And Ovcharov began to hold forth about this income. Having satisfied himself on the points of interest to him in Semyon Ivanovich’s affairs, he turned to a more serious question—to the question of society: the glaring need for various reforms, the critical state of the nation’s finances, and his own writings on this subject.
Just then, a footman appeared with an invitation to tea.
“How ungracious of you to abandon me,” Katerina Petrovna greeted them. “Une tasse de thé.”33
“I’m not able, thank you,” Ovcharov replied, glancing at the liquid the footman held before him on a tray. “And moreover…”
He pulled out his watch. Olenka hurriedly retrieved her gloves from her pocket.
“Then perhaps you’d care for du laitage.”34 Katerina Petrovna gestured toward her table, on which some items were arranged. “I’m not much of a lover of delicacies, but in the country I do indulge. Please have some.”
George and Annette had long since begun helping themselves to the laitage.
“I’m not able,” Ovcharov repeated, as Simon placed a small spoonful of some bluish-whitish substance in a saucer and began crunching audibly on a piece of zwieback. “And in any event, it’s time to be off.”
“Comment, vous me quittez?35 No, have a seat.”
Katerina Petrovna squeezed his hand. “And I had forgotten: I have a favor to pass on to you.”
“How can I be of service?” Ovcharov asked absentmindedly as he watched Simon withdraw into the adjoining room with his saucer and Olenka wander out onto the terrace.
“Countess Yevpraksia Mikhailovna has written to me. She knows that we are neighbors and has asked me to tell you…but the poor countess, perhaps, doesn’t suspect that you can no longer be counted on…Après tout, vous êtes devenu un étourdi de la première sorte…36 I looked into your briefcase at Mademoiselle Olga’s. The things I saw there!”
“What do you mean, I can’t be counted on? To do what?” Ovcharov asked, again pulling out his watch.
“What about her booklets for peasant reading? You promised her articles.”
“Oh, yes!” Ovcharov perked up. “Who said that I had forgotten? Please write to the countess…I will write to her myself…I had a great deal of work. But I have many, many items ready for her; I just have to put them in order, to go through it. Come now! What do you mean, étourderies?37 This is a matter of the utmost importance!”
“So, you are not beyond hope? I will relay the good news. Cette chère femme!38 She and her society have gone to so much trouble, they have made so many sacrifices for that people of ours! I admit to you that I don’t involve myself in that sort of thing. Of course, I would only have to say the word, and they would invite me to take part. You can call me a bit backward if you like: je trouve que ce n’est pas là la vocation de la femme.39 Our domain is the family hearth.”
Ovcharov looked over at the terrace. Olenka was coming inside.
“And finally,” Katerina Petrovna continued, “je vais vous dire ma plus intime pensée.40 Our aristocracy is too selfless. We will teach them, and what will come of it? Horrors!”
“Nothing will happen,” Ovcharov replied.
“You’re not afraid? No, I admit to you that every day, I get up in the morning and go to bed at night…”
“And all in vain. I can say with certainty that nothing will happen.”
“How can you know that?”
“All you need to do is look at the order of things. It’s perfectly clear, like two times two. Someday I’ll explain it all to you.”
“Oh, if you would set my mind at ease, for the love of God. Simon, for example, cannot explain…”
At that very moment, Simon walked up.
“Simon, what were you telling me yesterday about house serfs?”
“It’s time to go, Erast Sergeyich,” Olenka said, taking advantage of the fact that Katerina Petrovna’s attention had been diverted. Ovcharov quickly rose.
“One moment, Olga Nikolayevna,” he said, approaching her and whispering, “How tiresome for you! And what an awful young man!”
“I have no wish to talk to you,” Olenka replied. “Let’s go.”
Ovcharov flushed and took his hat.
“Farewell, Katerina Petrovna,” he said. “It’s late and my horses are not accustomed to one another.”
Katerina Petrovna threw up her hands.
“Well, there’s no talking you out of it! But I hope it won’t be for long. Although, here…Un instant, mon cher…” She took him by the arm and led him to the entryway.
“Please, have a talk with your landlady…Je vois heureusement que vous n’êtes pas loin dans vos amabilités.41 After all, they should rejoice at a match like this. I hope the old woman won’t allow herself to be stubborn. See if you can speed things along.”
“We’ll see. Fine,” Ovcharov replied.
Olenka had her hat on as she came up to them. Ovcharov bowed and had already stepped out onto the front steps and was walking toward the horses.
“Good-bye, Katerina Petrovna,” Olenka said, still inside.
Katerina Petrovna gasped.
“You wish to go? Mais vous n’avez pas votre raison, ma chère. At night, the two of you, mais cela n’a pas de nom!”42
“What am I to do?” Olenka asked, crimson both from these words and in anguish at the thought of having to stay there.
“It’s very simple. I won’t let you go.”
“I didn’t bring anything, Katerina Petrovna. It didn’t occur to me.”
But Olenka could see that she was not in a position to argue. She wanted to cry, but held herself in check.
“You will stay, eh bien. On vous donnera du linge et quelque capote d’Annette.43 And Sunday…yes, Tuesday, Wednesday, so, Sunday, that’s the Saint’s Day for your village church?”
“Yes.”
“I was planning on attending your mass that day and can take you myself. Man! Man, tell Erast Sergeyich that Olga Nikolayevna will not be going with him.”
Ovcharov was standing by the carriage when he was given this news.
“She’s not coming?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you sure?” he asked the servant.
“She’s not coming,” the answer remained the same.
Ovcharov thought for a moment, looked once more at the door, climbed into the carriage and set out.
1. Henri Rosellen (1811–1876) was a French pianist and composer.
2. French: With short hair “like a child,” a fashion associated with Marie Antoinette.
3. French: The color of chamois leather, yellowish brown.
4. French: A handshake, my boy.
5. French: In keeping with the practical fashion that befits country life.
6. French: Here you are.
7. French: Come what may.
8. French: My protégé.
9. French: With such a lifestyle, such tendencies.
10. French: A man of the world.
11. French: And besides.
12. French: Something even more monstrous.
13. French: A red. You are one of us, are you not?
14. French: Such a poor upbringing.
15. French: Dorothy is fully abreast; but that the countryside has its attractions.
16. French: Bias.
17. French: You know, I am arranging Mademoiselle Olga’s marriage.
18. French: Thank God.
19. French: Judge for yourself, what might one expect?
20. French: But I will tell you—there’s nothing I hate more than depravity.
21. French: And I have put things in good order.
22. French: Simon is the stuff of which good husbands are made.
23. French: Composure.
24. French: After all, one takes what one can get.
25. French: It’s a disgrace.
26. French: Rural poor; Me, I will close my door to; You know the poor princess…she is so scatterbrained!; It is possible that the princess
took her money; these are our private concerns.
27. French: She is a woman of contradictions; This astonishing second sight that she possessed.
28. The idea of “magnetic sleep” is linked to the theories of Franz Mesmer (1734–1815). Mesmer’s pupil Marquis de Puységur (1751–1825) promoted Mesmer’s theories about “animal magnetism” and demonstrated “magnetic sleep,” a hypnotic trance induced by a “magnetizer.” During the mid- and late-nineteenth century, such explorations of the human psyche were popular among European elites.
29. French: With all these changes!
30. French: A continual catarrh.
31. A pood is a unit of weight used in Russia until 1924 equaling approximately 36 pounds.
32. French: A bad sort, not a person of quality or proper manners. In 1864, the year after City Folk and Country Folk came out, Khvoshchinskaya published a satirical essay titled “Provincial ‘bon-genre’ and ‘mauvais genre,’” a sympathetic exploration of the plight of ordinary provincials striving to emulate literary models and the mores of aristocratic and intellectual elites.
33. French: A cup of tea.
34. French: Some dairy products.
35. French: What, are you leaving me?
36. French: After all, you have become a first-class blunderer.
37. French: Blunders.
38. French: That dear woman.
39. French: I find that this is not the vocation for a woman.
40. French: I’ll tell you my innermost thought.
41. French: I am glad to see that your flirtation hasn’t gone too far.
42. French: But you’ve lost your mind, my dear; That would be unthinkable!
43. French: Fine. We’ll give you some linen and one of Annette’s cloaks.
He was furious.
“So, the little minx managed to tell on me, did she?” he mused. “Anyone can feign injured innocence. I’d wager she’s capable of throwing herself at the first fellow who comes her way! Just you wait—you think very highly of yourself, my little dove. No, no, it’s our fault. We are too kind; we’ve imbibed too much of this spirit of democracy. We’re the ones who’ve lost our minds, getting the idea into our heads of treating you as equals. Well, these people, you have to admit they’re a force to be reckoned with. But to raise them up to our level, go out of our way for them, teach them some sense, shower them with attention, squander our affections on those rotten nobodies, half-gentry, half-bourgeoisie—smothering them would be more like it. We’re fools, selfless innocents. I just hope we set things right before it’s too late.”
Ovcharov frowned and impatiently pulled his panama down over his eyes. The horses were moving along at a good trot. The semidarkness of summer night covered the boundless space around him, shrouding land and sky alike. With the advance of night, a strong wind had begun to whip about, driving waves of dust at the carriage. Ovcharov unpacked the extra lap robe he kept for such occasions, wrapped it around his legs, and surveyed his surroundings.
“How revolting!” he muttered under his breath. “A fine little landscape and a fine people to go with it. Well, the peasant—he’s a law unto himself. But those others! What can we expect of them? Something new? Can you really expect anything new out of a place like this, where everything is second-rate—property, lineage, connections—a breeding ground for second-rate creatures? Mother Russia will be in fine shape when that sort of society is in charge!
“But will that ever really come to pass? What nonsense! Have we really lost all reason? Are we so few in number? We just have to come to our senses and proudly put those petty creatures in their place once and for all. Let them bend at the waist when they bow to us, a nice deep bow, and we’ll extend them our hand. Then let them try to slight us from their majestic heights.”
Ovcharov even cast a glance at the seat beside him, he so wanted to see Olenka sitting there.
Had she been there, he did not know whether he would have given her a good talking to or showered her with kisses. The farther he traveled—the clearer it became that Olenka would not be coming, would not take a seat next to him—the worse he felt. Several times, he ripped his panama from his head and put it back on. Several times, he reached out to test the empty place by his side. He took his anger out on his gloves until little but shreds remained.
“Dunderhead!” he yelled at the coachman, jumping up and tossing aside what was left of his gloves. “You’ll break my neck!”
The road was smooth. The coachman was innocent. This was the state in which Ovcharov arrived home long after midnight.
Nastasya Ivanovna had been expecting Olenka since evening. She heard the carriage, but it had gone past, straight to the bathhouse, and then on to Beryozovka. Ovcharov did not send word. He quickly prepared for bed and lay down to sleep without asking his valet to relay any message in the morning.
All night Ovcharov was tormented by visions of a tulle canezou. By the time he got up in the morning, he was even angrier, but his anger was calmer, better befitting a person of breeding, especially one afflicted with poor health.
Nastasya Ivanovna also did not sleep. “Olenka must have fallen ill,” she thought and, having received no satisfactory answer from the servant who came for whey in the morning, ran down to the bathhouse. Ovcharov had gone out for a walk.
“Stay and keep watch for him, Aksinya Mikhailovna,” Nastasya Ivanovna beseeched. She was being called away to deal with household matters.
After about two hours, Ovcharov returned. The morning had refreshed him, but his eyes were gloomy. The raised collar of his coat gave him an almost menacing look.
“What do you want, my good woman?” he asked Aksinya Mikhailovna upon finding her classically poised in front of his impervious threshold.
“The mistress sent me—she’s worried that the young lady may, perchance, have taken ill.”
“Don’t worry: your young lady is in good health,” Ovcharov interrupted her, unceremoniously pushing the old woman aside and inserting his key into the lock. “She chose to remain at Katerina Petrovna’s. Have no fear, your child is alive and well,” he muttered as he stepped inside. “Hey, good woman! What’s your…”
But the “good woman” was already racing up the path at full speed.
“Tell your mistress that I’ll be coming to see her myself in a moment,” Ovcharov called after her. “The child! Quite a high opinion of themselves children have these days. And who is she, after all? Some miserable girl barely good enough for the likes of Simon!”
Ovcharov put away the book he had taken on his walk and again stepped down off the porch.
“Well, and let her marry him; it would be the best thing for her, with Mama’s blessings and the rejoicing of the populace. Let her have children and grow fat, living a life of ease here in the middle of nowhere and losing any trace of intellect she may have had! No person of substance will come near her. Let her marry her Simon, and an excellent thing it will be!”
Ovcharov took a moment to picture his conversation with Katerina Petrovna the day before. He then recalled his brilliant insight. Suddenly, he broke out laughing. Sometimes a matter of hours is enough to cast human thoughts in a completely different light.
“How could anyone imagine the sort of nonsense I came up with yesterday?” he asked himself as he approached Nastasya Ivanovna’s front door. “And on what grounds? Is there the slightest trace of plausibility there? That’s what it means to lose one’s wits, or, more to the point, to become morally corrupted amid shiftlessness. Oh, my poor, unfortunate Katerina Petrovna! May her aged modesty find me worthy of forgiveness!”
“Good day to you, dear Erast Sergeyich,” he heard as he approached.
“Good day to you, Nastasya Ivanovna,” he replied dryly.
Nastasya Ivanovna was sad. Olenka’s absence, the total silence that reigned in the house (there were no signs of life from the recluse)—everything cast a particular shadow over the landowner’s face. Furthermore, the purpose of Olenka’s trip had occasi
oned deep contemplation. Her only child, her seventeen-year-old daughter, the prospective match, her own approaching old age—what mother would not give in to the sorts of thoughts that had overcome Nastasya Ivanovna under these circumstances? It is such a simple matter, yet at the same time so complex that loving mothers from the beginning of time have been turning it over in their heads in almost the same way, crying the same vague tears. How could she part with her? But she can’t be an old maid…What kind of a fellow would he turn out to be? They all seem fine before the wedding—and so on, and so forth. Any mother could fill volumes with the thoughts that keep her awake nights, bowing before the icons over and over, until…until one fine day the whole matter is decided before any decision has completely ripened in her mind.
“I have a certain matter to discuss with you,” Ovcharov began.
“What is it, my dear man?”
There was something odd in his manner. Nastasya Ivanovna hurriedly sat him down on the couch and positioned herself so close to him that Ovcharov recoiled. Her hands began to shake.
“What is it?” she repeated.
“Katerina Petrovna has asked me…although, actually, I will also speak for myself,” Ovcharov said, studying his fingernails and frowning. “Katerina Petrovna is proposing a match for your daughter.”
“She told you that?” Nastasya Ivanovna felt somewhat annoyed. “It’s not really appropriate, the matter is still up in the air. But, be that as it may, you are fond of my Olenka. So be it. What else did Katerina Petrovna want?”
“Well, the most important point is for you to finally decide.”
Nastasya Ivanovna was silent.
“You should decide. After all, what reason is there to drag it out? Semyon Ivanich is here, I saw him yesterday. It turns out that I’ve known him for some time. He’s a respectable fellow. He will be a deferential son-in-law, a diligent landowner, not a spendthrift. Furthermore, Olga Nikolayevna is not the sort of woman who will allow herself to be ruled over. In a word, I see no reason for any objections on your part.”
City Folk and Country Folk Page 18