Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Oh Anton Ivanovich, it was awful!” she said, choking back her tears. “What could I do? I had to get her travelling case down from the top of the wardrobe. I had to!”

Removing his arm from around her shoulders, he clasped both her hands in his.

“Now think, Katya. Has this never happened before?”

“No, Anton Ivanovich,” she said firmly. “There have been a few tiffs every now and again, mainly about the Doctor and how hard he works. And about money, of course, but that’s all, honest!”

“So she has never threatened to leave him before?” he insisted.

“No sir, I swear!”

His mind racing, Chevanin debated what to do. If the row had been about him, then it was up to him to put it right. He would try and speak to Yeliena Mihailovna and tell her that if anyone should leave Berezovo then it should be him, and not her.

As he sat on the sofa beside Katya he had been unconsciously patting and stroking her hand as he sought an answer to the dilemma that he had created. Now, having reached a decision, he tried to pull his hands free but the maid clung onto them desperately.

“Let go of me, Katya.”

“What are you going to do, Anton Ivanovich?”

“I shall speak to Madame Tortsova myself. Now, let go!”

“But you mustn’t!” she cried in alarm, clinging ever more tightly to him. “She told me that nobody was to disturb her. Oh, please don’t! It’ll get me into such trouble!”

Pushing her away from him on the sofa, he struggled to his feet.

“Good God, Katya!” he snapped angrily. “What’s the matter with you?”

Straightening his cuffs, he looked down at the unhappy girl.

“Don’t be too stupid, Katya,” he sneered. “What do you think she will do? Hand you your notice as she steps out of the door? Now get back to the kitchen and prepare some tea while I go and speak to your mistress.”

Turning to go, he raised one finger in warning.

“And Katya,” he said menacingly. “Not one word of this, do you understand? Not to Father Arkady, not to anyone. Is that clear?”

Rubbing her hand, the maid nodded resentfully.

Discarding his overcoat, Chevanin left the room and stood for a moment looking up the dark flight of stairs. Sounds of movement could still be heard above him as more doors and drawers were opened and shut. Swallowing deeply, he began to climb the stairs.

He had visited the upper storey of the Tortsovs’ household twice before. Once when the Doctor had allowed him to use his bedroom to change in before they had attended an official dinner at the Hotel New Century and upon a second and more memorable occasion, after he had fallen into the Ob during a summer boating excursion and had had to wait until dry clothes had been found for him to wear. Neither occasion had prepared him for the feelings of confusion and dread that he now felt as he stood listening at the top of the stairs. The sounds of movement had stopped. He found that he was holding his breath, as if he were waiting for some signal that he should proceed. When it came – a single footstep – he was galvanised into action. Taking a few quick steps across the landing, and wincing as he did so for the floorboards creaked infernally beneath his feet, he knocked on Madame Tortsova’s door three times in quick succession.

Immediately he cursed his haste: he had knocked too loudly. It had sounded abrupt, intrusive; as if he had a right to be there.

“Katya?” he heard Yeliena ask querulously.

Biting his lip, he hesitated for an instant then, grasping the door handle, he twisted it and opened the door slightly.

Stepping back so that the interior of the room was invisible to him, and vice versa, he called out.

“Madame Tortsova, it is I, Anton Ivanovich Chevanin. May I come in?”

The wooden door did not prevent him hearing her audible tut of annoyance.

“Wait a moment, Anton Ivanovich.”

The rustle of clothing suggested that he had disturbed her in the middle of changing her clothes, adding to his sense of awkwardness.

“You may come in now.”

Slowly pushing open the door, he shuffled inside, saying as he did so:

“I apologise, Madame Tortsova, for disregarding your wishes but I had to speak to you. Please forgive me.”

Yeliena Mihailovna was standing by her dressing table, examining an array of combs and hairpins. She did not look up.

“What is it, Anton Ivanovich?”

He glanced quickly around the room. It was similar to how he remembered the Doctor’s had been, only smaller. On the bed lay a heavy brown travelling case. Its lid had been closed hurriedly, trapping a small triangle of white cloth in its leather jaws.

“Katya told me that you were upset. Is there anything I can do?”

“No, thank you.”

She began picking the combs up one by one and dropping them into a large leather purse.

“Please, Yeliena Mihailovna,” he insisted. “Please let me help you, I beg of you. Tell me what is the matter.”

Picking up a small tortoise shell hairbrush, she turned to face him.