Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Lowering the book, Yeliena listened to her husband’s regular breathing. He was asleep at last, a mocking smile on his lips. Leaning back in her chair, she turned her head and stared into the flames of the fire, just as she had sat waiting for him to be brought home the night before. He was unaware of what had occurred in that very room, that much was certain. Katya had been calmed and advised not to worry herself about the incident; it had been an innocent rehearsal for the play, nothing more, and, the broken crockery could be replaced. Whatever the girl had thought she had seen would only be a confused memory after the sleeping draught Anton had given her to calm her. Shamefacedly, he had offered one to Yeliena also, but she had refused. At the time she had had no need of it. She had felt… nothing. She had been neither happy nor sad; had experienced neither joy nor shame. But that had been then; now, all the opiates of Asia could not cloud the realisation of the appalling position in which she found herself.

Closing the book, she ran her fingers over the worn leather binding and noted dispassionately that its spine had become cracked with age. It was not a novel she cared for. She had read it aloud to her husband only because he had asked her to. If anyone had asked her for her opinion of it twenty-four hours before, she would have said that the plot was sordid and that none of the characters had any redeeming virtues: a group of foolish people doing unnecessary things to each other and to themselves. But now, in the aftermath of Anton’s embrace, she felt that the story was also shallow and inconsequential when compared to the reality of the circumstances it claimed to portray. The truth was not like that. The truth was simply this: sitting in a drab sitting room; one moment dreading when she would have to face Anton Chevanin again; the next, impatient to see him.

She felt as if she had found herself in the middle of an enormous and unfamiliar puzzle, stepping through a mirror glass into a world that was at once familiar and yet different. Try as she might, she could find no excuse for herself, nor any sense of regret for what had passed between them. Aware that she could not allow Chevanin’s familiarity to reoccur she could not bring herself to blame him entirely for his outrageous behaviour. She had led him on; that much was clear. Had she not changed her clothing to make herself feel more alluring? For all her airs, she was no better than any other faithless wife. She had to put a stop to it at once, as soon as possible; to save not only herself but also Anton and Vasili. Yet why, she wondered, in the light of all that had passed between her and Anton Chevanin in the very room in which she was now sitting, why did she feel no guilt at the memory of his hands on her, only pleasure? She had not endured a sleepless night. She had not spent the hours of darkness praying, fighting for her soul. On the contrary, she had slept like a child that was tired out after a visit to the theatre. Why was she now not filled with shame or, at the very least, acutely sensible to the danger that threatened her? Why was she not afraid?

There it was. She felt no fear. She knew that it was useless to pretend that she appreciated properly the dangers of her position. It was as if these risks applied to someone else; to another woman. She listened to her inner voices and all she heard was a babble of confused and contradictory opinions.

Certainly, these things have happened to other women before, and they will happen again… He is young and foolish… a sharp rebuke and a slap across the face was all that was needed to put him in his place… Then why didn’t I rebuke him? Will I do so on the first opportunity that presents itself? How can I ever look him in the face again? Was this how I answer an action that stained my honour and that of my husband: by passing it off as the foolish caprice of an irresponsible young man? I must do more than that. I should tell Vasili at once and have Anton hounded out of town.