City Folk and Country Folk

by Sofia Khvoshchinskaya

  “Rest assured, she won’t starve to death. She has an entire basket of ginger cookies. I heard her gnawing at them myself.”

  PART II

  The following day in Snetki brought even more deviations from the ordinary. Again, Anna Ilinishna declined to partake of the household’s main meal or evening tea. As hunger is no one’s friend, she did drink her own tea with her own sugar left over from the picnic hamper she used when traveling, and having assured herself that there was nothing fiendish about the servants’ food, and that it was therefore not loathsome to her soul, she humbly asked Aksinyushka—Aksinya Mikhailovna, that is—to bring her some soup from the servants’ pot, which she gulped down. When she could hear that Nastasya Ivanovna was nowhere near, she called to the servants in a quiet and exceptionally affectionate voice through a door that opened from her room into the back hallway. The servants came running at her call, and both the elderly Aksinya Mikhailovna and Palashka were especially accommodating toward Anna Ilinishna that day. This was not due solely to their mistress’s instructions. The household staff had evidently developed some particular regard for Anna Ilinishna. And what was even stranger, something Nastasya Ivanovna did not notice in the midst of all her worries, was that these servants, both those who were intimates in the household and those whose duties were limited to the estate’s fields and outbuildings, had for the past two weeks been casting disapproving looks their mistress’s way. They did their work, but there was something about the expressions on their faces that was not quite right. In particular, Nastasya Ivanovna’s friend and confidante Aksinya Mikhailovna was unrecognizable. She came only after the third summons, cast her gaze floorward, rather than looking at her mistress, and grumbled on her way out. This sullenness grew increasingly pronounced and finally Olenka, flighty as she may have been, began to notice.

  “Mama, why is it that Aksinya Mikhailovna is walking around with her nose in the air lately?” she asked on the very eve of this catastrophe.

  “What kind of nonsense have you dreamt up?” was her mother’s reply.

  “No, Mother. Look and you’ll see for yourself.”

  She was right. Nastasya Ivanovna finally did see it. That day she was proud and angry enough to make up for a lifetime of humility, and everything disagreeable jumped out at her with stark clarity. Since morning she had been in a state of indignation over the business of Anna Ilinishna’s “own tea,” but when she heard that her guest was sharing the servants’ soup, her anger reached the boiling point.

  “Well, isn’t that soup just as much mine, the landowner’s?” she loudly demanded. “When Anna Ilinishna eats it, isn’t it me she has to thank? Or does it please her to inform the whole world that I made her eat with the servants?”

  “I don’t know anything about it, Ma’am,” replied Aksinya Mikhailovna, to whom these words were addressed. She had been stopped by her mistress in the middle of the yard as she was carrying a wooden bowl of cabbage soup.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know anything, Aksinya Mikhailovna? Look at who you yourself are so angry at, my dear. What have I done to you?”

  The old woman looked down at the ground.

  “Would we really dare to be angry, Ma’am? We may have been freed, but we still depend on your will in everything, you being our mistress. They’ll do with us whatever you order. And it’s God’s will that we serve the other lady. We don’t have to answer to you for that. Why would we want to offend her? She’s a righteous woman and doesn’t scorn our food.”

  Having said that, the old woman muttered something more and continued on with her bowl.

  “What in heaven’s name is going on?” Nastasya Ivanovna wanted to ask, but she was already alone.

  “They’ve all gone off their heads!” she exclaimed as she entered her only refuge, Olenka’s attic.

  “I told you, Mama. Palashka is also grumbling. This is Auntie’s doing. To me, it’s clear as crystal.”

  Nastasya Ivanovna decided that she would remain indignant and not relent. Not a single word did she speak at her guest’s door that day, and she avoided the back hallway so as not to risk a chance meeting with the violator of her mental calm. The day came to an end and evening set in. Nastasya Ivanovna’s eyes had lost their luster and her cheeks were sunken.

  “I can’t get it out of my head—why are they all so mad?” she said after an hour’s silence.

  She was sitting at the window. Outside, summer twilight was descending. Through the dusk she could see that a light had appeared in the kitchen and that the servants were having their dinner. Olenka was pacing the room trying to decide whether or not she should buy a gold-braid waistband with a Caucasian buckle of the sort she had seen on the young ladies in town. Nastasya Ivanovna continued sitting there a bit longer and then stood up and left the room.

  “Bread and salt,” she said in greeting as she appeared at the kitchen door.1 “Please sit, please sit, don’t get up.”

  “We’ve already finished,” the servants answered as they rose from the table, crossing themselves. They were all there: Aksinya Mikhailovna, Palashka, the maid, the herdswoman—both of whom were in their middle years—and the elderly coachman Yermolai with his sons Foka and Fomka, two young men who were used to perform a wide variety of tasks around the estate and who longed to take advantage of emancipation and try their luck working in the taverns of the provincial capital. Everyone stood by the bench from which they had just risen and awaited their mistress’s orders.

  “I need to have a word with you, my friends,” Nastasya Ivanovna said, but then fell silent.

  It really was rather strange. In her entire life, never before had Nastasya Ivanovna come to the kitchen to resolve a social issue. Of course she herself was not aware that she had come for such a purpose, but she did sense that no one before her—not her grandfather or grandmother, nor her father or mother, nor her own Nikolai Demyanovich, nor she herself—had ever before done what she was doing now.

  “I wanted to ask you…You step aside,” she said, extending her arm to separate Palashka and the two young men from the rest of the group. A certain proprietary pride had awakened in Nastasya Ivanovna. She felt that to address such specimens of youthful ignorance as equals would be demeaning, and she left only those mature in years in front of her.

  “I wanted to ask you,” she continued. “It seemed to me that…What is it you’re unhappy about?”

  She paused and waited. The servants were silent. Nastasya Ivanovna’s opening words were certainly not in the normal order of things in Snetki. In any event, the herdswoman had no idea what they referred to.

  “What have you been unhappy about these past two weeks?” Nastasya Ivanovna began, looking from face to face and waiting. “You haven’t been downright rude, but you’ve been turning your muzzles away from me…I don’t mean you, Aksinya Mikhailovna. I would never call your face a muzzle—but Yermolai Stepanych here, never mind that he’s older than his mistress, and this ninny…” she pointed at Palashka.

  “Your mistress has come to have a talk with you. You should appreciate this,” Nastasya Ivanovna continued, even raising her voice a bit. “The times are such that masters and servants have to reason with one another. You’ve been given your say now, thanks be to God. No one’s hanging a lock on your tongue. So speak. That way we can consider the situation and sort things out. What are you angry about? What has your mistress done to you? How has she insulted you? Honestly, I have no idea. I’ve lived a peaceable life, it seems. Neither I nor my Nikolai Demyanych ever laid a finger on you before this emancipation, and we never saw scowls like these. So, tell me what’s the matter. Your mistress is asking.”

  The servants remained silent. They seemed somewhat bewildered.

  “Of course, times are such that you, in your foolishness, might be ready to set yourselves above your masters. Wherever you turn, on all the estates, your brethren are determined to run away, thinking that under emancipation they’ll gather up mountains of gold. They don’t seem to
know that they themselves are good-for-nothings and that those mountains of gold are as close at hand as the fabled birds in the bush. Is it that you too have been seized by such desires? Well, speak! You are ungrateful, ungrateful! You don’t remember the kindness your masters have shown you. Another landowner—today we’ve been given this power—would throw you out on your ear—go scatter yourselves to the four corners of the earth and beg for your bread. But we’re not doing that. Because we remember our Christian charity.”

  Nastasya Ivanovna pronounced these words with particular emphasis. In truth, she had no desire to throw anyone out on his or her ear, but still…Again, she surveyed the assemblage and repeated her order.

  “Speak.”

  “If you would be so kind as to give us our passports…” Foka and Fomka, whom nobody had asked, piped up.

  “That old song again!” Nastasya Ivanovna exclaimed in a sudden fit of anger. “I said that I wouldn’t; I won’t let you get into mischief. You’ll have to wait! And your father’s against it. Or has Yermolai Stepanych himself gone off his rocker?”

  “Oh no, no, Nastasya Ivanovna,” the coachman replied. “For the love of God, don’t give them their passports.”

  “So what is it you’re sulking about then?”

  Again there was no reply. Nastasya Ivanovna considered leaving, upset that she had needlessly compromised her dignity as a noblewoman and, in so doing, possibly diminished her credit among the servants. What stopped her was the expression on Aksinya Mikhailovna’s face. The old woman grimaced at her mistress and folded her arms under her shawl a bit more energetically than usual. She could even have been taken for a schemer concealing something lethal in her breast.

  “There is something! Speak, Aksinya Mikhailovna,” the landowner commanded.

  Aksinya Mikhailovna hesitated, as if waiting for support from the others.

  “So…there was talk among us,” she began, and then stopped. Palashka sniggered in the corner. The maid and herdswoman looked downcast; Yermolai Stepanovich joined his hands behind his back.

  “Well?” Nastasya Ivanovna pressed.

  “We had a discussion, Ma’am. You’ve been mistreating the young lady something terrible.”

  At first Nastasya Ivanovna failed to understand.

  “What young lady?” she asked, thinking of Olenka; someday she too would have to learn to handle matters like coming to terms with the servants.

  “The young lady, Anna Ilinishna,” Aksinya Mikhailovna replied.

  “Good gracious!” Nastasya Ivanovna exclaimed.

  From the question of emancipation, she was jolted so unexpectedly into quite another realm that it took her a moment to compose her thoughts. Still, she felt greatly relieved. She now saw herself as mistress of the situation and burst out laughing.

  “Aksinya Mikhailovna, my dear, cross yourself! Are you in your right mind, dear friend?” she exclaimed. “Yes and you…God bless you! You’ve lost all reason. Some evil spirit must have prompted you.”

  “An evil spirit indeed,” Aksinya Mikhailovna muttered under her breath.

  “I’ve been mistreating Anna Ilinishna? Don’t you see what Cousin’s been doing with me day in, day out? My wonderful cousin has locked herself away from me as if she’s hiding from some sort of criminal!”

  “Because no other course is open to her, Ma’am,” Aksinya Mikhailovna pronounced firmly and with intensity, like someone whose heart was brimming with emotion. “Because the lady is holy, her heart grieved at what she saw around her; she had no choice but to lock herself away from you. And we know that she’s holy because she prays for us as God has commanded. Since she came to Snetki she’s been praying for us and for you so that God would have mercy. That’s why she’s had angelic dreams for us, sinners that we are, yet people give her no respect. And you mustn’t hold it against me for saying so, Ma’am. I love you and have always wanted to show you proper respect. Since she’s glimpsed paradise, Anna Ilinishna also sees the sorts of misfortunes we will suffer under our hardheaded masters and how we, the meek, can be saved. She helps us, Ma’am. God has enabled her to bow before all the great intercessors, but you don’t see it. What good am I? A cursed old woman, a ninny—not like you—yet I accepted her divine gift. There, standing in the icon case, a token of Anna Ilinishna’s generosity. To my dying day I’ll remember what a lady she was and what she gave me. And you don’t see it. Because, Ma’am, you’ve been led astray. That’s why she has to lock herself in; she sees abominations. That’s how it is.”

  “How astray? What kind of abominations?”

  “You’ve allowed a heathen to capture your heart,” the old woman pronounced solemnly.

  “Ah ha!” Nastasya Ivanovna exclaimed. Everything became clear to her, but she wanted to be sure. “What do you mean, ‘heathen,’ Aksinya Mikhailovna?” she asked and, unable to control herself, started to laugh.

  “Now the moment of our doom has arrived! It even pleases you to laugh! As if you, Ma’am, don’t know to whom I’m referring. Lord! The sinfulness, the sinfulness! The day has come when slaves have to instruct their masters.”

  “What makes you think Erast Sergeyich is a heathen?”

  “He’s evil, a heathen! Perhaps it’s not in vain that that angelic soul is now sitting and shedding tears. She told us everything. Everything, my dear, we heard everything. How he’s leading Miss Olga into sinful beliefs, and I saw her baptized with my own eyes, and how you, Ma’am, are allowing it and how you yourself will take up these sinful beliefs. We know, my dear, we know all. And how he will take this filth and spread it all around the province, because he says there’s no need for Christian people to believe in God. Enough! And who is allowing it? It’s you, Ma’am, who sees fit to permit all this. Instead of chasing away the accursed one, you are fawning over him. How will the people be able to live then? Lord in heaven! Even without this the Lord has diminished us for our sins!”

  She sighed.

  “Well, Ma’am, I’ve said my piece: don’t hold it against me. The truth is the truth.”

  She gave a low bow and started to walk away.

  “Wait, Aksinya Mikhailovna,” Nastasya Ivanovna said, taking a seat on the bench.

  “Wait.” (She drew the old woman close and seemed to be turning something over in her mind.) “When did Anna Ilinishna find the time to tell you all this about me? Tell me. I’m your mistress and I have borne it all and heard you out fully. When did Anna Ilinishna have these discussions with you?”

  “What difference does it make? There were plenty of opportunities,” Aksinya Mikhailovna muttered reluctantly.

  The question seemed ridiculously trivial after her accusations.

  “It’s not as if the heathen just moved in. While you’re attending to the estate or going out in the fields she likes to stroll about the yard or visit us in the kitchen or come into my little room, or when it pleases her to get up in the morning or prepare for bed, or whenever we’re tidying up around her or serving tea…Goodness! The blessed will always find time to spread the word of God.”

  “Indeed she has!” Nastasya Ivanovna exclaimed, flushing with anger. “Well, now you’ve had your say, Aksinya Mikhailovna. Now you listen to me, and you too, Yermolai Stepanych. And I’m deeply grateful that you told me everything without holding back. Now you answer me. Do I go to church?”

  “You do, Ma’am,” they both responded.

  “At home, do I pray to God? Do I read the Holy Scripture? Have you seen me?”

  “Yes, we have.”

  “Good, then. Now, in your opinion, would I, your old mistress, Chulkova, Nastasya Ivanovna, be capable of doing all that for show, so as to avoid doing penance? Do you think I could deceive God?”

  “No, Ma’am, you could not, and that’s not how your parents raised you,” Aksinya Mikhailovna replied.

  “Good. So, it would follow that I myself am not a heathen. Now, as you see it, who would I place higher—Lord, forgive a poor sinner—the Lord God or some Erast Sergeyich?”


  “Well, that would be plain as day,” replied Yermolai Stepanovich, flustered.

  “Well then, how dare you believe all sorts of vile talk against your own mistress?” Nastasya Ivanovna exclaimed, even rising from her seat. “That I would lead you into sinful beliefs…That I would lead my own Olenka…That I would bring the Lord’s wrath upon you for my sins? You dare to believe that about your mistress?”

  “Ma’am…Ma’am,” Aksinya Mikhailovna and Yermolai Stepanovich exclaimed in one voice and rushed to kiss her hands.

  “There now…Don’t you kiss me, I’m crying inside. It’s not your pity I want; I’m angry. I need you to believe me and not kiss my hands. That’s what I need.”

  “As God is our witness, we believe you.”

  Nastasya Ivanovna felt reassured. The first part of her task was complete. After a moment’s silence she began the second with a sense of determination that was almost cheerful.

  “Now tell me,” she began, “I’m not a person of sinful beliefs, but Erast Sergeyich, they say, is a heathen. Should we turn him out or not?”

  “Of course we should turn him out, Ma’am. And Anna Ilinishna says so.”

  “Well, we’ll leave Anna Ilinishna’s ravings out of it. But why doesn’t our Father Porphyry drive him away? After all, he probably knows better than your Anna Ilinishna who should and shouldn’t be driven away. Even the Moscow metropolitan knows Erast Sergeyich, and he doesn’t drive him away. Why not?”

  “That’s not for us to know, Ma’am!”

  “Well, I will tell you why. First of all, because Erast Sergeyich is not a heathen, and even if he were, it is not our earthly place to judge or analyze him. What we should do is pray for his soul, so that God will have mercy on him. No heathen will overcome our Orthodox faith, my friends. And if someone should go astray, well, it means that he wanted to go astray and it was allowed from on high. That’s the way it is.”

  “All you say is true, Ma’am,” Aksinya Mikhailovna replied, sighing.