Ovcharov felt a sense of disgust when he recalled his home life and his own inability to grasp its ridiculousness. His mother spent much of her time at cards, and played high-stakes games with skill and luck rarely found in a woman. The card play attracted many high-ranking and distinguished men to their Moscow home, according the Ovcharovs a certain prestige. In the country, cards brought all the neighbors without exception into their home, which gave the Ovcharovs a reputation for kindness and unpretentiousness, especially as they fed their guests well. Food was his father’s primary interest. After a short time in government service, he began devoting himself to accommodating the whims of his stomach. He immersed himself in the breeding of flavorful animals, consumed them with relish, and as a result developed a reputation as an experienced husbandman. At one time, without batting an eye, he nearly ate himself out of an entire village and was only saved from the auction block by his wife’s winnings. He was completely submissive to his wife, but caroused on the side under an impenetrable shroud of secrecy, protected by the friends he had acquired with his lavish dinners. His indiscretions rarely came out. There were no family quarrels, and, for the most part, only their common interest in culinary affairs brought the spouses together for intimate conversation.
Ovcharov entered the university. This was a time when students were very much the vogue in Moscow and the university enjoyed tremendous prestige and took pride in its representatives—this was a time when, as a wealthy student, Ovcharov led a life of the greatest variety. From the garret of a toiling comrade to the study of a princely comrade; from a ball at the governor-general’s, to hot rum punch drunk sitting on a student greatcoat—Ovcharov was everywhere, and everywhere he was equally welcome. The breadth of his parents’ social circle contributed to the variety of his own. The Ovcharovs’ acquaintances numbered in the hundreds, and these hundreds each afforded him hundreds more, so by the time Ovcharov left the university he could claim to know all of Moscow. His mother and father passed away shortly thereafter. Ovcharov remained in Moscow, took a position in the governor’s chancellery, and proceeded to look in there once a year. Well provided for and unfettered, he stepped out into the wide world to experience all it had to offer.
And it cannot be said that he saw and experienced little. Rides and walks through Moscow, picnics, fireworks, elegant balls, small-scale costume balls, modest balls given by the bourgeoisie, masquerades, theaters, clubs, taverns, riding parties, concerts for the nobility, concerts for non-nobles, gypsies, merchant weddings, aristocratic weddings, charity bazaars, family dinners, bachelor dinners, pilgrimages to fashionable churches and monasteries, and visits—visits to everyone from high-ranking men and women of the clergy, senators, various His and Her Highnesses, right down to his deaf-and-dumb great-aunt who lived behind Devichi Field—parties and pre-party gatherings of the family sort, of the intimate sort, or the artistic sort, evening gatherings of learned men, circles devoted to excessive eating and drinking, English-style hunting, Hegelianism, and Slavophilism, edifying circles presided over by the patronesses of various societies, and, finally and especially, the ladies’ literary and poetry circles of those years—all this, Ovcharov experienced. Throughout Moscow—from Rogozhskaya to Dorogomilovskaya—everyone who knew Ovcharov proclaimed him a fine fellow. He earned this appellation through his deference to the ladies, amenability, tidiness, indefatigability, and his enthusiasm for all of society’s amusements, along with his customary readiness to expound on absolutely anything and equal readiness to listen to absolutely anything. But whatever society Ovcharov appeared in throughout his wandering life, he was never anything more than a fine fellow. Nowhere did he leave a strong impression; he was easily liked and easily forgotten. With women, in love and hate, he played only an incidental role; among serious people his presence brought on a slight sense of boredom; and through his entire life he had failed to attain a single devoted friend.
Of course Ovcharov (just like all us sinners endowed, for better or worse, with a degree of blindness) never noticed how little people valued him. And now, as his colorful past flashed before his mind’s eye, he pronounced, almost out loud and cheerfully clasping his hands behind his head, “What an extraordinary life! And what richness of character, to be able to sample it all!”
The thought that his life had now become even more extraordinary and his nature even richer further raised his spirits. He had long since, with the passage of time, begun to gradually abandon former tastes and pursuits; many he had repudiated, condemned, and even denounced—denounced, without taking into account either his youth or the spirit of the times. Such was the judgment he rendered against his frenzied affair with the Viennese dancer, Fanny Elsler, from whom he nearly contracted consumption; the boyar costumes he wore at aristocratic balls; the visits to Ivan Yakovlevich, which he made to please several pious ladies; his ecstasy over the verse of certain Russian poetesses and his own lines written in their albums—and there was much, much more that he denounced.3 It was even hard for him to accept that he had done these things—what in the world could have possessed him? He only thanked heaven that in the past he had denied himself nothing and could approach his mature years able to assign every manifestation of life its true worth.
This realization, ever-present in the back of Ovcharov’s mind, now came to the forefront, giving his repose particular sweetness.
He then recalled how he had finally developed, focused his attention, acquired fortitude, become more serious, refined his circle of acquaintances, and determined his vocation. He began to write novels, sketches, theatrical reviews, dramas, comedies, bits of verse tales, and short satirical pieces. This work took time away from visits, and his desire to share his work with others further limited his social circle. Everything he wrote was read in salons where literature was valued. Nothing was burned as worthless.
Looking back on the early days of his literary career, Ovcharov felt a sense of satisfaction. Of course he found much of what he had written to be extremely naive, but the overall picture pleased him even now. One half of these works had appeared in print; he held onto the other half, which had been returned by the editors because of concerns over censorship. Knowing by heart every word he had written, Ovcharov had come to the conclusion that, in all probability, he really had wanted to use his pen to castigate the prevailing order during those difficult years and spoke the bitter truth about it almost unconsciously, not thinking; he even discussed the Moscow drama troupe of 1854–1855 in his theatrical notices. Then he recalled the arrival of our time of “social awakening” and reflected with pride on the fact that he, for one, had already been “awake.” The era found him full of vigor and ahead of the times, his mental efforts having endowed him with knowledge of his surroundings and ample strength. From this time forward he began to travel abroad; from this time forward he considered himself a fully enlightened man. He was highly satisfied with his travels. Visits to all of Europe’s universities and academies, parliamentary debates, assemblies of the most diverse groups, meetings of manufacturers, meetings of artists, and even Hamburg’s roulette tables and the Bal Mabille—Ovcharov drank it all in, like a tourist, not permitting himself a moment’s rest.4 By then, he was no longer drawn to bad influences and, like a sage, gave into temptation with prudent moderation. Moreover, he had long since damaged his health and was eager to mend it. It was then that Ovcharov decided that the time was ripe and he was prepared to be useful—whether he was regarding his native land from afar or making one of his periodic visits to it. He began by undertaking serious labor and applying himself to practical endeavors.
And now, as he rested, the thought of this labor, a thought that rarely left Ovcharov, suddenly stirred in his mind. He thought, came up with many ideas, and finally fell into a kind of semi-slumber. Only toward morning did he fall deeply asleep.
1. French: Patented and with a warranty.
2. French: Dinners at a regularly scheduled time.
3. Fanny Elsler was a Viennese ballet
dancer who toured Moscow in the 1840s. Ivan Yakovlevich Koreisha (1783–1861) was a yurodovy, or “holy fool,” renowned for his psychic powers.
4. In 1844, two brothers, Victor and August Mabille, established an open-air dance hall near the Champs-Elysées in Paris. Known as the Bal Mabille or Jardin Mabille, it used lanterns, tinted glass globes, gas lighting, and elaborate landscaping to create a magical atmosphere.
In his seclusion, Ovcharov led the most active of lives. Upon rising he bathed in the stream, lay in the sun, and drank his whey before setting off on foot for Beryozovka, where he assiduously surveyed the workings of his estate and talked with the steward and the peasants, to whom he explained the Emancipation Edict. His explanations were extremely far-ranging and this, especially as he mixed in poetic elements one moment and political ones the next, naturally called forth doubts and confusion in the minds of Ovcharov’s listeners. Confusion, in turn, taxing the brain, gave rise to stubbornness, and this stubbornness forced Ovcharov to seek new moral fortitude within himself. He labored on, orating, becoming agitated, and exhausting himself. By the week’s end, nothing about Beryozovka’s future organization had been settled. At mealtime Ovcharov set off on horseback for Snetki (for his dacha, that is), had his soup, and lay down on the hot sand at the stream’s edge or under his canopy, depending on the weather. There he rested, but never permitted himself to fall asleep. The evening was again given over to walking and reading. The lamp was lit, but not for long, since Ovcharov, because of his health, was in bed by ten o’clock. All week long no one troubled him. There was nothing to prevent him from being perfectly satisfied. Only little peasant boys, in their characteristic ignorance, visited the place where the gentleman was sunbathing and gawked at him a bit; but even they, after a few seconds, threw off their little shirts and jumped into the water, diving and thrashing about, oblivious to the fact that some lordly globetrotter was resting on the shore. The ladies of the house exhibited a lack of curiosity that was truly out of character for provincial Russians, especially in the countryside: throughout the week Ovcharov saw them on only two occasions and at a distance of a quarter verst, the length of the orchard that separated the bathhouse and the manor house. Only Olenka had once approached a bit closer, but immediately turned and beat a hasty retreat through the cherry trees.
“Olga Nikolayevna!” Ovcharov had called out. “Why don’t you come down here into the sun? It’s warmer here.”
“My face will sunburn. I don’t want to.”
“A tan is a healthy thing. And after all, you’re wearing a hat.”
“This is a Tudor hat. Tudors don’t cover anything. Such a silly fashion. And it’s too far to go and get my Garibaldi hat. Farewell.”
Ovcharov did not inquire after Nastasya Ivanovna, nor did he repeat his invitation. The young woman left.
That evening, feeling an unexpected surge of health and strength, Ovcharov immersed himself in the work he so loved. He had begun an article for Nord about the state of finance in Russia. It had been started long ago and interrupted for lack of time and essential information; now it needed a good deal of thought. Ovcharov rubbed his hands together; carefully retrieved sheets of paper from his briefcase; took out a magnificent porte-plume1 and a magnificent steel nib, testing its supple tip with his long fingernail; dipped the nib in ink; and fell deep into thought. He thought for a long time. His pen had long since dried, been dipped a second time, and dried again. This sequence was repeated many times over the course of two hours, two hours that may have passed imperceptibly for the rest of the world, but were very much perceived by Ovcharov. Upset and angry, he rose from his chair, paced a bit, then tossed the pages back into his briefcase and hurriedly took out others. Finally his pen was flying across the paper. But this was no longer the article for Nord. Ovcharov started by addressing an envelope to the editorial office of…in St. Petersburg. He was writing to a friend of his who worked at the journal.
“There’s nothing to be done about it if they’ve all lost their senses there,” he muttered, dipping his pen. “At least I’ll make some progress on my sketches.”
That evening he wrote many things, among them the following, which he intended to copy over before posting.
My dear friend, had I been able to engage in something more useful, you would not be receiving this letter from me, or rather, these sketches. But good people have tied my hands, preventing me from spending my time productively, for which, of course, I will thank them in my own way when we meet again. I would hardly say that your editors have shown my sketches the courtesy they deserve. Where are the ones I sent three months ago? I have not seen them in print. When will they appear? Hurry them along and let me know in the next post. I’m sending you the enclosed sketches en gros, in rough form, whatever enters my head, wherever my thoughts wander, whatever flashes before my eyes. Arrange them into an article and basta. Working and reworking the style would be an utter waste of my time. The essentials are all here—what more is needed? I humbly ask, however, that you do this without changing it, so it comes out as my voice, not someone else’s. I will not abide abbreviation, ornamentation or other such things. Give it a slightly literary form and otherwise, don’t touch it. I hope that you will not abuse my trust. Call the article “In the Backwoods.”
I am, in fact, living in the backwoods, and what’s more, in a bathhouse. At first glance this circumstance may seem of little significance, but upon closer examination it takes on an entirely new light. For a man who has been known to find fault with the comforts afforded by the Hôtel de Louvre to live in a bathhouse—moreover on the estate of a woman of the rural gentry typifying all that this implies—is, you know, a feat! I take pride in it. It is evidence of moral fortitude and self-denial, because half the reason for this sacrifice is the benefit my mere presence brings to my surroundings. Let our progressives pause to consider this and, following my example, they will no longer turn up their noses at the thought of secluding themselves in the middle of nowhere. The time has come when an obsolete and blind society must meet us, the vanguard, us, the physicians, at every turn, unexpectedly, au coin de la rue,2 so to speak. Benefit to society—that is our watchword; and we must insist on this benefit, sternly insist. And from those who know the most, the most will be demanded.
Some say that we may be taking on more than we can handle. They are cowards and nothing more. It is simply remarkable! We Russian reformers can’t seem to take ourselves au sérieux, and although we know our worth, we still suffer from lack of trust in ourselves. Hypocritical humility, nothing more. Some Western loudmouth, not worth our boots, is celebrated—and we celebrate him—while on the subject of our own worth—not a word. Of late, in particular, we have become ridiculously humble. When will we start to believe in ourselves, my friends?
I am not a proud little boy and by now, at the age of forty, I will say loudly and without hypocrisy: I want to be appreciated. I recommend the same to you. My sense of self-worth is such that I consider my rigorous adherence to a strict treatment regimen and my unflagging attention to health to be as much for others as for myself.
The lives of the foremost representatives of our generation, a category in which I feel justified including myself, should be valued. It is no laughing matter that the best Russians have somehow gotten into the habit of dying young. Let that fate not befall us. Let us express ourselves, and in order to express ourselves we will need long life and good health. The recent past has made us all bilious, affected our livers. Let us use all available means to heal ourselves, let us cling to life and not allow chronic disease to eat away at the roots of our best tribe.
I am not a pedant, and I can sense that whatever I want to pass on to my lesser brother will be accepted sincerely. The peasant can sense that I love him. Let him take my teachings on faith. Such faith is a fine thing. Those who lag behind must be urged forward. And if we want to urge them forward, bring them up to our level, then we can’t wait for them to want this, for them to give us their consent. Lo
rd only knows how long we’d be waiting. When will they start thinking about life—the life that has yet to begin? No, no, now is the time! Let them take us on faith! Otherwise we’ll be waiting another hundred years. We’ve already squandered more than our fair share of hundreds of years!
When I look back on these centuries and all the work, or rather muddle, that they were kind enough to bequeath to us, I see that I can be nothing other than what I am at the present moment. I give myself completely to the quest.
What else could I be? After a rich and most wayward life I have suddenly become focused. For many years I have been putting myself and all that I’ve observed to the test. Now the time has come. We must literally throw ourselves in all directions at once, be everywhere at once. The future must be watched over and protected at all times wherever the decay is worse or wherever fresh, unexpected shoots have sprouted. We must work!
And what a multifarious age we live in! What a clash of views, interests, habits, tastes—the old and the new, the ugly and the elegant, the intelligent and the stupid, the illiterate and the enlightened are coming into contact in every corner of our beloved fatherland!
Even here, I am discussing topics of world import while just a few steps away my landlady is racking her brains over what sort of treacle to buy for the preserves. Russian finances and treacle—our Rus in a nutshell!
A comical people, no denying it! They peek out from under the shroud of their old-world estate so meekly that when you reach for the ruler or the rod, you are overcome by such tender feelings you hesitate to apply them.
City Folk and Country Folk Page 8