Now I love myself some classical Russian lit. Not the big names, but more the second tier; not in quality, but more in popularity. Gogol, Goncharov, and especially Turgenev, these guys are my jam. They write of the lives of the Russian gentry, not in the cities, but out on their estates. There is a certain calm and peacefulness that I am addicted to. Granted there are serfs and peasants, but they seem to be agents of their own fate. It all seems to work out somehow. But I can’t quite give this one full marks for a simple reason. The protagonist is female.
In the world of the 19th century Russian gentry, men had all the freedom to do as they wished; go to the city, stroll about the countryside, make extended visits to friends, or perhaps attend university. And if money was somewhat tight, becoming a doctor or a lawyer, or joining the military, was not disqualifying. And even to the matter of a spouse, who could marry or not. No shame in just having a girlfriend.
But a gentlewoman has one task – to marry. Since they can’t travel on their own or attend university, it is essential that their male relatives bring their friends by, for who else do they have to select from? So the fact that the protagonist is female necessarily constrains the story. Elena has two young men from which to choose; Shubin, a sculptor, and Bersyenev, a philosophy student. But then in a turn completely from left field, she picks a friend of theirs who is staying with them, Insarov, a consumptive Bulgarian revolutionary. To the distress of one and all, they elope and take off for Venice, as one does. Insarov doesn’t last very long, and the Widow Elena takes off for Bulgaria, to live the rest of her life their fighting for her late husband’s cause.
OK, that was weird. What did I just read?
