Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Be a dear, go down and look after him. Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”

Leaning down, Yeliena planted a quick kiss on her husband’s cheek before moving away from the bed, leaving him staring thoughtfully down at his dangling shoe laces.

“But I still have to go out later,” he murmured.

Standing in the doorway, Yeliena opened her mouth to protest, but said nothing. There seemed little point in her arguing.

* * *

Yeliena found Chevanin in the sitting room, warming himself by the fire. As she crossed the room to greet him, the young man drew himself up and gave a small bow.

“Good afternoon, Yeliena Mihailovna! Katya tells me that Vasili Semionovich has already returned. I hope I have not been keeping him waiting?”

“No, Anton Ivanovich,” she assured him. “He has been resting. He will join us shortly. Please, be seated.”

Settling himself in one of the two chairs that stood on either side of the hearth, Chevanin cast a wry glance around the comfortably furnished room.

“I must say, I envy you Yeliena Mihailovna,” he announced.

“Oh? Why is that?” she asked as she drew a glass of tea from the samovar and passed it to him.

“Well, among other things, because your house is always so warm and welcoming. My rooms by the hospital are perpetually cold and damp. Old Nidovsky, Pavel Nadnikov’s uncle, is in charge of the boiler, but he seems to spend most of his time wrapped around a bottle. So the tenants must freeze to death before he can stir himself to throw some more sticks on the fire. That’s why I am always so grateful for your invitations to tea, otherwise who knows? The doctor should have to start all over again, training another numbskull like myself.”

Yeliena smiled. She knew how wildly her husband’s protégé’s talk swung between self-deprecation and overconfidence. When he had first been sent to assist the doctor, she had been uncertain as to whether he would prove to be of any use at all. His bluff manner had irritated her, based as it had been on little practical experience. But Vasili had been right in his prophecy: a few Siberian winters had steadied the young man and he had become a reliable and innovative addition to the practice; a junior partner in all but name.

“Take this morning, for instance,” Chevanin continued, between sips of tea. “When I awoke, it was so cold that I had to chip an inch of ice off the panes of my bedroom window.”

“But this is February,” she protested gently. “You must expect that.”

“From the inside of my window?” Chevanin asked innocently.

Yeliena laughed out loud. Dear Anton Ivanovich! she thought. In so many ways he is still just an overgrown boy. His sense of fun has not yet been ground out of him.

Seeing his mischievous grin, Yeliena was reminded again of the conversation she had had with Madame Wrenskaya the day before. She shrugged inwardly. It seemed inevitable that Chevanin would soon find himself engaged to one of the eligible young ladies of the town: Shiminski’s daughter, or even Kuprin’s girl. Perhaps it would happen during the coming summer; if not, then certainly the following one. And then he would become a stranger to their house. Marriage would make him grow up. To her surprise, the thought saddened her.

“Have you heard what our glorious hospital administrator did today?” Chevanin asked.

But whatever he was about to say was lost, for no sooner had the words left his mouth than the doctor walked briskly into the room.

Automatically, Yeliena rose from the couch and began to draw off another glass of tea from the samovar. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that Chevanin had risen also and was standing stiffly to attention in front of the fire.

“Chevanin,” said her husband gruffly.

“Doctor,” responded his assistant, stepping quickly to one side in order to allow his employer to reach the warmth of the fire. But the older man wanted to talk and, indicating that Chevanin should resume his seat, he lowered himself into his favourite chair and began at once to fire questions at him concerning what had happened in the town during his short absence.

Seeing the two men sitting there on either side of the hearth – Vasili leaning back with his legs comfortably outstretched, Chevanin sitting forward on the edge of his seat like a nervous student undergoing an examination of his dissertation – Yeliena had the uncanny feeling of time giving a sharp jolt. One moment she had been enjoying a warm and amusing conversation with a good friend; for how else could she think of Anton Ivanovich? The next, as if by magic, she had been excluded from the circle and relegated to being a mere glass bearer. First a glass for her husband, then a second glass for Anton Ivanovich, followed by the first offering of the plate of cakes…

“Do try the pastries, Anton Ivanovich. They are fresh from Gvordyen’s today… A macaroon, dear? They’re your favourite.”