City Folk and Country Folk Read online

  Ovcharov was soon approaching these barns and did not yet feel fatigue.

  “How near!” he mused. And suddenly a fortuitous thought struck him. Perhaps he could find shelter here rather than go to town? If the owners were away, he could rent the manor house…Beryozovka was a mere stone’s throw away, it made no difference where he drank his whey, and he would be able to settle into comfortable lodgings.

  His fancy nearly whispered the notion that it would be as easy as renting a chalet in Interlaken, but Ovcharov was still sufficiently Russian that this dream vanished instantly. In another minute he offered up even more resounding proof of his Russianness by pronouncing out loud and even joyously: “Hey, I know this village!”

  Of course he knew it. He had spent time there twenty years earlier, toward the end of his school days. Back then, his parents had lived at Beryozovka for two years and brought their son there from Moscow for his vacations. He had spent even more time in Snetki when he was younger and less aware: he had lived next door in Beryozovka until he turned eight. But how much water had flowed under the bridge since then! And in recent years such a multitude of German, French, and various other villages had flashed before his eyes through train windows, it was hardly surprising that he had forgotten the village of Snetki and its residents.

  A minute later, however, he had even recalled these residents. In his time, three landowning families had lived there: the Toporishchevs, the Malinnikovs and a third family…Ovcharov could not remember their name, although this was the only family with which he had been acquainted. He recalled visiting them with his mother as a child, and their hosts had treated these visits as an exceptional indulgence. He and his mother had been served generous portions of sweet jam, while the hosts ate nothing but treacle. They were simple people, and he seemed to remember them as being kind, but all of them were rather old. After these early visits he did not see them again. And why would they be given a second thought by a seventeen-year-old schoolboy, an only son and heir to five-hundred souls, a boy who dreamed of nothing better than a vacation of running through woods and meadows with a gun and a hunting dog?

  He had not become acquainted with the Malinnikovs, whose estate was small, because he had been instructed not to do so. That family included daughters who were coming of age—not bad-looking—and a son, also a schoolboy, who was being educated in the provincial capital. This was not considered suitable society for him. He knew about the Toporishchevs because they had fights that could be heard for miles around, and once a member of the family had given him some small shot when the two met while out hunting. Later he had been in the area as a grown man but had not looked in on the Snetki estates.

  Ovcharov recalled these insignificant details as he walked toward the village. It could hardly be described as picturesque. Peasant huts, set far apart from one another, were strewn across the hill in a disorderly manner, shaded only by the occasional willow. The past spring had been dry and cold, giving everything a look of squalor. The grass that grew in the ditches and around the wattle fences was wilted and sparse; the leaves on the trees were unhealthy. Ovcharov kicked the earth contemptuously with the tip of his boot as he surveyed the site. The cluster of houses was devoid of life. He walked past one of the manor houses built right on the road. The house, its windows boarded up, was gray and utterly lopsided. Of course, it had once been surrounded by outbuildings, but now it sat amid wasteland; only crumbling brick rectangles, overgrown with wormwood and nettles, hinted at the foundations of past structures. Beyond the outbuildings there must have been an orchard, because a few untended gooseberry bushes were growing in long, crisscrossing rows interspersed with stumps radiating stunted shoots of apple and cherry trees, also untended.

  “How loathsome!” thought Ovcharov, looking over this stretch of the Snetki landscape, which was ugly indeed. “Where else—why, you could travel the length and breadth of Europe—would you find such disorder? But we do value property, do we not? At least we talk as if we do. Oh, what a people, a wise little people. I must say!”

  A few steps farther, however, he was consoled. To the right, an orchard appeared, surrounded by a new wattle fence and tall young willows—the best defense against blizzards and winds. Beyond the willows, fruit trees were growing in profusion. Off in the distance he saw the red-painted plank roof of the manor house with two white chimneys protruding from the attic. The orchard sloped gently toward a stream that skirted the settlement on the far side of the manor house and from there flowed toward Beryozovka. Beyond the stream stretched a fair-sized water meadow shared by the villages—their real wealth. To the left, on a hillock, straight across from the orchard, stood the Snetki church, an unattractive stone building in the style of the twenties. At the sight of the church and the orchard Ovcharov immediately recollected where he was. This was the estate of the people who had fed him sweet jam. His memories were suddenly imbued with a feeling of tenderness. Ovcharov experienced something akin to joy at the thought that there was someone living in the house and that it was not shrouded in an aura of neglect. Of course this feeling was fleeting and weak. He was too preoccupied by his lack of lodgings. But suddenly his face lit up.

  “And why not here?” he thought.

  Now that he had fully recalled his surroundings, he set off down a road that ran along the edge of the orchard to the stream, where it turned sharply and led straight to the manor house. Ovcharov’s memory even told him that across from the house there should be a bridge, a wretched little bridge made of brushwood and straw that was installed very late, toward summer, when heavy loads needed to be taken across. Until then, anyone who wished to cross the stream had to ford it.

  Ovcharov was still pondering how Europe would judge our bridges and roads when a building at the orchard’s edge caught his eye. It was new, and the sun was shining brightly on its fresh log walls. Work was apparently still underway inside, since planks and a pile of wood chips lay nearby and the fence had been removed to allow wagons through. Two openings had been cut and filled with sturdy sash windows. After glancing inside, Ovcharov realized that this was a bathhouse under construction.

  “This is just the place I need,” he thought and let out a laugh. “Lodging and table d’hôte—in a bathhouse! Marvelous! Well, what else can one do in the middle of nowhere?”

  Annoyed at himself, at the entire natural world, and at the tiredness that he was beginning to feel in his legs, Ovcharov sat down on the end of some planks that had been warmed by the sun and, having positioned his back to best benefit from the sun’s rays, he closed his eyes, planning to rest for about ten minutes and then return home. He was in the sourest of moods and filled with the most condemnatory thoughts about his native land, especially his native province. Little did he know what a pleasant surprise was lying in wait for him.

  Nastasya Ivanovna Chulkova (inasmuch as this was her house, her orchard, and her bathhouse) had already been tracking the movements of her uninvited guest for half an hour. She even knew who he was and had been receiving reports about him for some time now: since the day before, the very day of Ovcharov’s arrival at Beryozovka, the misfortunes of her young neighbor had been known to her, along with his intended length of stay and the fact that he did not seem to have any intention of marrying. This news had been delivered by Aksinya Mikhailovna, cook and true friend to her mistress, who had gone to get some fever medicine from the wife of Beryozovka’s steward. As soon as she heard it, Nastasya Ivanovna wasted no time in sharing this news with Olenka, who was sewing in her room up in the attic. It was unclear just why Nastasya Ivanovna was so excited. In the middle of nowhere, in the steppe, where new faces are rare, this would have been understandable, but for the proprietor of Snetki new faces were nothing extraordinary. Be that as it may, she was excited.

  Now, she became even more excited when, looking down through Olenka’s window, she saw that Erast Sergeyevich was already strolling around her village. Of course, she was not so vain as to imagine that he had hastened to c
all on her as soon as he arrived. Ovcharov had been in the area several times before and had never considered a visit necessary. Having had only a glimpse of Erast Sergeyevich all those years, and that in the provincial capital, Nastasya Ivanovna could only guess at the identity of her visitor based on the fact that he had come from the direction of Beryozovka and was wearing some kind of special coat, probably foreign. She reasoned that Erast Sergeyevich must have some business at Snetki and that this business must be with her—who else could he possibly have business with here? The evidence was clear: he had walked to her house and seated himself on her planks.

  Nastasya Ivanovna began to rush from room to room, hurriedly trying to come up with the best way to receive her guest. After ordering that coffee be made, she called up to Olenka’s room that she should put on her crinoline, for it had taken Nastasya Ivanovna only an instant to conclude that this was, after all, an eligible bachelor, albeit an unattainable one, his having been in Paris and everywhere else—but don’t wonders happen every day? After yelling to Olenka that she should wait in the parlor, Nastasya Ivanovna decided that it would be better, after all, to meet Ovcharov in advance, and she ran out into the orchard.

  Hearing a rustling behind him, Ovcharov turned to see a stout lady with a round face covered by a healthy flush. She had dimples and blue eyes (which were bulging from anxiety and excitement) and was of such youthful appearance that one might have thought her forty. There are such women, unattractive from youth but especially healthy, who possess an extraordinary resistance to the aging process. Nastasya Ivanovna had barely a trace of gray in her blond hair which, sparse and heavily pomaded, was simply twisted into a bun and held in place by a comb, with no mobcap to cover it. She was wearing an old-fashioned black mantilla with fringes and a colorful woolen blouse, but without sleeves, collar, or a belt, since in the country such details make little difference, especially for an old woman. Quite out of breath, Nastasya Ivanovna gasped excitedly before she could get out a word.

  “Where the deuce did she come from?” he wondered, having promptly risen for a polite bow.

  “My dear, Erast Sergeyevich, what a joy it is to see you!” Nastasya Ivanovna began, before becoming flustered.

  Ovcharov approached her, hat in hand. He was probing his memory but failing to retrieve the necessary information. What on earth was her name and what was she so happy about? Still unable to recall her name, he came right up to Nastasya Ivanovna, who was beaming.

  “Please excuse me,” Ovcharov began in a state of perplexity, “I have not been here for some time…”

  “Oh, my dear, why should you remember everyone? I carried you when you were a child! Do you remember Chulkov, Nikolai Demyanych? And my father and mother, Ivan Terentych and Malanya Kuzminishna? I’m…Nastasya Ivanovna Chulkova.”

  “Well, heavens above!” Ovcharov exclaimed, smiling and indeed recalling her.

  “Actually, a nice woman,” he thought to himself. “How happy she is to see me!”

  “You must excuse me, please, such a terrible memory I have, as much as I’ve roamed the earth.”

  Nastasya Ivanovna was beginning to lose her resolve: should she or should she not invite him in? She hardly recognized him. Looking him over, she felt something akin to pity and only asked him what had brought him to Snetki.

  Ovcharov related his predicament and bluntly explained that he had been out for a walk and had sat down to rest by her bathhouse.

  “And why not do us the kindness of coming up to the house to rest?”

  “Certainly one must submit to such old-fashioned devotion,” Ovcharov thought, and replied with the politeness of a man of excellent breeding.

  “Only if it will be no trouble.”

  “My dear, I’m so happy you’ve come,” Nastasya Ivanovna exclaimed and immediately led Ovcharov along a path through the apple and cherry trees toward the house’s entrance some distance away.

  “Your dear father and mother, may they rest in peace…What splendid people they were,” she said along the way. “It made no difference that we—well, after all, who are we?—but they never scorned us. Just to think that they are no longer with us and you, my dear, roam the earth like a real orphan, always in some foreign parts—it grieves me, it truly does. These days good people just don’t stay put, they don’t live in the country, keeping as far away as they can get.”

  Nastasya Ivanovna again grew flustered.

  “People like me, you mean,” Ovcharov broke in, smiling and rather cheerful. He was beginning to like this gentry woman. “You’re right—I’m a solitary wanderer, and not a terribly responsible one at that. Here I’ve let my own home go to rack and ruin and now I’m not quite sure what to do with myself.”

  “How can that be, oh, how can that be?” Nastasya Ivanovna shook her head mournfully.

  They arrived at the house. Upon entering the foyer, Ovcharov noted that it was clean, whitewashed, and orderly. Unlike nine-tenths of rural entrées, it was not bedecked with servants’ clothing and rags or cluttered with buckets, brooms, boot trees, or other rubbish. This cleanliness made a pleasant impression on Ovcharov, who rightly concluded that the rest of the house and Nastasya Ivanovna’s entire estate were kept in similar order. Without fear or distaste he laid his coat on the bench and courteously declined the assistance of the serving girl, who was swarthy, but naturally so, and who was eagerly attempting to remove his galoshes. The serving girl was wearing a faded cotton dress but was not barefoot. This also made a pleasant impression on Ovcharov.

  “Our little house is still the same, if you recall it, Erast Sergeyich,” Nastasya Ivanovna said, leading him down the hall and into the parlor. “But it’s become painfully roomy,” she added, sighing. “There’s been so much dying—Papa, Mama, my late husband. There are days Olenka and I wander the house and can’t even find each other. And here is my Olenka.”

  A young woman rose slightly from the couch and nodded to Ovcharov in greeting. She was tall and slender and wore a colorful hooped skirt and a Russian peasant shirt trimmed in red calico—and was quite good-looking. That was Ovcharov’s first impression at a distance of ten paces. When he approached her more closely, she seemed less appealing. She was fresh as a daisy, but bore a resemblance to her mother, and the expression on her face was of the most ordinary sort. This face and her attire, a mixture of pure rural simplicity and provincial fashion, were distasteful to Ovcharov. From the young woman, he cast his gaze over the room. It also contained a mixture of the old and the new. The old was unattractive; the new was ugly. To the old furniture, which was leather and hard as rock, with slender armrests and legs made of some sort of yellow wood, Nastasya Ivanovna had added two soft chintz easy chairs, purchased secondhand, with a rosebush pattern on the backs, so lopsided that it was impossible to sit in them. Above the couch hung portraits of well-known personages, painted lithographs with black backgrounds and with tinsel instead of paint on the epaulets and aiguillettes. The year of the coronation, provincial tradesmen had brought a multitude of such portraits from Moscow as the latest fashion, and Nastasya Ivanovna had bought them for Olenka.6 On the opposite wall hung photographic portraits of her and Olga. A scoundrel of a traveling photographer had charged an arm and a leg, taken pictures that were out of focus and produced little likeness to their subjects, made a few careless alterations by hand, and on top of everything else even managed to give Nastasya Ivanovna a tongue lashing for something or other. However, Nastasya Ivanovna herself bore some of the blame. This was her first encounter with photography and, afraid she might blink, she held her eyes so wide open that she looked stunned. On a little table beneath the mother’s portrait, a small, colorful vase held wax flowers, terribly garish, with verdigris leaves.

  “My God! Potichomania in a salon of the lower gentry!”7 thought Ovcharov as he took a seat by the little table.

  Olenka sat down across from him and, judging by the expression on her face, she did not seem terribly well-disposed toward this visitor. Nastasya Ivanovna als
o seated herself, but was at a loss how to revive the conversation.

  “It seems that you are the only landowner living here?” Ovcharov inquired.

  “The only one, Erast Sergeyich. And what is our landowning life these days? The whole thing has gone topsy-turvy, it’s the truth. I just can’t figure out what I’m supposed to be doing. And I doubt I’ll ever figure it out. Anyway, what kind of landowners are we? Still, for lack of anyone else, I suppose we’ll have to do!”

  Nastasya Ivanovna broke out laughing.

  “But aren’t you a true landowner, Nastasya Ivanovna?” Ovcharov asked, smiling.

  “I wouldn’t say so, Erast Sergeyich. Nothing special—just a simple person, glad that I have you here in my parlor. After all, I see how people live in the city, and here, I’ve visited rich folk. They’re not like me! You haven’t been brought up the way we were, and what’s more, you don’t remember my dear father and mother, Erast Sergeyich. They were quite different people from what I am. They too had fifty souls, but were much more respectable. And my Nikolai Demyanych? I think you’ve never met a kinder man—and he was always more respectable than I was. I don’t really know how to be a woman of refinement, it’s true. And all I want is to just preserve for Olenka…”

  She did not notice that Olenka blushed slightly and turned away. However, Ovcharov noticed, and to prevent the landowner, who was brimming with emotion, from inadvertently giving away family secrets, he steered the conversation in a different direction.

  “Whose boarded-up house is that I passed?”

  “Ah, the Toporishchevs, don’t you remember? Such a troubled lot they were. And what horrors we had to put up with! The village burned three times because of them. The old woman was touched in the head, and the husband was a drunkard. From time to time they’d go at each other and their Tereshka would come running to my Nikolai Demyanych begging him to pull them apart, for the love of God! How was my Nikolai Demyanych to cope with that? He would scold them, appeal to their better judgment, throw up his hands, and leave. They brought the estate to the edge of ruin, but kept being saved by some stroke of luck. Their rich relatives in Kazan twice rescued them from auction. And their son turned out just as bad. He was given a post in the civil court, but still hung around here. A real troublemaker. And can you believe it, Erast Sergeyich? He used to shoot my pigs, if you’ll excuse me for saying so!”