Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“No, I spoke in error,” he admitted gently as he reached down and disarmed her of the poker. “You are not at all ridiculous. It is quite reasonable for you to feel upset. But the situation has now been rectified and so you need have no further worries.”

Replacing the poker in the brass shell casing that served as its container by the fireside, he took his wife gently by the arm and guided her back to her place on the settee before seating himself in his armchair beside the hearth. It was clear to him that the prospect of having to perform onstage had disturbed his wife. Reluctantly he came to the conclusion that kind words and sympathy might not suffice and that he would be forced to address the cause of her unhappiness rather than its symptoms. If she continued to protest, he decided, rather than try and persuade her that she was being irrational, he might be forced to make alternative arrangements for the play night.

As if she had read his thoughts, Yeliena said, “I don’t want to play Yeliena.”

“Then I will cancel The Bear and just put on the second play,” he conceded. “Would that content you?”

Yeliena shook her head impatiently.

“You can’t do that,” she told him. “The second play only lasts for about a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes at most. Nobody is going to pay two roubles for watch a play that brief.”

“Then I shall choose a different play to direct instead of The Bear,” he said with a shrug.

“You can’t do that either. Belinsky will have already started work on the scenery and will demand payment. And how would you choose the play, get it agreed, order the scripts and get a new cast? You don’t have the time.”

“Then I shall get someone else to play the part of Yeliena,” insisted the Doctor, becoming annoyed at being repeatedly contradicted. “I shall tell everybody that you are unwell.”

“That would complete our humiliation,” she retorted, brushing aside the alibi. “People will either say that you changed your mind because you realised that I would be an incapable actress or that I had refused and you had lost control of your wife. Congratulations, Vasili,” she added bitterly, “you have trapped us both.”

“‘Trapped’! Don’t be so melodramatic!” he scoffed. “How on earth are we trapped?”

“Of course we are trapped! We are both trapped!” said Yeliena urgently. “Look at us. Look at this house, and our marriage. We have been trapped for years! You own me and Modest Tolkach owns you.”

Angered by her outburst, Dr. Tortsov sprang to his feet.

“I won’t have you say that! I forbid it!” he warned her. “Why are you deliberately trying to vex me? Nobody owns me! I am a professional man, I am not a puppet. And though I may be responsible for you, I don’t own you.”

He began pacing backwards and forwards in front of her, agitated by their argument.

“This isn’t ‘The Doll’s House’, Yeliena,” he declared. “This is our home. We are not characters in a play. We are made of flesh and blood and we live in a real world where people have responsibilities and duties to one another. And, let me remind you, in a world where a lot of people are much worse off than we are. If you would come with me on my house calls and see how some of my patients live…”

“Oh God!” cried Yeliena, throwing herself back onto the cushions of the settee. “Spare me your patients! They are your excuse for everything!”

“What do you expect, Yeliena?” he protested. “You are the wife of a doctor. We have a position to uphold, as well as a duty to the town. You knew that when you married me.”

Yeliena looked at him bleakly and then looked away.

“Well, perhaps I shouldn’t have married you,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, taken aback.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have married you,” she repeated. “You would have been happier. As it is, you don’t come near me, you don’t hold me, you don’t ask me about what sort of a day I have spent. We don’t talk about anything except about your work or things that you choose to talk about. We haven’t had one serious conversation in the whole of our marriage, not one; not even when Sasha died. I know nothing about you now. I don’t even know how much money we have, or whether we are over our heads in debt.”