"Wait a bit. I'll have one more, and then another, and then I'll stop. No, stay, you interrupted me. At Mokroe I was talking to an old man, and he told me: 'There's nothing we like so much as sentencing girls to be thrashed, and we always give the lads the job of thrashing them. And the girl he has thrashed to‐day, the young man will ask in marriage to‐morrow. So it quite suits the girls, too,' he said. There's a set of de Sades for you!"
-Fyodor Dostoyevsky,
The Brothers Karamazov
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Please note that this story uses Russian nicknaming conventions. "Vasya" is Vasily, "Nadya" is Nadezhda, and "Sasha" is Aleksandr.
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I was raised in a small village, a village steeped in tradition. A proper Russian town inhabited by proper Russian families. My story concerns two such families - my own and the family Osipov. The Osipovs were wealthy and, though not aristocratic, were the most refined in twenty miles. Pyotr Osipov ran a prosperous farm and employed a number of local villagers, my father among them. He cared for the horses.
My father felt this particular occupation to be below his station, though in truth he was a lowborn man. My mother was of a rich family and perhaps this was where he got his airs. Never mind that she was disowned when she eloped with my father, never mind that she died after six years of marriage having borne him only daughters.
When my father finally drank himself to death I was fifteen years old. My sister Oxana was seventeen.
It was at this time that my sister and I discovered we had been left dowries of a significant proportion by our maternal grandparents. Soon after that discovery Madame Osipova took it upon herself to raise us to be ladies, and that is how the two families came to be one.
The Osipovs had three sons. The eldest, Grigory, was married with a family of his own by the time the Osipovs took us in to their home. Vasily, the middle, visited frequently from Smolensk where he was a clerk. Aleksander, the youngest, was a great mystery. He was away at school in Moscow.
After a few awkward months pretending that she had always wanted daughters, Madame Osipova showed little interest in us beyond providing dresses and tutors. This suited Oxana and I well enough, as we were not particularly attached to Madame Osipova. We were far more interested in her sons.
Vasily was a tall, thin man, three years my sisters elder. He was handsome, pale, and dark haired with a short beard. He had a somewhat nervous disposition and would not looks us in the eyes. He became especially agitated around Oxana and would blush and often stand when she entered a room.
For a period of two years, when we first lived there, Vasily and Oxana lived in unspoken and intolerable tension. His visits grew more and more frequent and lasted longer and longer but they rarely exchanged a word. They rarely exchanged anything more than fleeting glances. This finally changed one spring, when I returned from a long walk to find my sister quite red and wet eyed but laughing and overcome with emotion.
"Oh Nadya! It's wonderful!" She took me in her arms, laughing although tears stained her face. "Terrible and wonderful!"
I implored her to explain to me what had left her in such a state and she told me this: while serving tea to the Osipovs and their son Vasily, Oxana had dropped a china cup, a favorite of Madame Osipova, and broken it. The enraged Pyotr Osipov, who had grown quite annoyed with our constant presence, had given her a sound flogging. Very quickly Vasily had called for his father to stop beating her and had pulled him off of her, and after, being so angry that he quite forgot his timidity, her dear Vasya held her tenderly and kissed her and told her he loved her. That is how my sister and Vasily Osipov came to be engaged.
The following summer two important events occurred. The first was my eighteenth birthday. The second was the homecoming of Aleksandr Osipov.
Aleksandr looked quite different from his brother, though they had similar handsome faces. He was shorter and broader with blond hair which fell about his ears. A healthy, strong looking Russian. He did not have his brother's nervous nature but was always smiling and joking, which suited his dimpled cheeks.
When we met at last I bowed to him, but he laughed and took me in a bear hug and said "You must treat me as a brother, for I will be at least by law, and I will treat you as a sister, Miss Nadezhda. From now on you'll be no longer Nadezhda to me but Nadya, and I will be Sasha to you." He kissed me on the cheek and I knew that I would never be able to treat him as a brother for I was very much in love with him.
We spoke often and laughed easily together that summer. He indeed considered me to be like a sister and teased me though it made me blush. He was smart and witty and gave me many lessons of things he had learned in Moscow. These were my treasured hours, for I have always learned quickly and was eager to impress him and hear him praise my intellect.
On one point, however, I was constantly frustrated; Aleksandr Osipov would not touch me. It did not seem to annoy him, but anything from an accidental bump of the knee to a comforting hand on the shoulder would cause Sasha to immediately and almost impulsively retreat.
After several months of this I became determined to arouse in him a feeling of tenderness towards me. It was at this time that I recalled the story of Oxana and Vasily's engagement. It sparked in me a plan and I chose a fine day in September to enact it.
Tea was an intimate affair that morning. Madame Osipova had decided since taking in her delightful new "little step-daughters" that it would be very charming and grateful if one of us was always to serve morning tea instead of the servants. Oxana had gone to Smolensk with Vasya to stay with an aunt before the wedding, so tea was served only with myself, Madame Osipova, and Sasha. Pyotr Osipov was absent.
I should have waited for him, but I had decided that today would be the day and I was eager to begin my scheme. Today would be the day because there were so few of us that we were using the incomplete tea set, Madame Osipova's favorite that Oxana had broken. My heart pounded in excitement as I poured tea for Sasha and Madame Osipova and sat down. I waited until their heads were bowed with first sips then sent my own teacup, quite on purpose, crashing to the floor, spilling its scalding contents upon the rug.
"Nadezhda!" Madame Osipova shrieked, "You are as bad as your sister and twice as clumsy. Mr. Osipov will be very upset!"
My eyes widened with fear and anticipation. Aleksandr did not seem worried or protective. He was wearing a very slight, strange smile.
"He will beat you with a fine length of birch when he gets back and you will deserve it twice as much as your sister for having ruined my tea set entirely."
"When he gets back?"
Madame Osipova sniffed. "He left this morning. But in two or three weeks you may expect a beating for this!"
I paled with genuine fear. By that time Sasha might not even be here to comfort me or play my knight. I might have earned myself a true thrashing.
"Three weeks, Mother?" Sasha said reproachfully. "It's far too long. The poor thing will forget entirely what she's being punished for." He turned to me, a conspiratorial glitter in his eye. "I'm the man of the house, I'll do it."
Madame Osipova raised her eyebrow but nodded in agreement. "Very well."
Sasha took me by the elbow and lead me to the rarely used parlor. He locked the door and drew the curtains, the lamp light leaving the room dim as evening. He began to roll up his sleeves to the elbow.
"Over the back of the sofa, Nadezhda."
I obeyed. Sasha stood next to me. He took my skirt by the hem, running his fingers thoughtfully along it, and folded it over the small of my back.
"Your smock, please."
Trembling, I loosened the sash and the garment fell to the floor about my feet. Sasha sucked in a short breath.
"My father would thrash you with a switch."
I nodded, my face flushed with the knowledge that I was exposed to him.
"But I know you have a good heart, my Nadya." He placed one hand on my haunch and slipped it around my belly, pulling me toward him. It was, as I recalled, the first time since we met that he had touched my skin without drawing back. "A switch is far too rough for you."
