Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“There is nothing the matter, Anton Ivanovich,” she said calmly. “I am leaving Berezovo for a few weeks, that is all. Why I am leaving is a matter between Vasili Semionovich and myself. Between husband and wife, you understand?”

Pushing the door to, Chevanin sat on the edge of the bed.

“But you can’t,” he told her stubbornly. “Where will you go in the middle of February?”

“It’s all arranged. I am not disappearing into the blizzard, like a tragic heroine,” she said with a thin smile as she replaced the hairbrush. “Real life is not like that. No, I shall go and stay with my sister in Tobolsk for a few weeks.”

“But you won’t be able to take a sleigh along the Highway until tomorrow at the earliest,” he protested, “and when you do, you will have to travel for a fortnight through the plague villages and there are bands of marauding Yakuts along the Sosva. Please, I beg you, don’t go. Wait a few days at least.”

He watched as, picking up the hairbrush again, Yeliena began to draw its bristles repeatedly across the palm of her hand.

“No, I must get away,” she said, half to herself. “I must.”

“Yeliena Mihailovna, please, listen to me!” insisted Chevanin. “If this is all my fault, forgive me. It is I who should go, not you.”

She stood for a moment, as if hypnotised by the bristles bending against her outstretched palm.

“I beg your pardon, Anton Ivanovich?” she said vaguely. “What are you saying?”

“I was asking you if I am the cause of your distress. Am I to blame?”

She looked at him, as if seeing him there for the first time, then seemed to collect herself. Dropping the hairbrush into the leather purse she hurriedly continued the preparations for her departure.

“No, of course not,” she replied. “Why ever should you think that?”

“Because… because of how badly I behaved yesterday when the Doctor was at Pirogov’s. What I said…”

“Oh that? It was just a piece of foolishness. I have already forgotten about it, I promise you.”

Looking down at the floor, Chevanin felt a flood of misery wash over him. There seemed nothing left that he could do or offer that would prevent her from going.

“Please don’t go,” he begged her quietly. “If you go I shall have nobody. You and the Doctor are like a family to me. Like my mother and father. How can you go?”

Yeliena Mihailovna turned quickly to face him, an appalled expression on her face.

“Don’t ever say that!” she shouted angrily. “Don’t ever say that. Not even in jest.”

“But it’s true,” he said pathetically.

Laying the purse down on the dressing table, she came over to him and sat down beside him on the bed.

“Listen, Anton,” she said earnestly, “you are young. In many ways, you are still a boy. What happens between Vasili Semionovich and myself is not your fault. You must believe that.”

Reaching over, she took one of his hands and held it in hers.

“When two people who are married stop loving each other, it can only be a matter of time before they start hating each other. Now, I still love Vasili Semionovich enough to see that I must go before that happens.”

“But the Doctor will never hate you! Never!”

“The opposite of love is not hate, Anton,” she told him gently. “It’s indifference. Vasili has become indifferent to me, otherwise he could not have done what he has done. My departure will cause him some difficulty for a short while, but that is all. In time, even that will pass.”

“But how can you say that, Yeliena Mihailovna?” he protested. “Anyone can see how much he cares for you. If you go now, you will break his heart.”

Stopping himself just before he added “and mine”, Chevanin rose from the bed and began to pace up and down the room.

“I know you told me not to ask,” he went on, “but what has he done that could be so terrible that you feel you must leave town?”

Looking down at her hands, Madame Tortsov began fiddling with her wedding ring.

“Have you ever read The Bear?” she asked quietly.

“The Bear?”

“Yes, the play that my husband decided I should act in. With your help, if I recall.”

Chevanin shook his head.

Returning to the bed, he sat down beside her and reached for her hand but she evaded him, keeping her fingers folded securely on her lap.

“What about the play?”

“It concerns a widow who is mourning for her husband,” she explained, a bitter smile playing across her lips. “Ironic, isn’t it? Here I am, mourning my husband’s love and he is still alive and directing the play. Well, anyway… This widow is beset by creditors and one of them, a bully called Smirnov, comes to dun her for her husband’s debts.”

She gave a deep sigh and for a moment they sat together in silence. Watching her in profile, Chevanin longed to lean over and take her in his arms. Instead he bowed his head and waited for her to continue.