Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Don’t be so hasty, Anton Ivanovich,” she advised him. “People marry for all sorts of reasons. Some marry in order to escape from their family home; others to find one. Some marry out of a sense of duty or even pity; others out of an unreasonable expectation of eternal joy and happiness. Some even get wed in the same way that a gambler shakes the dice: hoping that it will change their luck. Marrying for money is one of the saner reasons. Don’t reject it out of hand.”

“No, never for money,” he repeated stubbornly. “I could only marry if I met somebody I loved.”

“Hah!” cried Yeliena mockingly. “And then what? You’ll find that you have to spend hours, days, even weeks apart, lancing boils and attending difficult labours in the middle of the night hundreds of versts away from your precious beloved.”

Unnerved by her reply, Chevanin shook his head.

“It takes a very special kind of woman to be a doctor’s wife today, Anton Ivanovich,” Yeliena continued. “You must find a woman who is uncomplaining, prepared to endure hardship and loneliness and, yes, even disappointment because she believes in you and the importance of your work. A woman who accepts from the very beginning that she must take second place to the needs of her husband’s patients. Above all, you must find a woman you can trust.”

The seriousness of her tone and the emphasis she had placed upon those last words had moved Chevanin deeply. Drawing himself to the edge of his seat he replied with equal candour:

“Then, Lenochka, I could do no better than to search for another just as you.”

Yeliena gasped, momentarily taken aback by his uninvited familiarity. Quickly recovering herself, she rose and began gathering up her writing things.

Chevanin rose and mumbled his apology.

“I’m sorry, Madame Tortsova! What I said was impertinent, but I meant it as only the deepest compliment…”

“A compliment?” she replied with a sharp laugh. “Why yes, I suppose it could be considered as a sort of compliment. Just.”

Without a further word she swept from the room, leaving him to curse his stupidity.

Pacing up and down the sitting room, he had anxiously debated what he should do to try and rectify his situation. He had just come to the decision that the only honourable course was to leave the house when the sound of the front door being thrown back on its hinges told him it was already too late; Dr. Tortsov had returned. Unwilling to blunder past his employer in the hallway he gritted his teeth and prepared himself to face the punishment he felt he rightly deserved.

Madame Tortsova reappeared and the three of them trooped in silence into the dining room. It soon became abundantly clear that his employer had no interest whatsoever in what might have passed between his wife and his assistant in his absence. His visit to Pirogov’s seemed to have filled him with a consuming rage. As the meal progressed, the Doctor’s mood worsened, and he did not hesitate to give the full force of his tongue to anyone who looked as if they were about to engage him in conversation. The food was filthy, he exclaimed. How could Yeliena bring herself to offer such muck for human consumption? What did she do with the housekeeping money? His assistant ate like a pig. His maid smelt like one. Was there ever anyone so surrounded by such thieves and time wasters?

Torn between leaving the scene of his crime and staying in the forlorn hope that he could apologise to his hostess more fully, Chevanin had weathered the storm of abuse, gallantly deflecting as much as he could onto his own head in order that Madame Tortsova might be spared further insults. But if anything, his presence seemed to make matters worse. The Doctor had twice come close to ordering him from the house before the luncheon was finished. When the meal was over Yeliena had left them with as much dignity as she possessed, informing her husband in a manner clearly intended to include Chevanin that she was retiring upstairs for the remainder of the afternoon and did not wish to be disturbed. Given that the Doctor himself had to go out again to see Ovseenko and Averbuch, Chevanin felt he had little choice but also to take his leave. Descending the steps outside the Doctor’s house, he had grave doubts as to whether he would ever be received there again.