City Folk and Country Folk

by Sofia Khvoshchinskaya

  “Well, yes, yes, of course!”

  “That is what I thought. Which is why,” Katerina Petrovna concluded, “I have returned to my original theory.”

  “You returned to it, after all? Mightn’t you simply dispense with theories? But then why, witnessing my downfall, didn’t you set me on the path to salvation? In other words, why didn’t you come to my illicit abode and box my ears when you were in Snetki?”

  Katerina Petrovna straightened her spine.

  “Why? Because I do not visit young men, Erast Sergeyich. If Simon or my husband had been with me…”

  “Ah, very sensible,” Ovcharov muttered.

  “Of course, I am no longer a child, but I don’t know at what age it becomes permissible to…Then I thought my silent protest should be enough. Now I see that was not the case.”

  “Why?”

  “Because not only did you fail to leave Snetki, but you and Olga Nikolayevna arrived here as a twosome…But here I’m certain—c’est si mal élevé14—I’m certain she forced herself on you.”

  Ovcharov shifted in his chair and prepared to answer.

  “And therefore…and therefore it’s a good thing I’ve done in writing to a certain person about all this.”

  “To whom and about what?” Ovcharov asked sharply, studying the sly expression on her face.

  Katerina Petrovna burst out laughing and clapped her hands together.

  “Ah, you’re angry? Don’t be angry; I’ve already set you at odds. Dorothée est au courant de tout…and all of Moscow knows about it. Of course, I didn’t exactly say that you were unfaithful, mais que la campagne a des attraits…Well, and so forth.”15

  “It would be surprising if you were able to set us at odds, Katerina Petrovna,” Ovcharov remarked, trying to maintain his composure. “You old fool,” he thought to himself. “You’ll pay for your gossip mongering.”

  He wanted to vent his anger, but then he reasoned, and correctly so, that Katerina Petrovna posed no danger to him. Although the feminine milieu within which Ovcharov was in the habit of conducting his liaisons may have been frivolous and susceptible to all kinds of nonsense, it was ruled by a certain esprit de parti16 against Katerina Petrovna. Katerina Petrovna was not their sort of gossip. Ovcharov regained his calm.

  “And so, most venerable Katerina Petrovna,” he said, placing his hands on his knees and looking into her eyes, “it pleases you to bring me to my knees, that is, to my senses. Perhaps with your acumen in the area of dowries you’ve found me a bride?”

  “A bride? No. But I am depriving you of the means of making a fool of yourself. Vous savez, je marie Mademoiselle Olga.”17

  “Is that so?” Ovcharov replied indifferently.

  “Ah, Dieu merci:18 you are not completely infatuated!”

  She squeezed his hand.

  “I feel that I’m performing two good deeds in one. In general, these country girls should be married as quickly as possible. The mother is stupid, there are temptations close at hand, they are constantly going into town; jugez, que peut-on attendre?19 Thank goodness I’m here to intervene. But it’s simply awful how little thanks I get. Can you imagine? I took them under my wing, performed all sorts of kindnesses for these small-time landowners—but we had some monetary dealings and now all they can think about are those cursed dealings! These people don’t understand, don’t appreciate payment in moral currency. They don’t want to see that I’m leading them away from the path of immorality…Immorality! Mais je vous dirai—je ne déteste rien autant que la dépravation!”20

  Katerina Petrovna thumped her fist against her chest.

  “Well, who does like it, depravity?” Ovcharov replied, smiling.

  “Well, yes. Et j’y ai mis bon ordre.21 Olga Nikolayevna will be getting married.”

  “And who is her husband-to-be?”

  “You really don’t know? She didn’t tell you? Simon.”

  “Your Simon?” Ovcharov nearly yelled.

  But he did not quite get the words out. The blood rushed to Katerina Petrovna’s face.

  “Simon has wanted to marry for some time,” she began and then stopped, picking up her handkerchief and blowing her nose, which did nothing to restore her complexion. “He asked me to find him a bride. Olga Nikolayevna is extremely fortunate. Simon c’est l’étoffe dont on fait les bons maris….”22

  “She will probably be very happy; you know him so well,” Ovcharov remarked.

  “Yes,” said Katerina Petrovna and suddenly, for no apparent reason, she pulled a pincushion from her sewing box. They remained silent for a minute.

  “He’s so devoted, so beholden to you,” Ovcharov commented.

  Katerina Petrovna picked up the scissors.

  Ovcharov also looked at the scissors. He thought what a misfortune it was, in general, to lose, all of a sudden and for no good reason, one’s contenance.23

  Katerina Petrovna remained silent.

  Ovcharov looked at her.

  “And you aren’t afraid that he’ll stop loving you once he’s married?” he asked, suddenly decisive.

  “What do you mean, stop loving me?”

  Ovcharov looked at her again, and everything became clear to him, crystal clear. The many years spent nourishing his perspicacity with the juices of gossip had taught him a thing or two. This nourishment had served him well: he had made a discovery. He had discovered something that, perhaps, no one else among Katerina Petrovna’s intimates knew, and he secretly rejoiced at his find. Right then, the entire picture unwound smoothly before him, like a colorful ribbon from a spool: the subtle interactions noticed by an elderly relation, the fear of this relation’s tongue, the sort of fear that so often leads to the sacrifice of life’s most cherished delights, forcing an act of selflessness that winds up benefitting another; the young man, himself, indulgently allowed into a relationship yet foolishly, ungratefully, champing at the bit. And then, perhaps, a safe way to elude the perspicacity of others, and one full of advantages and propriety: a cherished youth is provided for and young male experience is joined with a sizable female dowry, all with a grand gesture of blessing by virtuous old age.

  “Very clever,” thought Ovcharov, and it all struck him as terribly funny. “But still, can it really be true?” he was on the verge of thinking as he sought out Simon in the distance and glanced at Katerina Petrovna. She was adjusting her blackened hair. “Après tout, l’on prend ce que l’on peut,”24 he concluded to himself, thinking in French out of politeness.

  “Simon is so unselfish, he hasn’t even asked about the dowry,” Katerina Petrovna did finally continue. The pincushion and scissors moved this way and that in her hands. “But that Olga Nikolayevna…Lord only knows…”

  “No,” thought Ovcharov, “it’s time to be magnanimous,” and he abruptly changed the subject.

  “Olga Nikolayevna—of course her upbringing, her surroundings, the household squabbles—all of that is bad for character. The presence of that Anna Ilinishna alone is enough…”

  “Yes,” Katerina Petrovna exclaimed, suddenly animated. “I wanted to ask you, mon cher Ovcharov, to counsel them. The servants told me all about it. C’est une infamie.25 How dare they treat her that way!”

  “Who? Anna Ilinishna? Does she really deserve a good word? Ridiculous woman! The last of the salon shrews!”

  “Be that as it may,” Katerina Petrovna replied, “provincial ignoramuses mustn’t dare to judge her in those terms. We may, but they may not. Otherwise we lose our standing, mon cher Ovcharov. Anna Ilinishna was admitted into our circle; the old princess took her in and treated her like one of the family. And suddenly some Nastasya Ivanovna is walking all over her! Can that really be allowed? It would be the downfall of society.”

  Katerina Petrovna was worked up.

  “But what can we hold it up with if it’s falling?” Ovcharov asked, smiling.

  “With our dignity, naturally. We’re too quick to equate ourselves with that pauvreté campagnarde. They should know their place. Mo
i, je fermerai ma porte to Anna Ilinishna because of the trouble she’s caused. Princess Maria Sergeyevna kicked her out and she was right: Anna Ilinishna, whom the princess entrusted with everything, acted so gauchely, with such a lack of discretion…Vous connaissez donc cette pauvre princesse…elle est si légère! Well, and then Anna Ilinishna decided to settle accounts with her…Il est possible que la princesse lui ait pris son argent. But after all, Anna Ilinishna has been using the princess to feather her own nest for so many years. She must have something set aside for a rainy day. I’ll say it again: ce sont nos griefs à nous.26 But for the likes of Nastasya Ivanovna, Anna Ilinishna should be sacred. They must respect her piety, her Christian humility.”

  “You really believed in her, didn’t you, Katerina Petrovna?”

  “Oh, how I believed!” she cried, thumping her chest. “If it wasn’t for those stories about her…But I’ll tell you that even now I’m somewhat of a believer. Il y a des contradictions dans cette femme: it’s such a shame. Cette double vue étonnante qu’elle possédait!27 And her magnetic sleep!28 Do you remember how she was once able to see all of Moscow? Do you remember the predictions she made for Prince Peter Borisovich?”

  And Katerina Petrovna began to recall these things. One Moscow story was followed by another, and yet another. This world was her element. There was no denying that it was also Ovcharov’s element, as evidenced by the discovery he had just made in it, but it seemed to him that she was telling too many tales. Furthermore the room was hot. He gazed out into the garden, answering her in monosyllables. Meanwhile, Katerina Petrovna had moved from gossip to her other favorite subject. She spoke of her husband’s absence and of his negligence toward the children’s estate and, finally, of her children’s upbringing. This went on endlessly. Ovcharov listened to her tell how she had changed governesses and tutors and how much genius, it turns out, was evident in George, but as he listened he was thinking about something else entirely.

  “What a little scapegrace,” Ovcharov mused, looking into the garden where George, sprawled out on a bench, had been swinging his legs and singing couplets from a vaudeville number for an entire hour. Mademoiselle Annette was nowhere to be seen. Olenka was wandering alone off in the distance along the tree-lined alley. Ovcharov had noticed that she spent exactly five minutes with her intended after leaving the terrace. The intended himself was sitting alone across from George, watching his legs swing and phlegmatically smoking a cigarette.

  “It’s hot,” Ovcharov remarked, looking toward the alley and stepping out onto the terrace. “You seem to be putting in a rather nice flower bed there.”

  “Oh, no! When would there be the time to think about flower beds avec tous ces changements!29 I’m economizing. Are you going into the garden?”

  “Yes, I’ll take a little walk, with your permission.”

  “Well, I’m staying in. Un catarrhe continuel.30 So long as you’re going, ask Olga Nikolayevna to come see me.”

  Olenka did not wait to be called. Seeing that Ovcharov was walking toward her, she turned down another alley and headed for the house.

  Katerina Petrovna sat her down so the two were face-to-face. Dispensing with any sort of preamble, she launched about two-dozen reproaches at the girl that were, however, so full of wisdom, they should have been received with gratitude. She pointed to Olenka’s expensive and fashionable dress and her own inexpensive barege; brought up the girl’s negligent upbringing; commented on her lack of humility and even greater lack of respect for decent people and greater still lack of modesty, as evidenced by her arrival with Ovcharov; spoke bitterly of Nastasya Ivanovna’s sad inadequacies; and concluded by stating that it was time for Olenka to go to the altar.

  In connection with this last point, much was said about the kindnesses shown by Katerina Petrovna herself.

  Olenka kept silent. Her ears were burning. Had Katerina Petrovna for even an instant imagined that a country girl would dare look at her that way, the look on Olenka’s face would have gotten her thrown out of the house. But Katerina Petrovna considered herself above such looks. She was utterly certain that Olenka was embarrassed and would burst into tears at any moment. Olenka steeled herself.

  “If it wasn’t for Mama…” she thought, tearing at the border of her canezou, “if it wouldn’t frighten and upset her, I would tell you a thing or two!” No argument or defense was even offered, not even on the subject of her match.

  This pleased Katerina Petrovna. Considering the business of Simon almost settled, after an hour of edification she put her anger aside a little. She began to ask Olenka detailed questions about their fruit harvest, complained about her own orchard’s lack of success, and asked that a pood of preserves be prepared for her.31

  “And tell your mother,” Katerina Petrovna said in conclusion, “that Annette and George have little prospect of sweets all summer. I will bring them to you when the berries ripen. It’s very beneficial for children. Ask your mother to…”

  “Lord, when will we leave this place!” Olenka thought, and even lamented that Erast Sergeyevich was nowhere to be seen.

  Meanwhile, Ovcharov was passing his time in the company of the children and Simon. He had barely set foot outside before George grabbed him and led him to the garden’s edge and into a scraggy little forest (everything in this village was scraggy). There they found Mademoiselle Annette, who had been keeping out of sight. She was walking along a ditch bordering a grove. Upon seeing her brother and Ovcharov, she turned away. Her eyes were red from crying.

  “Mademoiselle Annette, how proud you are,” Ovcharov commented, extending his arms toward her. “You seem to be avoiding me. It’s been so long since we’ve seen one another. What is this—red eyes?”

  “It’s nothing, it’s nothing,” she said, turning away. Ovcharov took hold of her.

  “I’ll tell him,” George exclaimed, “and I’ll tell why you’ve been hiding!”

  “Don’t you dare,” his sister cried.

  “She’s envious that Olga Nikolayevna is well dressed. I know all about it. It’s not the first time. You don’t know what she’s like, Erast Sergeyich. What an envious one she is!”

  “Leave me alone!”

  “And Mama is stingy, anyone can see that. Oh, Syomka is coming. Watch what you say in front of him, please. He’ll tell it all to Mama.”

  “Why do you need a fine dress, Mademoiselle Annette?” Ovcharov tried to comfort her. “After all, you’re still little.”

  “I’m little! That’s how Mama would have it, so that people think that I’m a five-year-old,” she said, close to bursting into tears. “I can just imagine what kinds of wonders she told you about me, about all my successes, and my classes—it makes me sick. Just you wait, she’ll call me while you’re here; she’ll sit me on the floor in front of her so she can stroke my hair, oh so tenderly…I think you’ve seen her do it! What an unfortunate creature I am!”

  “Goodness, what tantrums! Enough. Children are stood in the corner for such behavior. Enough. Oh, if only I was such a five-year-old, how much fun I would have! I would get my hair stroked!”

  Annette extracted her arm from his.

  “You don’t talk that way with your Olga Nikolayevna!” she exclaimed. “Go flirt with her.”

  “Who told you that I flirt with her? I never talk with her.”

  “No, you talk with her, and you’re ashamed to admit it. She’s mauvais genre. Well, it’s true, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Isn’t she mauvais genre?”32

  “No,” Ovcharov replied, somewhat embarrassed. “Olga Nikolayevna is a wonderful young lady, but, of course, she’s not from respectable society.”

  “Enough of her, Erast Sergeyich,” George said, tugging at his sleeve. “Why waste time on a crybaby? Let’s go have some fun with Syomka.”

  Semyon Ivanovich was indeed approaching.

  “I tell you, I can’t stand that man.”

  “Why is that, my boy?”

  “I don’t know. He’s a lummox. And he always gets gr
and ideas about himself. Well, Semyon Ivanich, here I come,” George announced before throwing himself at Simon with full force.

  “I don’t know how to fight, I really don’t. Let me go, Yegor Petrovich,” Simon sputtered, almost falling.

  “Let him go,” Ovcharov urged.

  “If that’s what you want, then I’ll wrestle with you,” the boy responded.

  “Oh, no, no. Please don’t touch me. I’ve got chest pains.”

  Ovcharov’s face expressed horror. “Let go of Semyon Ivanich. I want to take a closer look at your lummox,” he whispered to the boy in a tone that seemed to express gratitude, probably for the fact that he was not the one roughed up.

  “Semyon Ivanich, what kind of a position are you hoping to arrange? Let’s have a talk.” He drew him aside. They both sat down with their legs dangling in the ditch. Semyon Ivanovich was still panting from George’s assault. After lighting up a cigarette, he began to catch his breath.

  “He always gets the better of me, Yegor Petrovich,” he said, smiling. “I’m such a weakling, and sometimes he’ll spend the whole day having fun with me like that. But he’s a fine boy. Katerina Petrovna has such splendid children. I’m extraordinarily fond of them.”

  Ovcharov glanced at the vexed expression on his face.

  “But you’ll soon have to part with them. That’s a shame.”

  “We won’t be parting anytime soon,” Semyon Ivanovich remarked inscrutably, and from that moment he became entirely scrutable to Erast Sergeyevich. “Katerina Petrovna intends, due to financial considerations, to settle in the country permanently. Summer and winter. Indefinitely.”

  “But that’s excellent! You’ll be able to see her often. And in addition you’ll continue to benefit from her ongoing protection.”

  “That is, of course, the way it is: protection. It’s true that I have another position in mind, but what can I do? We are little people, Erast Sergeyich, no matter what we do—we can’t get on without protection.”

  “Naturally,” Ovcharov agreed, “a person without means cannot disdain to accept any advantages, or to sacrifice one advantage for another. Furthermore, your salary at the treasury office will be fairly modest, but it’s an honest income…”