Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Smiling at Anton Ivanovich’s jibe, Yeliena watched as her husband offered his assistant a cigarette from a box beside his chair. Katya’s calf-like devotion embarrassed the young man and she had spoken to the girl more than once about her mooning around him, but to little effect. Neither of the men had realised that her comment about suicide had only been half in jest. She suspected that if ever Katya believed that her own death would somehow save Chevanin’s life, then she would not hesitate for an instant. To her simple and uncomplicated mind, it would be the natural thing to do for the one you loved.

Men don’t want women to die for them, she thought, they are far more demanding than that. Men want women to live for them and for what they believe in. Poor Anton Ivanovich! The woman who will attract him will not be plain, meek and humble but wilful, determined and above all pretty. She will be as brilliant as a diamond and probably just as hard.

“By the way, Lienochka,” said her husband casually, “on my journey back to town, I gave some thought to the question of the forthcoming theatrical extravaganza.”

“That is a coincidence,” she replied. “Only yesterday I was asked about your plans. I do hope that it won’t be too much for you, with all this sickness?”

“Too much?” her husband snorted. “Ridiculous! I am quite capable of performing my duties as a medical practitioner and at the same time putting on a show. The problem is, there is only one female role in the first play and none in the second. So I shall require the services of only one woman in the entire production. An unenviable task, I am sure you will agree, to have to choose just one from all the women who will be clamouring for the role.”

“Clamouring?” echoed Yeliena doubtfully.

“Why yes! These plays are not the usual stale farces but works of wit and elegance by one of Russia’s best modern playwrights. I anticipate no shortage of volunteers for the part. That is why I have already come to a decision on the matter. I want you to play the role.”

“Me?” cried Yeliena in surprise. “Vasili, you cannot be serious!”

“Oh, but I am.”

“I… I could never do it,” she protested with a laugh. “I refuse to do it.”

“But Lienochka, the role is perfect for you. The woman even has your name: Yeliena.”

“No! The very idea appals me! What would people say?”

“Does it matter?” he asked with a shrug. “Whoever I choose, I shall be criticised for not choosing someone else.”

“I’m sorry, Vasili,” said Yeliena, smiling, “but the suggestion is preposterous. I am sure it was well meant but no, thank you.”

“Think about it for a moment before you decide,” the doctor insisted.

“I have already decided,” she replied. “I can’t act. I would be terrible. I would be so scared that I would forget all my words.”

“But I could rehearse you, my dear. And it’s a very short play, no longer than half an hour. And for some of that time you are not even onstage.”

“No, Vasili,” she repeated firmly. “I don’t want the part. I have no intention of making a fool of myself in front of my friends just because you are directing the play.”

They paused, aware that what had begun as an idea was turning into an argument in front of their guest. Chevanin, shifting uneasily in his chair, was staring fixedly at the carpet. But if Yeliena believed that the vehemence of her words or the awkwardness of the moment had buried the matter, then she was mistaken. With a wink in Chevanin’s direction, her husband returned to the attack.

“Everybody thinks you would be excellent,” he cajoled her. “Why, I was talking to Maslov and he agreed. In fact, it was he who originally put the idea into my head. Apparently, ‘Yeliena’ is one of the author’s favourite names. Think of ‘Uncle Vanya’ for instance and…”

“Maslov?” snapped Yeliena. “Since when have you started taking advice from the town’s bookworm?”

She turned beseechingly to Chevanin.

“Anton Ivanovich, I implore you! Please tell my husband the truth. That I could not play the part even if I wanted to.”

“Chevanin, don’t you dare say a word,” ordered the doctor. “Yeliena, let’s have no more arguments. You are the perfect choice. After all, you have a fine singing voice.”

“Is it an operetta now?”

“No, but…”

“Well, then. Whether I can sing or not is really neither here nor there, is it?”

“Ah, but there you are mistaken, my dear,” said the doctor. “What I was about to say, before you interrupted me, is that the most important part of an actor’s skill is the ability to project his or her voice. Your voice is so pure, so profound, that even when you are speaking softly, you can be easily understood from far away.”

“Clearly not!” exclaimed Yeliena.