Erast Sergeyevich had a great deal to say. Although he did not even ask Nastasya Ivanovna what her troubles were, of his own troubles—of his losses, of the stubbornness of his peasants, of their greedy and baseless demands, of the obtuseness, captiousness, and backwardness of the town administration—he spoke for an entire hour. Nastasya Ivanovna did not utter a word. In Erast Sergeyevich’s efforts she sought lessons applicable to the efforts she would soon be undertaking; in his experience she sought experience for herself. “He has seen everything there is to see in the world,” she thought. “Even if he can’t help me with Anna Ilinishna, maybe he can help with my peasants.”
“How would you advise me, Erast Sergeyich?” she asked when he paused to gulp down some of his tonic. “Way over there, that little piece of land along the border with your property…”
“I think I’ll end up sending for workers from Prussia,” Ovcharov resumed. He then launched into an expansive exposition of his theory of agriculture, citing the opinions of foreign and domestic experts, refutations of their opinions, and the advantages and difficulties involved in introducing such innovations in Russia proper. Nastasya Ivanovna listened with rapt attention.
Ovcharov noticed this attentiveness. Apparently it pleased him, because, little by little, the stern set of his eyes and mouth softened and his face took on a more gracious expression.
“It pleases me to see in you, a woman of a past era, a freedom from the intractability so often found in persons of your station. I thought, Nastasya Ivanovna, that you would raise a storm about my Prussian workers—declare the idea a heresy.”
“Why a heresy, Erast Sergeyich?” Nastasya Ivanovna replied meekly. Suddenly, that word brought her thoughts back to what was happening under her own roof. She became flustered.
“In general, throughout this quarter-hour discussion, I have been looking at you and me both with pleasure,” Ovcharov continued. “I have been speaking and observing at the same time. It is not boasting when I say…And, first of all, I despise boasting even in the most remarkable of people, and in my opinion the practice of extolling people is the most harmful sort of indulgence…So, I will say to you: I highly value my ability to speak to you on your own level. And another thing I will say: unfortunately, this ability to communicate is rare these days. Very few today maintain that essential link with the past, with such primitive representatives of our provinces…”
“Well, you’re such a smart man, Erast Sergeyich.”
“I only hope that you’ll make use of our conversations, of our lessons, otherwise…”
Ovcharov shook his head and became lost in thought.
“In fact I did come to you for a bit of advice,” Nastasya Ivanovna said, even giggling out of embarrassment. “So many little problems…Lord above, I can’t figure out what to do. Whichever way you look at it—you think you’re doing the right thing, but it all turns out wrong.”
“Well, how can I explain the question of right and wrong?” Ovcharov replied, deep in reflection. “Everything on this earth is both useful and harmful. It all depends on how you look at something or how you put your ideas into practice.”
“I don’t want to harm anyone, Erast Sergeyich.”
“Let’s assume that’s so. I’m not talking about intention. But here, for instance, take the peasants. What a wealthy landowner might be able to do for his peasants would be impossible for a noblewoman with meager resources like yours. Indulgence, generosity, the ability to tolerate financial loss—these are only possible for the wealthy.”
“No doubt about that!” Nastasya Ivanovna replied. “You wealthy and prominent are much kinder than we…The likes of us! May the Lord above forgive my sins!”
“Don’t overly praise us, my dear Nastasya Ivanovna,” Ovcharov graciously remarked. “We don’t deserve it. First of all, our ancestry is by no means exalted, and we haven’t surpassed you in much. What we do have is more pride. And you shouldn’t berate yourself. If you oppressed your peasants, it was done naively, without thinking. And furthermore, you have your needs.”
“Oh, no, no, Erast Sergeyich! He who sucks the lifeblood from others cannot be forgiven. He will face divine judgment!”
“Oh, what reasoning!” Ovcharov interjected didactically. “You know, you sound worse than the most excessive, malcontent members of the extremist party. That’s not good. If you look closely, there’s an explanation for everything. What about property, what about love of one’s own property? Isn’t that a justification? Surely you know how important it is to love your own property, to respect it? Everything depends on it, everything would fall apart without it. Without it, society would…”
“Well I do love Snetki; there’s no denying it!” Nastasya Ivanovna replied, laughing.
“Now, that’s better.”
“But now I have a problem. And what a favor you’d be doing me, Erast Sergeyich…I have to move the peasants, I have to give these nincompoops…”
“Peasants, nincompoops…” Ovcharov pronounced, placing his hands on his knees. “They’re not nincompoops, Nastasya Ivanovna, and in the end they’ll be wiser than us. Give the peasant his due. Just because we didn’t knock their teeth out, we think we’re the picture of kindness. It’s not enough. Now, learn to love the common folk, and then we’ll see. I’ll say this: the peasant is smart, smarter than we suspect. We impose our ready-made wisdom on him—it’s utter nonsense! He’ll be teaching us! As you can see, I don’t let the abominations they’ve perpetrated at my Beryozovka cloud my thinking.”
Nastasya Ivanovna did not respond.
“That’s where matters stand. And I repeat: love of the people goes without saying, but love of property also goes without saying,” Ovcharov concluded.
He got up and began to walk around the room. It was evident that he was returning to this topic as a way of bringing his speech to a close.
“I’ll go even further, Nastasya Ivanovna: if you pause to consider property, it is of such moral worth that there is no need so great as to merit its sacrifice. Property must be handed down, like a holy relic, from generation to generation, so that everyone will have the means to engage in society, so that everyone will have something to depend on. And my advice to you would be to build up your estate as prudently, as diligently as you can, without detriment to yourself. You owe this to your daughter.”
“Of course, for Olenka…” Nastasya Ivanovna muttered. She was glad that the conversation was turning away from generalities and moving closer to home. They had not managed to reach an agreement on the matter of resettling the peasants, but, after all, that was not what she had come for, although an agreement would have been nice. She had come to get advice on other matters.
Suddenly, thoughts of all those other matters began to stir in her mind: Katerina Petrovna’s matchmaking efforts, the situation with Anna Ilinishna, and Erast Sergeyevich himself, the source of much of her recent anguish, and now all the advice he had just given her and her need for advice on other matters.
“Olenka…of course it will all go to her, everything I have. A match is being proposed for her, Erast Sergeyich,” she stated suddenly, without quite knowing why.
“Why not? Wonderful!” Ovcharov replied. “Marriage, I’ll tell you, is generally a good thing. Our progressives inveigh against it in vain. Marriage will endure. In recent years it’s been in decline, but—mark my word—it will stage a comeback. That’s my prediction. It’s very simple,” he paused right in front of Nastasya Ivanovna. “This is also closely linked with property. The success of our estates will depend on an assiduous, settled, rural way of life, away from the highways. In the country, a wife and family are essential. Furthermore, whatever some may say about the narrow-mindedness of views on marriage, the propensity toward a decent, moral life is alive and well in society. The level of public morality will rise—this is certain. It will rise quite soon, in fact.”
“Everything you say is true, Erast Sergeyich,” Nastasya Ivanovna replied, glancing at the clock, w
hich was chiming. Her discussion with Erast Sergeyevich had already lasted three hours. “That’s how it is, but it’s time for me to go. I must be keeping you…”
“No,” he answered, yawning, “but perhaps I really should take care of some business.”
Nastasya Ivanovna rose and started toward the door. “Ah, but I didn’t tell you about the little matter I came to discuss,” she blurted, bracing herself and laughing. She was fighting a sense of dread and shame before Erast Sergeyevich.
“What, exactly, is it? Is there something I can do?”
“No, nothing…it’s just that there’s some unpleasantness with Cousin. She’s always angry. To tell the truth, she’s a rather malicious woman. It’s five days now since she locked herself in her room. And they say she’s holy! How can the Lord allow such things? What am I to do?”
“Let her suffer, the hypocrite!” Ovcharov pronounced, turning to his papers.
Nastasya Ivanovna looked at him.
“How can the Lord allow such things?” he mimicked her voice. “You women are all strange creatures, it seems to me. You accept a belief on faith, and then you can’t figure out how to untangle yourselves from that belief!”
The thought crossed Nastasya Ivanovna’s mind that this might be the beginning of what Anna Ilinishna had been talking about. She sighed and opened the door a crack.
“Farewell, Erast Sergeyich,” she said. “I thank you.”
He was standing and digging through his papers. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes, it’s time.”
“I haven’t yet asked you how Olga Nikolayevna is.”
“She’s fine. We have to get ready to visit Katerina Petrovna now. She wrote asking that Olenka come. I’m not sure yet how we’ll manage. One of our horses has gone lame.”
“Katerina Petrovna? I also just received a note from her and will be going to see her in an hour or two. Would Olga Nikolayevna care to travel there with me?”
“Well, why not?” Nastasya Ivanovna declared after a moment’s thought. “That would be wonderful. Otherwise, heaven only knows when we’d get there.”
She left, and a few minutes later Ovcharov was informed that Olenka would be ready and waiting.
As Ovcharov was preparing to depart, he reread Katerina Petrovna’s note. Between the peasants and other pressing matters he had not had time to fully dissect its wording. The note (written in French) was a bit cryptic.
If I was so ungracious as to fail to remember you, as you put it, Mr. Ovcharov, it was only because you seem to have arranged things so that your friends would not remember you. Please pay me a visit, and then you will be convinced of the unfailing and devoted friendship of yours truly, KPD.
“What prose! And what good is her unfailing friendship to me?” Ovcharov thought as he put on his gloves. “No, our ladies are incorrigible. Even when they grow old and gray, they don’t stop twisting the truth. It is womankind that perpetuates falsehood, and until we reeducate women…”
At that moment the carriage pulled up. Looking very elegant, he took his seat and rode to Nastasya Ivanovna’s front steps. Olenka came out, also looking elegant, dressed in muslin and a tulle canezou with a burnous worn lightly over her shoulders.1 Nastasya Ivanovna came to see her off, thinking to herself, poor woman, that someday Olenka would ride off like this with a husband. A pair of curious eyes also peered out of Anna Ilinishna’s window. Olenka deftly accepted a helping hand from her traveling companion, and off they went.
“How is it that you’re paying Katerina Petrovna a visit?” Olenka asked. “After all, she pretended not to know you.”
“There was a misunderstanding, but it has been cleared up,” he replied.
Olenka did not pursue the subject. After exchanging a few words about the weather and how hot it was outside, the traveling companions fell silent. They remained silent for some time. Olenka had a lot on her mind. She was about to meet a prospective husband. Her mother and she had just had their first serious discussion on the matter. In parting, Nastasya Ivanovna entreated her to take a good look, get to know him, and not be capricious—because maybe he really is a good fellow, and the previous year she had caught only a fleeting glimpse of him, and that was no way to judge someone, and Katerina Petrovna surely wouldn’t foist a good-for-nothing on her and, finally, she, Nastasya Ivanovna, would under no circumstances force Olenka into anything. Olenka promised both her mother and herself to be sensible. She suddenly recalled the comically sad face her mother wore after returning from seeing Erast Sergeyevich that morning, overwhelmed by the weightiness of the wise counsel heaped upon her. For a whole hour Olenka had given her mother no peace over this wise counsel. Now, she glanced over at the source of this counsel and smiled. For some reason Ovcharov always made her smile. He was wearing a magnificent panama hat, and Olenka struggled to suppress her laughter as she watched the intermittent shadow it cast upon the road. This fashion struck her as excessively imposing. The little fool—she failed to appreciate how stylish it was. Erast Sergeyevich made an overall impression on her as being at once sickly, imposing, comically stylish, a bit of a pinchpenny, and pompous—she could not look him in the eye with a straight face. “Although, come to think of it,” she mused, “it wouldn’t hurt for the other girls to see me taking a little drive through town with such a gentleman. I can just see the looks on their faces. But best of all would be…”
And this “best of all” appeared in her mind’s eye in the form of dark whiskers and dark eyes right there by her side, shaded by an officer’s cap, instead of Ovcharov’s ponderous panama.
Ovcharov was also thinking, but may heaven forgive him the frivolity of his thoughts and the trifles that had found their way into his head! And in forgiving Ovcharov may heaven above forgive us all! All of us possessors of a thousand souls and Viennese carriages, visitors to the homes of this and that foreign lord—all of us are capable, when we stop in on our native backwoods, of thinking the same trifling thoughts toward which Erast Sergeyevich’s mind had strayed. In brief, Erast Sergeyevich was thinking, “This girl is, of course, in love with me, since she’s never seen anyone like me before. That’s why she’s been fidgeting, giggling, and mocking me for some time now; from the very first day she’s been fidgeting and mocking, because she’s embarrassed, and for our rustics what other expression of love can there be, especially toward someone who is not quite attainable?”
He further reasoned—must we again beseech heaven’s forgiveness?—that it would be good to bring this love a little to the surface, as the setting was so convenient, it being impossible for her to flee from the carriage, unlike during their walks through the fields, where she was able to escape so nimbly. She, too, would certainly enjoy it. Girls are such silly little cowards—they themselves don’t realize how pleasant it is when you finally confess your feelings. Then she could be given, well, whatever could be given: a tiny foretaste of love, nothing that would entail any subsequent obligations. It was good that she was so flighty, so inconstant, apparently not the sort who would compromise herself or another with foolish sighs and tears. But she would have something to remember…She would enjoy it; for him, too, it wouldn’t be bad.
And finally, without a thought in his head, Ovcharov glanced at her tulle canezou, no longer covered by the burnous, which had slipped from her shoulder. The thought struck him that he should put it back in place.
“Thank you, but there’s no need. How hot it is!” Olenka remarked, taking it off again.
“Coquette!” Ovcharov thought to himself.
“Olga Nikolayevna, why are you angry with me?” he suddenly asked.
“What are you talking about? I’m nothing of the sort.”
“You don’t want to talk to me.”
“Oh, enough, please,” she protested with a hint of anger. These words had reminded her of the hundreds of times Anna Ilinishna had been addressed in similar terms, and although she tried not to let these scenes bother her, over time they had grown extremely tiresome.
>
This memory soured Olenka’s mood. She reflected that the summer was nearly half over, and a dreary summer it was proving to be. They had hardly been to town at all, first due to lack of funds, and second because that loathsome Anna Ilinishna had shown up to turn their household topsy-turvy. For her sake, they’d had to sit home. No one came to visit them in the country—only this distinguished gentleman was hanging about with his dietetic soup and words of wisdom.
Meanwhile, Ovcharov kept on looking at her and finally repeated his question.
Olenka flared up at him.
“What do you and I have to talk about, Erast Sergeyich?” she asked rather sharply, but holding herself in check. “You’re just asking because you have no one else to talk to. And what should I say? You see how we live. Is there really anything interesting? We’re not good society for one another, not you for me, not I for you. I like to have a jolly time, and you don’t. You’ve learned everything there is, and I don’t know a thing. What’s happening in Paris, or in Moscow—I haven’t the foggiest idea. I don’t read your books; I don’t understand them and don’t want to understand them. What else? Perhaps we should talk about Anna Ilinishna? I’d rather take her on with my own bare hands, if I had my way…”
Ovcharov fell back down to earth. Only the most desperate fop or madman could mistake this monologue for a dépit amoureux,2 pronounced as it was with an expression of the most decisive firmness and sincerity.
Having heard her out, Ovcharov shrugged his shoulders. “As you wish.”
Approximately two more versts passed in silence.
“Would I at least be permitted to observe that you are bored?” Ovcharov asked. He had changed his mind about something. It was not the same imposing panama-wearing Ovcharov who had been sitting so solemnly to her left that now looked at her as he asked this question.
“Who is there to stop you?” she replied, smiling. Her bad mood was starting to abate.
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