Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

She had been willingly assisted by her maid who understood well the mania that had gripped her mistress: the involuntary urge not just to cleanse but to restore order; the necessity to purge by toil the memory of the disgrace that the Master had brought upon the household. Working together in near silence late into the night the two women had washed, scrubbed, wrung, and hung every bed sheet and pillow slip, taking equal turns in using the smoothing irons heated on the stove top; unsmiling as they moved backwards and forwards in the folding dance. Only M. Kavelin’s shirts remained to be laundered. If he had been her husband, and she could afford to do so, the maid would have refused to wash them; she would willingly have cut the buttons off, but that was not her mistress’s wish. Tatyana’s determination to restore her authority was absolute: no one in the town would see Leonid Kavelin in a creased shirt. With one exception all his shirts were to be laundered, starched and pressed as normal. The shirt he had worn for his assignation with the whore Kuibysheva was to be cut up and burned; a duty that her mistress would attend to privately herself.

Their ritual was interrupted by the sound of a knock at the front door of the house. The maid looked enquiringly at her mistress who indicated with a shake of her head that she was to ignore the summons; they were not to be disturbed. Tatyana did not yet feel ready to receive visitors, nor communication of any kind from the outside world. A second note had arrived from Raisa earlier that morning, accompanied by another note addressed to her in an unfamiliar hand. She had burned them both unread. People in the town would have to wait, she told herself, until her healing was complete. The deeper wound, she was sure, would never heal but she felt she could regain sufficient strength in a couple of days to risk appearing in public without collapsing from grief or shame. She would complete the list of therapeutic tasks she had set herself and only then venture out, putting on the best face she could.

Another knock on the door, this time more peremptory and insistent, broke the silence.

“See who it is and send them away,” ordered Madame Kavelina.

Reaching out she ran her fingertips along the even surface of the recently pressed sheet.

If only our sins and indiscretions could be washed away as easily as this, she thought, how easy life would be.

Hearing raised voices in the hallway below she moved as silently as she could towards her bedroom door. She decided that she would lie down and rest for a while before tackling the shirts that were hanging to dry in the scullery. And after the shirts there was the kitchen grate to be blacked and the silverware to be polished.

She was resting on her bed with her eyes closed when her maid returned to her. The visitor at the door had been Madame Nadnikova, she reported apologetically, and she had refused to be sent away.

“Refused?” said Tatyana, surprised.

“Yes, Ma’am. She just pushed past me and refuses to leave. She is waiting downstairs in the sitting room.”

Catching sight of herself in the tall cheval glass as she rose from the bed, Tatyana smoothed the creases in her dress and touched her hair. Although she did not feel ready for a confrontation with Olga Nadnikova, the knowledge that she was on her home ground gave her strength.

Leaving the bedroom, she crossed the landing and descended the staircase, followed nervously by her maid. Even as her hand closed on the handle of the sitting room door, she was undecided as to how she should greet her importunate visitor. She could hardly order Olga Nadnikova from the house, yet neither did she want her company.

She had no need to concern herself; as so often was the case with Olga Nadnikova, despite it being her sitting room Tatyana found, upon entering, that her role was to follow rather than lead.

“Tanya, my dear!” her visitor greeted her with uncharacteristic cheerfulness. “You look dreadful. You should be in bed.”

“I was told that you wanted to see me, so here I am.”

“Well, so I do but I don’t expect you to imperil your health,” her visitor told her. “Sit down and rest at once.”

Obediently Tatyana sat down in the chair usually occupied by her husband.

“Would you like some tea?” she offered. “I can ask my maid to light the samovar.”

“Tea?” replied Olga Nadnikova. “No need for tea. Look, I have brought you a tonic.”

Delving into her capacious handbag she drew out a small dark potbellied bottle marked Bowmore Islay Whisky and passed it to Tatyana. Unfamiliar with the roman script, Tatyana took in the characters that had been printed in white ink against the dark glass and then looked askance at her guest.

“It is Scotch whisky,” Olga Nadnikova explained. “It is like our vodka, but smoother. Pavel was given this sample by a salesman in Tobolsk.”