Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Carrying the glass of tea, Yeliena walked slowly out into the hall and began climbing the dimly lit staircase. When she had reached the larger of the two bedrooms that occupied the first floor of the house, Yeliena stood in the doorway for a moment, listening to the shallow whisper of her husband’s breathing. Silently, she lowered the glass of tea onto the polished cabinet that stood beside the doctor’s bed, setting it down beside his gold-rimmed spectacles, his fob watch and chain and a small ornate bedside lamp. She debated whether to light the lamp and decided against it. She would let him have a few more minutes’ sleep before she woke him. Instead she quietly walked past him and stood at the foot of the bed, looking out through the window at the large house across the street. The familiar feeling of sadness and dread descended upon her, as if somehow she had come not to rouse Vasili but to say goodbye.

Turning, she looked down at the sleeping figure on the bed. She saw a man in his fifty-fifth year, of middling height with a lined, careworn face, oval in shape and pale in complexion. Except for his shoes, he lay fully clothed beneath the thick top blanket; his head thrown back in exhaustion. His grey hair was greasy and lank after days of wearing the fur cap made for him by a grateful hunter. Noticing that his hair needed cutting, she made a mental note also to trim the silver streaked beard that sprang from his chin. On either side of the bridge of his nose, wine-coloured indentations showed where his spectacles had bruised his flesh. Below, his lips sagged downwards as he slept, revealing a row of uneven tobacco stained teeth. Tiny white flecks of spittle lay in the corner of his slack mouth. There was little else to see: the stiff wings of his collar poking over an untidy cravat; the dark sombre blue of his waistcoat against the creased white cloth of his shirt. She had never seen him completely naked, nor was she curious to do so. She knew the slender shoulders and the scrawny arms to be strong enough to lift a man unaided or to hold down a woman in labour. She dimly remembered the hard sharpness of his elbows and his knees, the weight of his body when he had last come to her for loving.

She moved nearer. Second by second, the room was growing perceptibly darker and she watched as his face gradually became an indistinguishable blur against his pillow. It was time to wake him yet, in the act of reaching out to touch him, she stayed her hand; savouring the last seconds of uncomplicated peace.

If only I could tell him how I have felt, she thought to herself. Now, while he is still sleeping, so that he might wake with some understanding.

She knew how it would be. Once he was awake, the spell would be broken. All her carefully rehearsed phrases, her questions and observations would be brushed aside as he once more took command of the household. If only she could tell him just one thing… But she couldn’t. He had returned and life would be better and at the same time worse until the next time he went away.

Her hand descended the last few inches and came to rest on his shoulder. She shook him gently and stood watching as his head lolled once and his mouth snapped shut like a trap.

“Vasili,” she whispered softly. “Wake up now.”

He woke, blinking several times as if surprised to find himself in bed, before narrowing his eyes and peering up at her.

“What time is it?” he asked thickly.

She told him. It was half past four.

“So late? I must get up.”

Tugging back the blanket, Dr. Tortsov swung his legs off the bed and pointed unsteadily towards his shoes, which stood neatly together beside the wall. Obediently Yeliena stooped and picked them up, saying as she did so:

“I’ve brought you up some tea. It will be getting cold.”

Stepping into the shoes, he grunted his thanks.

“Why didn’t you wake me before?” he complained.

“You looked so tired, I hadn’t the heart. There is no hurry.”

“Pass me my spectacles, would you?”

As she handed them to him she heard a loud knocking downstairs and, a moment later, the sound of Katya hurrying along the hall to answer the front door.

“Who’s that?” muttered the doctor testily. “I’ve no time to see anyone now. You shouldn’t have let me sleep for so long. I promised Nina Roshkovsky that I would look in on her before her supper.”

“It’s only Anton Ivanovich,” she assured him. “You told me to invite him to take tea with us so that you could talk to him about the epidemic.”

“Did I?” he asked doubtfully. “I don’t remember.”

“Well you did,” she assured him, adding with mock defiance, “and I don’t care what you say, you needed the rest. It won’t help anybody if you wear yourself out.”

“I suppose you are right. I had quite forgotten about Chevanin.”

In the darkness, his hand felt for hers and, finding it, gave it a squeeze of apology.