A House of Gentlefolk

"A House of Gentlefolk" is a novel by Ivan Turgenev, first published in 1859. The story unfolds in a rural Russian estate and revolves around the lives of the gentry and their interactions with the changing social landscape of 19th-century Russia. Central to the narrative is the character of Lavretsky, a disillusioned nobleman who returns to his ancestral home after a failed marriage. The book explores themes of love, social class, and the tension between tradition and progress, while vividly portraying the complexities of human relationships and the impact of societal change on individual lives. Turgenev's nuanced characterizations and lyrical prose make this work a poignant reflection on the nature of gentility and personal fulfillment.

								
Chapter I


A bright spring day was fading into evening. High overhead in the clear
heavens small rosy clouds seemed hardly to move across the sky but to be
sinking into its depths of blue.

In a handsome house in one of the outlying streets of the government
town of O---- (it was in the year 1842) two women were sitting at an
open window; one was about fifty, the other an old lady of seventy.

The name of the former was Marya Dmitrievna Kalitin. Her husband, a
shrewd determined man of obstinate bilious temperament, had been dead
for ten years. He had been a provincial public prosecutor, noted in
his own day as a successful man of business. He had received a fair
education and had been to the university; but having been born in narrow
circumstances he realized early in life the necessity of pushing his
own way in the world and making money. It had been a love-match on Marya
Dmitrievna’s side. He was not bad-looking, was clever and could be very
agreeable when he chose. Marya Dmitrievna Pesto--that was her maiden
name--had lost her parents in childhood. She spent some years in a
boarding-school in Moscow, and after leaving school, lived on the family
estate of Pokrovskoe, about forty miles from O----, with her aunt
and her elder brother. This brother soon after obtained a post in
Petersburg, and made them a scanty allowance. He treated his aunt and
sister very shabbily till his sudden death cut short his career. Marya
Dmitrievna inherited Pokrovskoe, but she did not live there long. Two
years after her marriage with Kalitin, who succeeded in winning her
heart in a few days, Pokrovskoe was exchanged for another estate, which
yielded a much larger income, but was utterly unattractive and had no
house. At the same time Kalitin took a house in the town of O----, in
which he and his wife took up their permanent abode. There was a large
garden round the house, which on one side looked out upon the open
country away from the town.

“And so,” decided Kalitin, who had a great distaste for the quiet of
country life, “there would be no need for them to be dragging themselves
off into the country.” In her heart Marya Dmitrievna more than once
regretted her pretty Pokrovskoe, with its babbling brook, its wide
meadows, and green copses; but she never opposed her husband in anything
and had the greatest veneration for his wisdom and knowledge of the
world. When after fifteen years of married life he died leaving her with
a son and two daughters, Marya Dmitrievna had grown so accustomed to her
house and to town life that she had no inclination to leave O----.

In her youth Marya Dmitrievna had always been spoken of as a pretty
blonde; and at fifty her features had not lost all charm, though
they were somewhat coarser and less delicate in outline. She was more
sentimental than kindhearted; and even at her mature age, she retained
the manners of the boarding-school. She was self-indulgent and easily
put out, even moved to tears when she was crossed in any of her habits.
She was, however, very sweet and agreeable when all her wishes were
carried out and none opposed her. Her house was among the pleasantest
in the town. She had a considerable fortune, not so much from her own
property as from her husband’s savings. Her two daughters were living
with her; her son was being educated in one of the best government
schools in Petersburg.

The old lady sitting with Marya Dmitrievna at the window was her
father’s sister, the same aunt with whom she had once spent some
solitary years in Pokrovskoe. Her name was Marfa Timofyevna Pestov. She
had a reputation for eccentricity as she was a woman of an independent
character, told every one the truth to his face, and even in the most
straitened circumstances behaved just as if she had a fortune at her
disposal. She could not endure Kalitin, and directly her niece married
him, she removed to her little property, where for ten whole years she
lived in a smoky peasants’ hut. Marya Dmitrievna was a little afraid of
her. A little sharp-nosed woman with black hair and keen eyes even in
her old age, Marfa Timofyevna walked briskly, held herself upright and
spoke quickly and clearly in a sharp ringing voice. She always wore a
white cap and a white dressing-jacket.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked Marya Dmitrievna suddenly. “What
are you sighing about, pray?”

“Nothing,” answered the latter. “What exquisite clouds!”

“You feel sorry for them, eh?”

Marya Dmitrievna made no reply.

“Why is it Gedeonovsky does not come?” observed Marfa Timofyevna, moving
her knitting needles quickly. (She was knitting a large woolen scarf.)
“He would have sighed with you--or at least he’d have had some fib to
tell you.”

“How hard you always are on him! Sergei Petrovitch is a worthy man.”

“Worthy!” repeated the old lady scornfully.

“And how devoted he was to my poor husband!” observed Marya Dmitrievna;
“even now he cannot speak of him without emotion.”

“And no wonder! It was he who picked him out of the gutter,” muttered
Marfa Timofyevna, and her knitting needles moved faster than ever.

“He looks so meek and mild,” she began again, “with his grey head, but
he no sooner opens his mouth than out comes a lie or a slander. And to
think of his having the rank of a councillor! To be sure, though, he’s
only a village priest’s son.”

“Every one has faults, auntie; that is his weak point, no doubt. Sergei
Petrovitch has had no education: of course he does not speak French,
still, say what you like, he is an agreeable man.”

“Yes, he is always ready to kiss your hands. He does not speak
French--that’s no great loss. I am not over strong in the French lingo
myself. It would be better if he could not speak at all; he would
not tell lies then. But here he is--speak of the devil,” added Marfa
Timofyevna looking into the street. “Here comes your agreeable man
striding along. What a lanky creature he is, just like a stork!”

Marya Dmitrievna began to arrange her curls. Marfa Timofyevna looked at
her ironically.

“What’s that, not a grey hair surely? You must speak to your Palashka,
what can she be thinking about?”

“Really, auntie, you are always so...” muttered Marya Dmitrievna in a
tone of vexation, drumming on the arm of her chair with her finger-tips.

“Sergei Petrovitch Gedeonovsky!” was announced in a shrill piping voice,
by a rosy-cheeked little page who made his appearance at the door.



Chapter II


A tall man entered, wearing a tidy overcoat, rather short trousers, grey
doeskin gloves, and two neckties--a black one outside, and a white one
below it. There was an air of decorum and propriety in everything about
him, from his prosperous countenance and smoothly brushed hair, to his
low-heeled, noiseless boots. He bowed first to the lady of the house,
then to Marfa Timofyevna, and slowly drawing off his gloves, he advanced
to take Marya Dmitrievna’s hand. After kissing it respectfully twice he
seated himself with deliberation in an arm-chair, and rubbing the very
tips of his fingers together, he observed with a smile--

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