Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Madame Wrenskaya gave Yeliena’s forearm an extra squeeze of welcome as the doctor’s wife bent to kiss her wizened cheek. Motioning her to be seated, the old woman watched as her guest gratefully took the solitary dining room chair beside her, preferring its hard support to the slack cushions of the faded sofa.

Her back will cause her great discomfort in later years, thought Madame Wrenskaya sympathetically. Far more pain than she can imagine now.

Clearing her throat (where was that girl with the tea?) she asked:

“How is the good doctor? Keeping well, I hope?”

“He is quite well, thank you, Anastasia Christianovna, but I am afraid he is currently out of town. I am expecting his return tomorrow. There has been an outbreak of fever at Belogoriya and he suspects there may be typhus.”

“Oh dear, I am sorry,” said Madame Wrenskaya, crossing herself hurriedly. “And this is such wretched weather to be away from home in. May the Holy Father protect him.”

“Amen!”

“And how is young Chevanin? I presume he is looking after the hospital while the doctor is away?”

“Yes,” replied Madame Tortsova, adding with a mischievous smile, “Secretly, I think he is rather glad. It gives him the opportunity to lock horns with Director Tolkach.”

“Ugh!” said her hostess with a shudder. “I declare Modest Tolkach to be the biggest rogue this town has ever seen and that is saying much. I cannot tell you, my dear Yeliena, how much that loathsome little man annoys me. I simply detest him. And to think he was little more than a wretched corporal before he came here. It’s true, a corporal! You cannot tell me that it was his experience or his personality that got him that position. And,” she went on before her guest could answer, “I suppose you have heard what people are saying about his late wife’s death? It’s a scandal!”

Yeliena lowered her eyes. What Madame Wrenskaya had said was nothing less than the truth. Tolkach was common, brutal and unscrupulous enough to do anything and the doctor’s wife resented the unfairness of Life that allowed him to enjoy seniority over her own Vasili. Nevertheless, she did not dare to say so openly. Madame Wrenskaya cared not a fig for anyone and was quite capable of repeating her words elsewhere, to the detriment of herself and her husband. Often she wished Vasili would stand up to the hospital’s administrator as openly as Chevanin did. But the same dogged persistence that drove the older man to tend to the sick and the dying, rich and poor alike, seemed to leave little room in his character to fight on his own behalf.

“It’s not very pleasant,” she admitted lamely.

She had spoken too softly. The old woman had not heard. There was an awkward pause.

“Chevanin. How old is he now?” asked Madame Wrenskaya abruptly.

More taken back by the question than the old woman’s peremptory manner, Yeliena had to think before she answered.

“Anton Ivanovich? Oh, I suppose he must be twenty-three or twenty-four years old. Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered,” replied Madame Wrenskaya. “My dear, you must excuse me if I appear to be an inquisitive old woman, but do you know if he has expressed interest in any of the young ladies in the town?”

The thought struck the doctor’s wife as being so novel that the drab drawing room was brightened by her laughter.

“I do not recall him doing so, at least not to me. I suspect that he is in no hurry to settle down to married life. Besides, I am afraid that on the salary that my husband pays him, he could hardly afford to support a household just yet.”

“But no doubt,” the old woman persisted, “he has attracted the attention of one or two mothers with an eye to a good match. After all, Vasili Semionovich is no longer a young man. He will be thinking of retiring in the next few years and the boy will be the natural successor to his practice. It wouldn’t do for the town’s doctor to be unmarried. It wouldn’t do at all.”

Yeliena frowned, discomforted by this overt speculation on her husband’s retirement.

“I am certain,” she said carefully, “that when the time comes, Anastasia Christianovna, Anton Ivanovich will find himself the proper wife. It’s early days yet.”

Noting the old woman’s doubtful expression and fearing that it masked a criticism of her own household where Chevanin was a frequent visitor, she added: “Until then, I am sure that the doctor and I can look after him while he is finding his feet. He wants for nothing.”

“That is what concerns me,” observed Madame Wrenskaya cryptically.