Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“If you are concerned about our finances, don’t be,” he told her. “They are in good order.”

“But you won’t discuss them with me?”

“What is there to discuss?” he said in mock exasperation. “You are in charge of the household.”

“But what about your investments and savings?” she persisted. “And the money my father gave you? I don’t know anything about that money. What would happen to me if you died suddenly?”

“I have left adequate provision,” he promised her. “You would be taken care of.”

“I don’t even know where your will is or what it says.”

“There is plenty of time to discuss this.”

“Is there, Vasili? How do you know that? We are both getting older and if the epidemic comes here…”

Masking his determination not to be drawn on the subject of his finances, Dr. Tortsov resorted to flattery.

“To me you are still a young woman, Lienochka, you always will be.”

“Clearly too young to be trusted with important information such as how much money you have in the bank,” she said archly, withdrawing her hand once more, “and what investments you may have made.”

Dr. Tortsov hesitated and then tried another tack.

“Is it my age that is worrying you?” he asked her. “I may not be as physically active as I once was… I know that it has been a long time since we lay together, but that is not because I no longer desire you. I do desire you but, ever since our son died, you have pushed me away…”

Turning to face him, she glared at him reproachfully as if stung by his words.

“Stop it, Vasili!” she appealed to him. “Stop… please God, just… stop talking.”

Burying her face in her hands she began to weep, her body convulsing in deep shuddering sobs.

“I am so unhappy!” she groaned.

Dr. Tortsov regarded his wife with mixed emotions. He was relieved that she was at last experiencing some sort of emotional catharsis and he was touched by her evident unhappiness. At the same time, he remained concerned by the as yet unknown purpose of her outburst.

What is it that she wants? he wondered. For all her complaints she has given me no concrete clue as to what the problem is or how I can make her happy again.

Taking her in his arms he held her, rocking her gently to and fro on the cushion, kissing her hair and cheek occasionally until her tears were over.

“There, there,” he consoled her. “Do you want me to stop my practice? Is that it? Do you want me to retire?”

Still in his arms she sniffed and pulled a small handkerchief out from the cuff of her blouse.

“Would you do that for me?” she said, as she wiped her eyes.

“Probably,” he said with a smile. “It is not so rewarding as you seem to think.”

She appeared to consider his proposal for a moment and then shook her head doubtfully.

“No, I can’t ask that of you, it wouldn’t be fair,” she sniffed pathetically. “And anyhow, how would we live?”

“I could take my notes and work them up into a book,” he offered. “We’d have much more time together.”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” she said, adding quickly, “but if only we could move somewhere else…”

Seeing that her tiny scrap of linen was now quite sodden, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieved his own larger handkerchief and passed it to her. She accepted it gratefully and, turning away from him, delicately blew her nose.

“Where to?” he said.

“Anywhere,” she sighed, turning back to face him with a weary smile, “just as long as it’s away from here. I hate this town. I am shrivelling up from the cold and the dark. My heart has become frostbitten. I need the sun and the warmth so badly. Oh Vasili, if only we could go to the south!”

Satisfied that, at last, they were reaching a practical conclusion to their discussions, Dr. Tortsov sat back on the settee, drawing his wife to him.

“Where to?” he murmured, kissing her on the brow. “The Crimea?”

“Oh yes!” she sighed again, “to Yalta!”

Gazing above her head Dr. Tortsov smiled with relief and approbation. The situation, which at one point had looked as if it had become unhinged and was careering dangerously out of control, had once more become manageable. The remedy, as was so often the case, lay in the judicious and timely application of money. Upset by the play and probably worried by the threatening epidemic, his wife needed a good rest and a holiday.

“I don’t know anybody there,” he began doubtfully and paused before adding, “but I suppose we could go and have a look.”

Yeliena sat up and looked at him hopefully.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“We could go there in the summer,” Dr. Tortsov told her with a smile. “We can afford that much. I could leave Anton Ivanovich in charge of the practice for two or three months. We could travel around the peninsula, perhaps even go as far west as Odessa.”

“Odessa!” exclaimed Yeliena with a small cry of delight. “Really?”

Impulsively she hugged him and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.