that Madame Wrenskaya said to me when I saw her last.”

Chevanin grimaced.

“Please,” he urged her, “tell me what it was.”

“She thinks that it is high time you were considering settling down.”

The full import of the remark did not immediately dawn upon him.

“But I am settled, as much as I can be. As much as my circumstances permit. I have my room, my work…”

“I rather think,” interrupted Yeliena gently, “she meant you ought to be considering the question of marriage.”

“Marriage?” he exclaimed in surprise. “But how could I afford that, even if…”

“Even if what, Anton Ivanovich?”

“Even if there was someone for whom I held a special regard,” he finished lamely.

“By which,” said Yeliena, laying aside her notepaper, “I take it that at the moment there is no one to whom you have a special attachment?”

He could only answer with a pathetic shake of his head.

“I see. Well, we shall have to remedy that, won’t we?” Yeliena told him in a business-like manner. “Now, tell me, what kind of young woman appeals to you?”

“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about the matter.”

“Well, you should have, Anton Ivanovich! You should have!”

The animated tone of her voice made him want to curl up with shame. Unheeding to his discomfort, Yeliena started to fire names at him.

“How about Nadnikov’s daughter, Vera Rafaelovna?”

He shook his head.

“Natalya Izminsky?”

Another shake and a frown.

“Katya Kuprin, perhaps?”

“Heavens, no!”

A look of mock desperation clouded Yeliena’s face.

“There must be some type of woman that appeals to you. How about Irena Kuibysheva? She’s popular with the gentlemen, I believe.”

The notion was so outre that, despite his discomfort at the inquisition, Chevanin laughed out loud.

“Madame Kuibysheva? But she’s already married.”

“That does not appear to bother her over much.”

“Besides,” Chevanin added, “she is too old, and too fat.”

“Too old?” cried Yeliena indignantly. “I will have you know that Irena Kuibysheva is… well, a few years younger than myself. Do you consider me too old?”

“Oh no, Yeliena Mihailovna,” he replied hurriedly. “I did not mean that. Anyway, there is a world of difference between you and her. I never meant to imply anything to your detriment.”

Yeliena remained unconvinced.

“Hmm. There is a world of difference between us, and not all in my favour, I suspect.”

“But she is still too fat,” he insisted hopefully. “You must admit that.”

“She is, perhaps, a trifle obvious,” the doctor’s wife conceded uncharitably. “All the same, Kuibyshev does have a weak heart.”

“I’m not surprised,” muttered Chevanin.

It was a daring remark which he was pleased to see met with approval. Pursing her lips quickly as she fought to hide her smile, Yeliena said, “Should he die, she would be left with a substantial fortune. That would come in great use to you as a doctor.”

“I could never marry for money,” he protested.