Berezovo

by A J Allen

  It was Yeliena Mihailovna Tortsova.

  For the first time that day, the old woman smiled with genuine pleasure as the doctor’s wife entered and crossed the room to greet her. Yeliena Tortsova was one of the few women in Berezovo of whom Anastasia Christianovna thought of with anything like affection or, a greater compliment, approval. In other circumstances, had it not been for the difference in age and rank, she liked to believe they would have been close friends.

  Certainly her young visitor was presentable. Her face was finely featured with a delicately rounded nose and dark brown, thoughtful eyes that went well with her dark auburn hair. Perhaps her mouth was a touch too small, but her teeth were still good even though she was nearly thirty-five. Moreover, she had kept her neat figure, which was complemented by her good dress sense. Of middling height, she carried herself well, taking care to remain at the same time sociable yet slightly distant from the other women of her class. She had none of the famed tragic beauty of Madame Roshkovskaya, for example, yet of her supreme asset, her hands, she took scrupulous care. How Anastasia Christianovna envied her hands! Many years ago, her own hands had been as white and as delicate as Yeliena’s: fluttering like startled doves in expression; pure and chaste in repose. It occurred to her now that such unmarked hands were the compensation for an uneventful life.

  Madame Wrenskaya gave Yeliena’s forearm an extra squeeze of welcome as the doctor’s wife bent to kiss her wizened cheek. Motioning her to be seated, the old woman watched as her guest gratefully took the solitary dining room chair beside her, preferring its hard support to the slack cushions of the faded sofa.

  Her back will cause her great discomfort in later years, thought Madame Wrenskaya sympathetically. Far more pain than she can imagine now.

  Clearing her throat (where was that girl with the tea?) she asked:

  “How is the good doctor? Keeping well, I hope?”

  “He is quite well, thank you, Anastasia Christianovna, but I am afraid he is currently out of town. I am expecting his return tomorrow. There has been an outbreak of fever at Belogoriya and he suspects there may be typhus.”

  “Oh dear, I am sorry,” said Madame Wrenskaya, crossing herself hurriedly. “And this is such wretched weather to be away from home in. May the Holy Father protect him.”

  “Amen!”

  “And how is young Chevanin? I presume he is looking after the hospital while the doctor is away?”

  “Yes,” replied Madame Tortsova, adding with a mischievous smile, “Secretly, I think he is rather glad. It gives him the opportunity to lock horns with Director Tolkach.”

  “Ugh!” said her hostess with a shudder. “I declare Modest Tolkach to be the biggest rogue this town has ever seen and that is saying much. I cannot tell you, my dear Yeliena, how much that loathsome little man annoys me. I simply detest him. And to think he was little more than a wretched corporal before he came here. It’s true, a corporal! You cannot tell me that it was his experience or his personality that got him that position. And,” she went on before her guest could answer, “I suppose you have heard what people are saying about his late wife’s death? It’s a scandal!”

  Yeliena lowered her eyes. What Madame Wrenskaya had said was nothing less than the truth. Tolkach was common, brutal and unscrupulous enough to do anything and the doctor’s wife resented the unfairness of Life that allowed him to enjoy seniority over her own Vasili. Nevertheless, she did not dare to say so openly. Madame Wrenskaya cared not a fig for anyone and was quite capable of repeating her words elsewhere, to the detriment of herself and her husband. Often she wished Vasili would stand up to the hospital’s administrator as openly as Chevanin did. But the same dogged persistence that drove the older man to tend to the sick and the dying, rich and poor alike, seemed to leave little room in his character to fight on his own behalf.

  “It’s not very pleasant,” she admitted lamely.

  She had spoken too softly. The old woman had not heard. There was an awkward pause.

  “Chevanin. How old is he now?” asked Madame Wrenskaya abruptly.

  More taken back by the question than the old woman’s peremptory manner, Yeliena had to think before she answered.

  “Anton Ivanovich? Oh, I suppose he must be twenty-three or twenty-four years old. Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered,” replied Madame Wrenskaya. “My dear, you must excuse me if I appear to be an inquisitive old woman, but do you know if he has expressed interest in any of the young ladies in the town?”

  The thought struck the doctor’s wife as being so novel that the drab drawing room was brightened by her laughter.

  “I do not recall him doing so, at least not to me. I suspect that he is in no hurry to settle down to married life. Besides, I am afraid that on the salary that my husband pays him, he could hardly afford to support a household just yet.”

  “But no doubt,” the old woman persisted, “he has attracted the attention of one or two mothers with an eye to a good match. After all, Vasili Semionovich is no longer a young man. He will be thinking of retiring in the next few years and the boy will be the natural successor to his practice. It wouldn’t do for the town’s doctor to be unmarried. It wouldn’t do at all.”

  Yeliena frowned, discomforted by this overt speculation on her husband’s retirement.

  “I am certain,” she said carefully, “that when the time comes, Anastasia Christianovna, Anton Ivanovich will find himself the proper wife. It’s early days yet.”

  Noting the old woman’s doubtful expression and fearing that it masked a criticism of her own household where Chevanin was a frequent visitor, she added: “Until then, I am sure that the doctor and I can look after him while he is finding his feet. He wants for nothing.”

  “That is what concerns me,” observed Madame Wrenskaya cryptically.

  The door opened and the two women fell silent as the housemaid entered carrying a tray bearing three lit oil lamps. They watched as she moved around the room, carefully placing one of the lamps beside the samovar whence she would serve them their tea, a second on a small table at the far corner of the room so that its light illuminated the pen and ink drawing of the Professor in academic robes and the third on a larger table beside the sofa. When she had gone, Madame Wrensky gripped the worn arms of her chair and leant conspiratorially towards the woman beside her.

  “Yeliena, I am glad that you arrived before the others, because I want you to help me with a little problem.”

  At once, Madame Tortsova turned solicitously to face her, concern puckering her brow.

  “You are not feeling unwell I hope, Anastasia Christianovna?”

  “No, no my dear,” the old woman rasped testily, “but thank you for asking. My problem is a question of logic. One that needs a sharper mind, and a younger pair of legs, than mine to find its solution.”

  Leaning further over the arm of her chair, she brought one shaking crooked finger to her quivering lips to signify the need for silence. Together they listened to the distant rattle of crockery from the rear of the house as Mariya loaded the tea trolley with glasses and saucers. Only when she was satisfied that they could not be overheard did her hostess speak again.

  “Can you tell me,” she asked, speaking slowly and deliberately, “why the wife of our idiot Mayor bought ten arshins of material from Delyanov’s haberdashery store this morning?”

  Yeliena stared anxiously into the depths of the old woman’s unblinking pale blue eyes. Had Anastasia Christianovna finally become simple? She decided not. Her hostess’s remarks about Anton Ivanovich had been much too acute to have sprung from a wandering or disordered mind. She had no option but to take her question at its face value.

  “To have a dress made up?”

  The old woman nodded her head impatiently, tutting at her friend’s slowness.

  “Tchah! Well of course it’s for a dress, my dear,” she snapped. “But why? And why now? She has already more than enough clothes, paid for out of the taxes her husband has filched.
We all know that. More than enough dresses for her sort, anyway. Why does she want a new one? And why buy the cloth from Delyanov’s when she usually waits until she goes to the stores in Tobolsk in the spring while she is visiting her sister?”

  “Perhaps she just felt like a new dress?” Yeliena hazarded. “As you say, they have more than enough money.”

  Her voice trailed away as she realised that her gaze had dropped from Madame Wrenskaya’s lined face to the worn and old-fashioned black dress that she wore in ostentatious mourning for her unlamented second husband.

  “No,” decided Madame Wrenskaya, sitting back in her chair. “Nowadays, only a very rich woman buys dress material for no reason at all. A woman who is merely well off has to justify the expenditure to herself, if not her husband. She says it is for this play’s first night or for so and so’s ball. A woman of Matriona Pobednyev’s station needs at least two or more reasons why she should pay the exorbitant prices Delyanov charges before parting with her money. No, it is no idle whim. Of that I am certain.”

  “But is it important?” wondered the doctor’s wife.

  “It may not be. But,” Madame Wrenskaya replied with a hint of a smile, “if you forgive an old woman her stupidity, it does seem curious that the Mayor’s wife should be in such a hurry to spend over thirty-five roubles on ten arshins of navy blue barathea at the end of January when Easter is over two months away.”

  Yeliena repressed the urge to laugh. It was very unlikely that Anastasia Christianovna had ever considered herself to be a stupid woman, young or old.

  “So you think there is a purpose behind her extravagance?” she asked. “What do you think it might be?”

  Before her hostess could reply, the maid Mariya appeared again, pushing a wooden trolley in front of her. From where she sat Yeliena could spy glasses and saucers, cutlery, a jug of cream, a saucer of sliced lemons, a stack of small tea plates and two larger ones. These latter bore a selection of almond cakes and Madame Wrenskaya’s favourite spiced biscuits.

  “It seems obvious to me, my dear,” said Madame Wrenskaya. “Either she is planning to make a journey somewhere or she is preparing to meet someone here.”

  “But she would not travel at this time of year, not if she had any sense,” suggested Yeliena.

  “Exactly my thoughts,” the old woman agreed warmly. “Which means that someone is coming here to Berezovo. And since Matriona Pobednyev can be of no earthly interest to anyone, we must assume that whoever this mysterious personage is, the purpose of his visit must concern the Mayor himself and probably in some official capacity. Beyond that I am quite puzzled.”

  “Who could it be?” asked Yeliena. “Maybe a government inspector or somebody from the district office.”

  “Or the Governor General himself?” suggested Madame Wrenskaya. “Either way, you might be able to help me to find out. That is, if it wouldn’t be too tedious for you?”

  “Of course not! But how, exactly?”

  “I believe the Mayor’s wife still goes to Polezhayev’s daughter to have her dresses made. I recommended the girl to her myself,” admitted Madame Wrenskaya, adding doubtfully, “though I must say that Matriona Pobednyeva’s figure appears to have defeated even her skill with the needle. However, should you happen to be passing, or if the doctor is treating a patient nearby, you might ask young Mischa to call on me. I’m sure I can find one or two repairs for her to do.”

  Catching sight of the sly glint in the old woman’s eyes, Madame Tortsova chuckled aloud.

  “Anastasia Christianovna, of course I shall. But isn’t Madame Pobednyeva expected here this afternoon?” she asked. “Why don’t you ask her yourself? Or, if you like, I can.”

  “Gracious, no!” Madame Wrenskaya said with some asperity. “That would be most improper!”

  There came the sound of a knock at the front door. Motioning jerkily behind her, Madame Wrenskaya leant forward and allowed Yeliena to plump up the flattened cushions behind her. Settling back comfortably into her chair, she thanked the younger woman.

  “That is better. Now, let us talk about something more pleasant. I understand the doctor is to direct the forthcoming dramatic production. You must tell me all about it.”

  * * *

  In the small hallway Mariya waited patiently while Madame Kavelina and Madame Kuibysheva divested themselves of their heavy walking cloaks. The cloaks were almost identical saving one important distinction: Madame Kuibysheva’s was thickly trimmed with sable, and Madame Kavelina’s was not. In that telling detail lay the difference between the first and second most profitable trading houses in Berezovo. Madame Kavelina did not let her companion’s ostentatious display of wealth rankle her. She was still feeling buoyed by an event that had occurred less than half an hour before, and she even condescended to smile at the bedraggled maid as her cloak was taken from her.

  Earlier that afternoon her good friend Irena Kuibysheva had called upon her at home with an invitation to share her carriage so that she need not make her way on foot to Madame Wrenskaya’s. As unnecessary as this gesture was – all three women lived in the same street – Madame Kavelina had accepted her kind offer and was on the point of leaving when her husband Leonid had returned home early with news of an unexpected windfall. The sale of some stock in which the wood merchant had been speculating had been more lucrative than expected, and he was in the mood for celebration. He insisted that his wife and her friend should stay at home at least long enough to share a glass of wine with him in celebration. As she had taken pains to explain to Madame Kuibysheva, Kavelin never drank during the day as a rule but, just this once, she felt that they should indulge him. The three of them had settled themselves in her tastefully furnished reception room; so much brighter than the mausoleum she was about to enter. Making himself comfortable in his favourite chair Leonid had lit his cigar, Madame Kuibysheva having already asked if she might smoke a cigarette with her wine, and related to them a humorous encounter he had had with Madame Wrenskaya earlier that week. Entering the general store, he had discovered its proprietor, Pavel Stepanovich Nadnikov, recounting an ancestor’s exploits in the war in the Crimea to an audience of customers, one of whom was Madame Wrenskaya. Just as Pavel Stepanovich had reached the climax of his story, the old woman had interrupted him.

  “I recall once dining with Menshikov,” she had declared baldly. “He was a very bitter man, very bitter, but a soldier none the less. A gentleman of the old school.”

  “How interesting!” Leonid had cried, quick as a flash. “And was Tsar Peter there as well?”

  Madame Kuibysheva had clapped her hands with delight when she heard the joke. To deliberately confuse the recently deceased general with the 18^th^ century statesman sharing the same name that had been exiled to Berezovo in 1727 was a pearl of wit. It nicely exaggerated the decrepitude of Wrensky’s widow to whom they were accustomed to defer and whom the social etiquette of their position demanded they should visit at least once a month.

  The story had surprised Tatyana Kavelina on two counts: that it was a new story from her husband, and it was mercifully brief. Most of her husband’s anecdotes were usually long winded and inane, and greatly lengthened by embellishment at each retelling. She was pleased that, for once, he had actually said something witty and she had every reason to hope that his bon mot would gain a wider circulation. However much her young friend gave herself airs and graces, Irena Kuibysheva was not above enjoying and retelling good gossip; better to announce a secret from the steps of the Church of the Nativity than trust her to keep silent. If Tatyana Kavelina had one reservation about her husband’s telling of the story, it was that he had perhaps taken too much pleasure from their guest’s reaction. Men, she felt, were such children, displaying their toys for the admiration of those they sought to impress. However, this anxiety had been relegated to the back of her mind. Since her sudden arrival in their midst as the new wife of Illya Kuibyshev, Berezovo’s richest merchant, Irena had become a close friend; too close a friend fo
r her to have any worries on that score. It was the certainty that her husband’s witticism would be repeated in all the best houses in Berezovo that gave her the sense of buoyant self-satisfaction, which she did little to disguise as she swept in the wake of her young friend into Madame Wrenskaya’s gloomy salon.

  Acknowledging their greetings with a stiff formal nod of her head, Madame Wrenskaya watched as the two women took their places.

  Here they come, the old lady thought, the town tart and her drab.

  Her keen eyes did not miss Madame Kuibysheva’s gloved finger as it glided surreptitiously across the worn upholstery checking for dust. Hurriedly she turned her head. To think that she should be so insulted in her own house! Only the presence of Yeliena by her side prevented her from rebuking the young woman for her insolence. For two copecks, she told herself, she would have sent the new arrivals packing. After all, what was Kuibysheva but Trade: the wife of a jumped up pelt merchant? In the old days, the mere idea of inviting such a woman would have been inconceivable. Even Wrensky had understood that. He might do as he wished, she had told him, but as long as she lived she would never entertain such people in her house. She could see him now, standing in front of the hearth in that familiar posture of small town importance as he tried to persuade her.

  “But my dear woman,” she could hear him saying (how that phrase had grated!), “you talk to them when you go shopping, and when you attend functions. And they regularly invite you into their houses and such like. Why can’t you reciprocate, out of sheer politeness if nothing else? Unless you don’t like them, of course.”