Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Misunderstanding her reference, the doctor persisted in his argument.

“No, it is true. When you speak I can hear you from the top of the house.”

“Are you suggesting that I shout?” Yeliena accused him, getting angrily to her feet. “Oh, this really is too much!”

“No, I think what Vasili Semionovich means,” intervened Chevanin hastily, also rising to his feet, “is this: you know how the bell of the Church of the Nativity can be heard even at the other end of the town? This is not because it is particularly loud, but because it is well made. It has a clean, clear timbre.”

Looking up, the doctor nodded his encouragement and gestured to Chevanin to continue.

“Your voice is like that bell, Yeliena Mihailovna,” the assistant went on smoothly. “Even if you whispered the words would be quite distinct, whereas, in comparison, most people would sound as if they were mumbling. It’s a gift, of course. A great gift.”

“A gift!” echoed the doctor triumphantly. “Chevanin has hit the nail on the head. Your voice is as clear as a bell.”

Pointedly ignoring her husband, Yeliena resumed her place on the sofa and gave Chevanin a fleeting smile.

“Thank you for the compliment, Anton Ivanovich, and so gallantly put too. But it won’t alter my decision. How could I look the town in the face after making a fool of myself onstage? Besides,” she added, “you know very well what people would say. They would say that I was only given the part because the doctor was directing the proceedings.”

“Let them say what they like,” broke in the doctor. “Let them accuse me of nepotism, I don’t care. There are plenty in this town who are only where they are today because of who their children married. Take Pobednyev, for instance. No, you shall have the part simply because you are the only person who can do it justice.”

Yeliena pounded her fist against the cushions of the sofa in frustration.

“But think, Vasili! What would people say? The wife of the town’s doctor appearing like a painted woman on the stage? It would be a scandal.”

“Would you prefer me to give the part to someone like Irena Kuibysheva then?” demanded the doctor. “I imagine that she would love to play ‘Yeliena’.”

In despair, Yeliena turned once again to the doctor’s assistant.

“Anton Ivanovich, would you be so cruel as to force your wife to undergo such a humiliation?”

Chevanin shrugged unhappily. “How can I answer you, Yeliena Mihailovna?” he replied. “I am not married and I am not directing a play. However, if my wife was as gay and as talented as you, then I would consider it a crime not to give her the opportunity to take the part, if she so wished. Moreover, given the circumstances as they are, with the town threatened by an outbreak of typhus fever, it could be argued that by doing so, she might make the doctor’s position more, rather than less, popular.”

“Lienochka!” said the doctor sharply. “I forbid you to take any notice of what Chevanin says. My assistant has too much of the creeping Jesuit about him for his own good. The reason I want you to accept the part is simply that, after reading the play, I honestly believe that you are the best candidate.”

But the damage had already been done. Yeliena knew that Anton Ivanovich had spoken the bare truth. He had reminded her of her duty: to support her husband in his work and all that he chose to do. She felt the spirit of resistance, already fragile before Chevanin had spoken, now begin to ebb away, leaving her uncertain whether to laugh or cry, so ridiculous she found the notion of herself acting in a play.

“What kind of creature did you have in mind for me?” she asked, staring wretchedly down at her lap.

“No creature at all,” said her husband quickly, “but an attractive and intelligent woman just like yourself. Her name is Yeliena Ivanovna Popova. A landowner’s widow with dimples, just like you.”

Yeliena sniffed disconsolately and said nothing.

“I mean the dimples, my dear, of course. Obviously, you are not a widow yet!” said the doctor, adding with a chuckle, “nor shall be for a long time to come, I hope.”

Slowly Yeliena raised her eyes to meet his.

“That remains to be seen,” she said darkly.

Chapter Seven

Saturday 3rd February 1907

Berezovo, Northern Siberia

Madame Pobednyev lay on her back, her shift still rucked up across her plump shoulders, and smiled to herself. Accounts had been settled; she had paid for her new outdoor suit.