“What Auntie?”
Olenka stared at him wide-eyed. “You’ve forgotten?”
“Ah, yes! Man!” Ovcharov called toward the door. “Bring a rug and some chairs here. You see: I’m treating you like a distinguished lady. I have had some fine acquaintances…”
“I thank you,” Olenka replied, holding herself in check, but quite piqued.
Ovcharov noticed this and hurried to inquire politely, “Well, what about this aunt? You must forgive me, Olga Nikolayevna. I have seen so many faces, at the moment my memory is failing me.”
“Well, you probably haven’t seen another face like this,” she replied, softening. “Then again, when you were at our house she didn’t come out of her room. She says that she knows you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, she saw you at Princess Maria Sergeyevna’s. She lives with her.”
“It’s possible,” Ovcharov replied absentmindedly.
“Well, you may not remember her, but because of you and Anna Ilinishna we’ve had a lot of trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“I’m not going to say, but I have figured out a thing or two. It’s all your fault. Oh, she’s nasty! Do us a kindness: be charming with Auntie. Or rather, never mind—she’ll walk around with her nose in the air. But how she hates your manservant! It’s just awful.”
“Has he really dared to be impudent?”
“No. She just hates him. And she hates me, and absolutely everyone…”
Olenka burst out laughing.
It all began to come back to Ovcharov. He did indeed recall Anna Ilinishna, and, along with her, hundreds upon hundreds of Moscow ladies: distinguished noblewomen, less distinguished noblewomen, and hangers-on. There was a time when he was caught up in this feminine chaos, when he knew every last bit of womenfolk’s gossip, took part in the gossip mongering, and shared gossip with pleasure. Now, frequent trips abroad and changes within those Moscow circles had left Ovcharov quite out of touch with this tumult. He realized this with a sense of regret. It occurred to him that he had deprived himself of a rich resource for the study of social mores. He grew melancholy and fell silent.
Olenka, meanwhile, was looking off into the distance and making faces at an imaginary Anna Ilinishna. Finally, Ovcharov noticed what she was doing. He watched her for a moment and decided that she was actually not at all bad looking.
“Oh, those aunties!” he exclaimed with cheerful familiarity. “But where exactly does my guilt lie? Please explain. We are, after all, friends?”
“Not yet, and I won’t say,” Olenka countered flirtatiously.
“Well, I want to be your friend no matter what, which is why I’m giving you some advice, although I consider it the height of ignominy to interfere in family affairs or even to be witness to anything of that sort. You see, I even avoid spending time at your house. But you, Olga Nikolayevna, have earned my affection…”
“So what’s your advice?” Olenka interrupted, plucking a thin blade of grass and flirtatiously tapping his fingers with it.
“It’s meant to be, shall we say, entre les deux yeux,”2 Ovcharov said, leaning in close to her cheek. “Look neither to your elders nor to your relations, if they are not to your liking. You are young, therefore you are right.”
“You don’t say? That’s an excellent thing!”
“That’s the way it is. Youth is wisdom. Old rags with their decaying morality must respect it. Pay them no mind and do as you please. Well, what do you think? A good little piece of advice?” he concluded, leaning still closer.
“Excellent!”
“So, allow me to kiss your hand.”
“If you please.”
Olenka extended her hand and, looking off into the distance, calmly yawned. Ovcharov looked up at her as he completed the kiss, but he had already lost some of the enthusiasm with which he had requested it. He leaned back in his chair, put his hand behind his head in an expression of weariness, and pronounced in a tone that was half casual, half didactic:
“You see how I seek rapport. Youth, backwardness, ignorance, closed-mindedness—whatever the case may be. I have pledged to disdain nothing, to shrink from nothing, because I know that I can be of some good. You wind up sacrificing all peace and quiet—that’s just the way it is. You know: I’m rich and would be able to live in comfort in any city in Europe. Do you know that?”
Olenka did not understand what point he was making and did not reply.
“You choose not to answer? Then, be so kind, at least, as to tell me what sorts of conflicts could have arisen in your home on my account?” Ovcharov continued, suddenly upset and sounding a bit threatening. “I’m not familiar with local mores. What seems polite in Europe may be unacceptable in Snetki—how would I know? Enlighten me. I repeat: I force neither my tastes nor my person on anyone. That’s simply foolish. If I have proven to be some sort of bone of contention between your aunt and your mother…”
He let out a laugh.
“…then I’ll settle accounts with Nastasya Ivanovna tomorrow and be on my way.”
“As if that would comfort Mama!” Olenka exclaimed, baffled by his angry tone. “And aren’t you ashamed of yourself? What childishness! And from someone who’s studied abroad. Nothing happened. I made it all up. Stay where you are, do your writing, and don’t you dare upset Mama. She herself has no idea why she loves you so…But, what an amazing frock coat you have on. I’ve been admiring it. What kind of material is that?”
She unceremoniously bent her head toward his sleeve.
“All joking aside,” Ovcharov persisted, softening and modestly withdrawing his arm, “you must tell me what happened.”
“I already told you. Nothing happened. It’s just that ever since the day you arrived Auntie’s been pouting and is angry at everyone and nobody can figure out what it’s all about. I don’t even try, but poor Mama. ‘I’m in the way, my presence is unpleasant for you’—that’s all. Before you came she never said anything like that—nothing of the sort! But I think I’ve guessed why she’s acting this way.”
“Why?”
“She’s in love with you.”
“Then let her suffer!” Ovcharov exclaimed, laughing, but deeply insulted.
“You…What’s the matter?” Olenka asked, sensing the change in his mood. “After all, it’s not you who are in love, but her. Of course the idea of such a worldly gentleman and a priggish old maid is completely ridiculous. Although Anna Ilinishna claims that better than your sort have fallen in love with her. Why are you so insulted?”
“I’m nothing of the sort, what are you talking about? Although, of course, it’s all in your head.”
“In any event,” Olenka interrupted, unperturbed, “Anna Ilinishna is pouting. She gets up in the morning, endlessly bows and prays, picks fights with Palashka, comes to tea looking the martyr, eats for four, and then immediately grabs her embroidery or some holy book. The book might be upside down for all she cares. Mama tries her best to indulge her, ‘What’s the matter, Cousin dear, oh, what is the matter?’ And all Auntie can come up with is, ‘Countess such-and-such was terribly kind to me; Princess such-and-such has a silver tea service…’ always with plenty of gibes and insinuations. It’s not our fault if we’re not countesses! And our roots go deeper than many a count’s. It’s not as if we’re some army family, like Mashenka and Katenka Barabanov’s.3
“Two days ago we went into town to try to appease her. She moaned and groaned about going, but in the end, she climbed into the tarantass4 and took the best spot. The whole way she complained about her nerves and having to ride around in such a pitiable basket—it is, of course, embarrassing: I always ask to take the long way around when we go to Uncle Pavel Yefimich’s—not the main street. We took Auntie to the shops. Mama bought her a barege crinoline for her dress—beautiful, very stylish: our local aristocrats wear them. Auntie was all flushed with excitement but barely said thank you! What a sort she is! She probably has heaps of money, but do you think
she’d ever give Mama anything? In the evening we took her to the town gardens. We couldn’t get out the door for three hours, because Auntie kept trying to cover some blemish on her forehead with powder. Of course, no one so much as glanced at her. I, on the other hand, had a fine time! And what I overheard there about a certain lady!”
“You enjoy gossip, Olga Nikolayevna?”
“I do. Why not?”
“No reason. It’s a harmless, feminine pursuit.”
“As a matter of fact I enjoy it very much. As far as listening goes, I’m always ready to listen, but I myself never tell tales. The next day we took Auntie to mass at the cathedral. What a show of emotion she put on there! But she still managed to gawk at people. After the service I look and there’s Auntie flying toward the bishop. She was making good use of her fists and shouting to the policeman there, ‘Escort me, I’m so-and-so…’ I nearly died of embarrassment. However, she made it and began talking to him, almost in tears. I didn’t know where to hide. I’m surprised he was able to talk with such an idiot…”
“I will stop you right there,” Ovcharov pronounced suddenly and with great earnestness, putting his hand on hers. “You must excuse me, but this is only the second time we’ve met, and it is the second time I’ve heard you speak rather flippantly about religious personages. Is that really a good thing? Something that may be permissible for me, for instance, a grown man and a holder of different ideas—I’ll put it more plainly: a nonbeliever—is not suitable for a woman. Reason and judgment are our domain—while yours is humble faith. It’s unbecoming in a woman. You have no respect for the representatives of your faith…”
“God only knows what you’re talking about!” Olenka exclaimed, perplexed. “What do you mean, I have no respect? What are you talking about, you can and we can’t? I don’t follow you.”
“Now don’t pretend. I’m sorry if I’ve wounded your pride, but I’m simply being honest. And I will also say, at the risk of provoking your anger: you are a rigorist. Your auntie has her weaknesses; she likes religious personages, she’s a bit nervous, and so forth. You must take into account her upbringing, her situation—you must explain all these things to yourself. Every individual must be approached with care, there’s always a great deal that must be forgiven. In general, we should be merciful toward the weaknesses of others, so that others will be merciful toward ours.”
“Erast Sergeyich,” Olenka said after listening attentively and breaking into laughter. “You were just saying something quite different, not long ago at all. It seems something has ruffled you. Admit it. You’ve been cross ever since I said that Auntie was in love with you. Isn’t that it?”
Ovcharov became flustered.
“You are a child,” he said, trying to disguise his annoyance by kissing her hand. “In general, you don’t understand much, and yourself even less. And you don’t want to delve deeply into anything. Youth and laziness. And I, myself, by raising these serious questions at the wrong time, was being pedantic. It would be better if you just told me more about your auntie. What else happened in town?”
“Auntie! Well, defend her if you please. After the mass, right there on the portico, she involved me in an awful scene.”
“A scene?”
“It was over a certain man! Oh, what have I said!”
Olenka jumped out of her chair and covered her face, which now matched the color of her pink dress.
“No, no, Olga Nikolayevna! This is something I cannot let you get away with! You must tell me what happened,” Ovcharov demanded, holding onto the young woman.
“Well, it’s nothing really,” Olenka replied, looking with some disdain at his thin, pale figure and outstretched arms. “I’m in love with a certain officer of the Grenadiers, and he’s in love with me. He approached me on the portico and Auntie pounced.”
“No doubt he’s a handsome fellow with a mustache and curls?” Ovcharov asked, retaking his seat and casually swinging his leg.
“Why are you teasing me? Well, yes…he’s handsome. As if I’d give anyone ugly a second look!”
Ovcharov was silent for a moment.
“You are a wonderful child, Olga Nikolayevna,” he remarked after a minute. “Enjoy yourself, frolic, and fall in love. You don’t know how gratifying it is for a man who has lived, for a man who loves youth, to observe this. I look at you, and, truly, it’s as if I’m growing healthier.”
“You don’t say? I’m very glad, Erast Sergeyich.”
“But, after all, I know,” he continued, screwing up his eyes and shaking his finger at her, “I know, my little coquette, that none of this will last, that tomorrow another officer will catch your eye, and the day after tomorrow a third…”
“Well, yes; well, maybe…”
“That’s all very nice. Don’t try to deny it, don’t blush—that’s all delightful,” Ovcharov exclaimed. “Until…until,” he concluded gravely, “your mind and passion will come into their own and guide you to a real man—not a puppet—a man truly worthy of your feelings and sacrifice.”
Having said this, he sat back in his chair so elegantly, with such modest dignity, that Olenka was speechless. She became uncomfortable. Erast Sergeyevich really did seem to her so foreign, so above her. Until now this idea had not entered her head. She said nothing and even wanted to escape.
“And we old men…” Ovcharov continued, having noticed the effect he had produced, “all that’s left for us is to look on from the little corners where we labor, to give what advice we can, to write books for you. That is our lot.”
“Do you write much?” Olenka asked, suddenly struck by the idea that it had been silly to carry on such a silly conversation up to this point.
“No, not much. I already told you. I’m not a very productive writer. Good writing does not come easily, Olga Nikolayevna. It’s endless toil, although for me…But I haven’t yet asked where you were educated?”
“I was taught by some elderly noblewomen. They live in the convent, in town. Back then, Mama and I rented an apartment every winter. After that I spent about two years at a boarding school, also winters. And in the summers—there’s a landowner, a woman with children and governesses, who comes from Moscow. I was taken there for schooling. It’s been a year, thank God, since I stopped going.”
Olenka recounted all this sheepishly and with annoyance.
“So you finished your course of education at the age of fifteen?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve no intention of furthering your education?”
“Why should I?” Olenka began, not knowing what else to say. She became even more annoyed and bored. Ovcharov finally decided that he had tormented her enough.
“Studying’s truly tiresome, isn’t it?” he said, laughing.
“I can’t stand it!” Olenka exclaimed.
“That’s because the teaching is ridiculous. There’s no point in listening. You’d be better off not remembering what you’ve learned, there’s no need.”
“I don’t remember it in any event.”
“That’s just fine. Don’t let it embarrass you. To some extent—ne prenez pas au pied de la lettre5—I respect ignorance. At times it does more good than wisdom. I see in it the presence of fresh, untouched forces, understanding derived directly from nature. Don’t be embarrassed. I’m not saying this just to make you feel better. I will prove it to you now. Yesterday I wrote something about education; read it. But do me the kindness of giving up your Whistles, your Jokers—the sort of rubbish you’re now holding. You’ll develop bad taste. Wait a moment, I’ll give you something.”
He stood up and went to get his briefcase.
“Here, if you please. This one is about foreign schools…about our schools…Have you ever read anything of mine in the press? I will give you something some time. Here’s where it is.”
“Show me. What is it?” Olenka asked.
She placed the briefcase on her lap and her eyes started to dart up and down the page without pausing. She was
interested in Ovcharov’s handwriting, which was very expansive, with whimsical flourishes and wild blots where his pen tip must have broken.
“My, what handwriting!” she blurted out.
“Yes. It has been said in jest that it looks like the handwriting of the Lord Chancellor. Can you make it out?”
As he asked this, Ovcharov looked off to the side in a manner suggesting he did not wish to interfere and traced the pattern on the rug with his boot. Olenka was not reading and was about to return the briefcase when the word “Garibaldi” leapt out at her. This, she read. These were the very comments Ovcharov had written about her hat.
“What didn’t you like about my hat? And, first of all, it was from Moscow, not Kazan,” Olenka pronounced haughtily, turning red.
“What didn’t I like? Read the entire thing.”
“I don’t want to. I can’t make head or tail of your learnedness. Take it, please.”
“As you wish.”
Ovcharov took the briefcase with the air of a man who had been forced to put up with worse foolishness in this world. He was annoyed, but when Olenka rose to leave he became even more annoyed.
“If I spoke ill of your hat,” he said, suddenly changing his tone, “there was a reason for it.”
“And what was that?”
“I thought…I thought—why, on such a lovely little head…”
“What nonsense!”
“Yes. Why on such a lovely little head, shouldn’t there be a Parisian hat.”
“A nice try!”
“I assure you, I mean it!” Ovcharov exclaimed with such sincerity that Olenka was quite vanquished. “So you are not angry?”
“About what?”
“About everything. First of all, about my undertaking to educate you. I have, after all, begun your education, Olga Nikolayevna.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. But you must agree—this education is not tiresome. For your part, you simply must make use of it. And to prove that you are not angry with me and that you really do want to learn a bit, read everything I give you.”
“Perhaps.”
“And one last request.”
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