Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Yet, despite her disapproval, Yeliena could not help but feel sorry for Tatyana Kavelina for the ordeal that assuredly lay before her. Once, a long time ago now, she had found herself in a similar position. She too had once suffered from the same sickening mixture of shame and misery when a lover had been lured away from her. The memory of those wretched days would not allow her to enjoy Tatyana Kavelina’s misfortune or to dismiss her grief as a scrap of no importance. She could remember how the sickening desire for retribution had clawed like a cat inside her stomach and had almost overpowered her, until she thought that she would either go mad or die from the misery. But her rage had been impotent; her fantasies of cruel revenge febrile daydreams. She had survived, as her parents had told her she would, but less gay and less trusting. Deep within her, she still bore the scars and had come to terms with the consequences. For the next man who had courted her, and whose offer of marriage she had ultimately accepted, had been as different from her first beaux as could possibly be. It was inconceivable that Doctor Tortsov would look at another woman, simply because he did not care enough to. The great love in his life was, and would always be, his work.

This was not to say that Vasili did not love her in his own way, or that their marriage had been joyless. Yeliena was certain that if she suddenly took ill and died, Vasili would genuinely mourn her; but he would not pine away. She doubted if he would even blame himself for having failed to save her. Instead, he would tell himself that he had treated her just as he would have treated others: to the best of his ability. After a short time of sadness he would go on as before, battling against his ancient enemy. If, however, the situation was reversed and something happened to him – a major misfortune that would render his continuance of his medical practice impossible, a bad fall perhaps or an apoplexy – then whatever she could do would not be sufficient to keep him alive. Within a six-month period, her husband would have fretted and fidgeted his way into the graveyard beside the Church of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary. While other men worked to live, the doctor lived for his work. The irony of her fate was not lost on her. She had been granted her most devout wish: she had a completely faithful husband. She had no cause to fear that another woman might succeed in winning his heart where she had failed. In this she was more fortunate even than the richest man in town, Illya Tarpelovich Kuibyshev, whose own wife sought solace during his absences by defiling her marriage vows.

Just thinking about the younger woman filled Yeliena with anger. It was not as if Irena Kuibysheva was even constant to her lovers. Two years ago it had been the young merchant Dobrovolsky. More recently, the previous summer, Captain Steklov, who was barely more than a boy himself. Now she had grown tired of chasing her young cavalry officer, it was to be Kavelin’s turn. A weak, vain man with a tiresome wife, there was little chance that he would rebuff her. Already, Yeliena knew how the affair would end. Tatyana Kavelina would be heartbroken, Illya Kuibyshev would return and Kavelin would join the growing band of men whose reputation Irena Kuibysheva had polluted. For, if one thing was certain under heaven, it was that Irena Kuibysheva would never leave the man who had so unwisely taken her as his wife and in whose marriage bed she doubtless took good care to give as much pleasure as she stole from others. She was bezobrazie, a disgrace.

As if sewing the final stitch in the adulteress’s shroud, Yeliena plunged the needle through the petticoat for the last time, made a knot and, with a sharp tug, snapped the thread. Pinning the needle into the lid of her cane work basket, she held up the garment and cast a critical eye over the mended hem. The stitches were neat enough and the hem level. With a sigh, she folded the petticoat and draped it over the arm of her armchair. Standing up, she stretched her arms, feeling the stiffness in her back. There was a quiet knock at the door and as she turned, Katya entered the room carrying a plate of sweet cakes.

“Are those for the doctor, Katya?”

“Yes, mum.”

“You may leave them on the table and set an extra place. Anton Ivanovich will be joining us shortly. I shall take the doctor a glass of tea myself.”

The girl hesitated for a few seconds, as if confused by the complexity of her new instructions, and then obeyed. Taking the plate from her, Yeliena placed it on the small circular tea table and began drawing off a glass of tea from the samovar.

“Oh, and bring another lamp, will you?” she added. “This room seems so sad this afternoon.”

“Yes mum.”