“Yes? It’s time for me to go home.”
“Put on your Garibaldi hat tomorrow and we’ll go out for an early walk together. Do you agree?”
“Why not? I’ll be there.”
“Perhaps your mama will not allow it, but you will persuade her.”
“No persuading will be needed. She’ll let me go with you in any event. But for now, farewell. I imagine Anna Ilinishna has feasted her eyes enough.”
1. The Spark (Iskra in Russian) was a satirical political journal published from 1859 to 1873.
2. French: Between two eyes; here, just between you and me.
3. Olenka uses the term Ober-ofitser (from the German Oberoffizier). The implication is that the Barabanovs, unlike the Chulkovs, are members of the hereditary nobility because of a promotion within the army, not because of ancient noble lineage.
4. A tarantass is a four-wheeled, springless, horse-drawn traveling carriage widely used in Russia in the nineteenth century. The covered interior generally has no benches and passengers sit on straw, hence Olenka’s “pitiable basket.”
5. French: Don’t take this literally.
Although Ovcharov had intended to follow the dictates of courtesy and visit Nastasya Ivanovna, in the end he did not. Most likely, he was afraid of Anna Ilinishna’s adoration or believed that the sight of her would so act on his nerves as to reverse the beneficial effects of his treatment. For her part, as soon as Nastasya Ivanovna heard from Olenka that Ovcharov was healthy and happy she set off to see him at a run, “oohed” and “aahed” over his “study,” and persuaded him that he shouldn’t feel obligated to visit them, so long as he was content. In the evening Ovcharov got down to work. His meeting with Olenka had prompted the idea of writing something about women. Soon he had thrown together the following thoughts:
Most young women in our time are beginning to lose their femininity.
The women of our generation, those now in their forties, were more feminine in their day. They were inveterate dreamers, idolizers, they read Byron and George Sand—without understanding, but that didn’t matter. Their reading endowed them with an aura of poetry. They were poorly educated, spoke nonsense, but timidly, bashfully, like shrinking violets, not trusting themselves. All this was silly, but had its charm.
What was this womanly charm? Whatever it was, it is now disappearing.
We now find different forms of beauty in women. Something striking that incisively and forcefully catches the eye, more obtrusive than attractive. They are like luxuriant poppies or dahlias that have been bred large so as to strike the eye as soon as you enter the garden.
Which is better?
Everything is right for its own time; everything is necessary for its own time.
Today, there is much greater variety among women.
There are so-called women of virtue and so-called women of vice, there are working women and women of leisure, there are the keepers of the family hearth and those seeking divorce, there are our comrade studentessas and ethereal young noblewomen, there are sanctimonious women and camélias,1 women of faith and nonbelievers.
What should a woman be?
Let her tactfully derive the most beautiful and useful characteristic from each of these “varieties” (espèce) and include them in her own makeup. Then we will have the ideal woman.
For the time being, all types are necessary—from the divine to the profane—and not only for their negative usefulness. This is a time of transition; for its duration, every element is needed and must be preserved.
In the end, will we need women who are nonbelievers? Will it be necessary to preserve folly in one part of the human race? If it is not preserved, what will happen to men’s essential moral superiority?
In the countryside faith still holds, but the patriarchal way of life is in sharp decline. An air of decay has penetrated here, and before long we will encounter among rural women the same phenomena we see in women in the capitals.
The old rural gentry-woman type has barely changed: moral and physical clumsiness. On the other hand, the old despotism has disappeared, and the younger generation is spreading its wings.
It spreads them clumsily, crudely, gracelessly, but spread them it does. It raises its voice and acts, to some extent, according to its own will. The second-rate shrinking violet of the past, oppressed by the parental right hand, is also being transformed into a second-rate dahlia. Still, it is a beautiful flower, bright and attractive in a flower bed. Yes, it’s true: the younger generation of women in the countryside and provincial towns is freer than it was twenty years ago.
Now is the time to show them who deserves thanks for this freedom. Perhaps they believe that they owe it to those who are in fact the bane of their existence.
Let them find out to whom they are indebted.
Our overall task is—walking hand in hand with them as equals—to raise women to a higher level of development and provide them, if possible, with the means to overtake us. This is the essential mission of our age.
1. Ovcharov is referring to La dame aux camélias (1848) by Alexandre Dumas fils, which was the basis for the opera La Traviata (1853) by Guiseppe Verdi, about the love and death of a courtesan.
The next day, Olenka kept her promise to walk with Ovcharov. These early morning promenades were repeated several times, although it could not be said that they gave her much pleasure. She went on them largely because she had nothing else to do. The walks with Ovcharov were more a matter of curiosity than enjoyment for Olenka. The seventeen-year-old girl was amused by the anxious concern with which he approached his daily dose of whey, by the way he punctually started every morning with a report on his health and the progress of his treatment (not that anyone was asking), and finally by the punctiliousness with which he took his constitutional. They always ended their walks at the same time—never ten minutes later or earlier. Olenka found this terribly amusing. When Anna Ilinishna was not around, she mimicked Ovcharov’s every grimace for her mother, terrifying Nastasya Ivanovna with the threat that she would one day imitate him to his face. Nastasya Ivanovna had enough troubles without that. She was tormented by the question of whether or not she should allow her daughter to take walks with a man who was not a relative, but allow it she did. In the presence of Anna Ilinishna Olenka simply called Ovcharov an “angel,” and left it at that. Anna Ilinishna never asked about the walks. Only once, hunching down over her needlework, did she meaningfully ask:
“How does it please you to occupy yourselves during these wanderings?”
“He speaks of his love for me,” Olenka replied calmly.
This, of course, was a lie, but it was true that Ovcharov undertook these walks with certain crafty little notions. Over the course of each of their rendezvous, his state of mind would change twice, almost always following the same progression. During the first half of their walk, after he was done giving her an account of his health, he became flirtatious and attentive toward his companion. He offered her his arm, to ensure that she did not fatigue herself, his hand, whenever it was necessary to step over a rut, and on several occasions he bent down to check whether or not she had gotten her shoes wet. He adjusted the cloak on her shoulders to protect her from the morning breeze, and, finally, upon reaching the hollow that separated Snetki and Beryozovka, he always attempted to carry Olenka in his arms across the four-inch bed of a stream that used to flow there, but had by now entirely dried up. Olenka was decisive in declining these services.
“What on earth are you doing? I’m stronger than you are. If you like, it might be better for me to carry you,” she said on one occasion, with her coarse candor.
But for the most part, she reacted to Ovcharov’s solicitousness with an easy, wordless laughter that might have appeared a bit silly to an outside observer.
Once, despite all of his European courtesy, Ovcharov was unable to contain himself.
“Why are you always laughing, Olga Nikolayevna?” he asked.
Her only response was anot
her giggle.
This behavior and the spurning of his courtesies always provoked a new state of mind. Ovcharov began to talk a lot, and, for the most part, seriously. He spoke about the charm of trust and submissiveness in a woman, about women’s work, about his high regard for the spirit of domesticity and economy in German women, about the allure of Oriental women, about the enslavement that Russian women bring upon themselves, about stagnation in rural life and about decay in the salons of St. Petersburg. Olenka listened, but not terribly attentively. The scenery was not very interesting to her either; she had seen more than enough of the countryside around Snetki and didn’t understand what in all that—in the forests, meadows, and so forth—was so remarkable. Having noticed this lack of attentiveness, evident from the fact that Olenka’s eyes were moving back and forth between Ovcharov’s eyes and his beard, which bobbed up and down as he heatedly lectured her, he again turned to pleasantries.
“When will you come inside and pay me a visit?” he asked once when they arrived at his porch.
“I already told you. Perhaps if I were to ask Mama, then maybe there might be a way.”
“If you asked…Do you love your mother very much?”
“It would be rather strange if I didn’t!”
“Indeed. Well, and when will your little officer come? Do you take many walks with him—having asked your mother, that is?”
“What little officer? Ah, I had already forgotten about him. He doesn’t come here…But what a sort you are, Erast Sergeyich, ah, what a sort!”
She stopped, shook her head, and suddenly broke into loud laughter.
“What are you laughing at, Olga Nikolayevna?”
“One minute it’s this, and the next it’s that!”
“What?”
But Ovcharov did not pursue his question beyond that unanswered “what.” Instead he removed his hat impatiently, like a man who had reached his desired destination, took out his key, and opened the door.
“When will you finally read something, Olga Nikolayevna?” he asked, standing in the doorway. “As it is, we aren’t getting anywhere.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she replied, laughing. “Very well, I will; I will.”
“Take my sketches on women. Study them, give them some thought.”
“Well, hand them over. What’s stopping you?”
Ovcharov wordlessly entered his house and just as wordlessly brought out his briefcase.
“I should read all this, Erast Sergeyich?”
“Read it all, read nothing—as you wish! Do you really think I’m forcing you?”
Olenka laughed.
“Fine, I’ll read it,” she said. “Don’t be angry. And I will read it to Mama, too. Good day.”
Ovcharov’s writing did not fare well with the Snetki reading public. Failing to notice that her mother was not alone in the parlor, but that she was joined by Anna Ilinishna, from whom she had been capriciously protecting Ovcharov as from some hawk, Olenka rushed in and immediately exclaimed:
“He must have cooked up some marvels about us, if he’s putting it all straight into our hands.”
Her mother was sorting linen and bustling about in a preoccupied state, busy with her housework—she had a lot to do. But this did not prevent her from being extremely curious about what Erast Sergeyevich had written.
“I can see that my presence is not needed here,” Anna Ilinishna said, rising from her seat.
Olenka wanted to wink to her mother, hinting that yes—she should let Anna Ilinishna go—but Nastasya Ivanovna had already rushed over to her.
“Oh, no, please do us the kindness, Cousin dear, don’t leave. It just hasn’t been homey around here lately. Perhaps Erast Sergeyich will inspire us. Don’t leave. Read to us, Olenka, read to us.”
Anna Ilinishna sat down. Nastasya Ivanovna rested her eyes on Olenka. The first article was read, and then the second. By the time she was done, a half hour later, Nastasya Ivanovna had understood about the treacle.
“I didn’t buy any treacle,” she said, saddened almost to the point of tears and shaking her head. “How could Erast Sergeyich have imagined such a thing, really…But all the same, he’s such a dear.”
“It’s a wonder what a dear he is!” Olenka added, although she was very angry. “I can’t make head or tail of his scribblings, but still, he is a dear.”
“Yes. And he does a fine job of deriding you here,” Anna Ilinishna remarked quietly, pointing her crochet hook at the briefcase without looking up.
“He also mentioned sanctimonious women,” Olenka countered, straightening her back.
“That has nothing to do with anyone here,” Anna Ilinishna replied, as if oblivious. “An unbeliever is no judge when it comes to matters of sanctimony or Christian piety. And the fact that he’s an unbeliever—that, in my opinion, has been borne out. What do you think, Nastasya Ivanovna? And he even seems proud of his lack of faith; he wrote about it. Did you hear?”
“What lack of faith? There wasn’t anything about that, Anna Ilinishna.”
“The educated understand.”
“Of course you are better educated than we are, Cousin.”
“He’s trash, your Ovcharov, and that defrocked monk of his, too, ugh!”
Anna Ilinishna started back from the window.
“Here he comes. I can’t stand the sight of him.”
“Who’s coming, Cousin?”
“That Fedka of his. He looks just like a defrocked monk I saw in Moscow. The very image.”
“Well, Auntie! That’s really too much,” Olenka exclaimed, bursting into laughter.
“You’re a ninny,” her mother angrily interceded. “Go have them bring breakfast. Go,” she repeated, poking Olenka in the back. “For God’s sake, don’t pay any attention to her, Anna Ilinishna, my dear. It would be better if you told me, if it’s not too much trouble, who that defrocked monk was, if you don’t mind. Do me that kindness, my dear.”
“If you please,” Anna Ilinishna replied, as if reluctant. But the story was begun, peace was restored, and Nastasya Ivanovna praised heaven above.
The next morning Olenka did not show up to walk. Returning alone and annoyed after finding disorder at Beryozovka, Ovcharov saw that a carriage stood by the entrance to the manor house. Approximately an hour and a half later, the carriage left. Olenka appeared in the garden. She was wandering around with her customary aimlessness.
“Why didn’t you come today?” Ovcharov asked, stepping outside to join her.
Olenka walked right up to him. She was angry.
“You abuse us, and I’m expected to take walks with you?” she replied. “That’s a fine thing. What were you scribbling there?”
“Olga Nikolayevna!”
“And you hurt Mama’s feelings. Putting on a long face won’t help.”
“Olga Nikolayevna, but why do you take it personally? Such is the fate of us writers. If we say something, we lose friends, and if we don’t…”
“Fine, fine, that’s enough,” Olenka interrupted him, sounding weary. “Do you think I don’t know that writers are angry on purpose? Take the Mademoiselles Malinnikov. Everyone says they’re nice, but they’re forever angry. Well, I’ve had enough of you!”
“Yes, you have it almost right,” Ovcharov replied, “But I will explain to you the process by which…”
“Oh, no, please don’t! I don’t understand anything,” Olenka exclaimed, covering her ears. “I’ve got other things on my mind right now. Did you see that a lady came to visit us?”
“Yes, a carriage passed by.”
“She wants to make a match between me and some young man. It’s all ridiculous: I won’t do it. The awful thing is that I’ll have to spend time there, and it’s deathly boring. She’s the one with the governess, the one who tutored me. I know why she’s always making a fuss over us. For five years she’s owed Mama a thousand rubles and she’s not paying her back. Mama is too nice: no sooner does she get ready to say something, than she loses her nerve
. It’s stupid. She should at least ask. Even if they get into an argument over it, we won’t be any worse off than we are now. As it is, I’m constantly having to go there. You see, I can’t turn down an invitation from a distinguished lady!”
“Your neighbor?”
“Yes. Repekhova-Dolgovskaya, Katerina Petrovna.”
“Katerina Petrovna!” Ovcharov exclaimed. “Is she really here? Since when?”
“You know her?”
“I should say so! We’ve known each other a hundred years.”
“She’s probably a relative of yours, and here I’ve been talking…”
“Nothing of the sort! Katerina Petrovna…Yes, I remember now. She has an estate here.”
“Yes, about fifteen versts away.”
“Has she been here long?”
“About three weeks, they say. But why on earth?…” Olenka seemed suddenly puzzled. “Why did she pretend she doesn’t know you?”
“She pretended not to know me?”
“Yes. Mama said that our neighbor, Erast Sergeyich, was living with us, and so on and so forth. Katerina Petrovna didn’t say anything. Yes, I definitely remember, she kept silent. Then she saw your case. Please don’t be angry, Erast Sergeyich.”
“About what?”
“She opened it, read something, and made a face.”
“I don’t understand,” Ovcharov responded, shrugging his shoulders. “You probably misheard.”
“Oh, I heard right! But maybe it’s the fashion nowadays to pretend not to know people. Katerina Petrovna pretended not to know Auntie, either, and she’s known her for a hundred years. She used to babble on about Auntie’s marvels, and today she didn’t want to see her. It’s awful! Now Mama can expect all sorts of unpleasantness. Just imagine: Katerina Petrovna comes in; Mama, in her excitement, wants to call for Anna Ilinishna to come, but Katerina Petrovna says, ‘No, that won’t be necessary, that won’t be necessary, don’t trouble yourself.’ And then she blushed. I thought it was terribly funny. But Auntie—just imagine—was right behind the door. What could we do?”
City Folk and Country Folk Page 11