In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

FOUR Between Erasure and Nurture Ruins and the Modern City in the Depth of Times T H E R U I N O F T H E C O U N T R Y E S TAT E t The notion that the world was coming to an end loomed very large in the culture of the Silver Age.1 There were many reasons for this feeling of doom, not the least of which were the economic decline of the aristocracy and the political stagnation of the monarchy. In addition, the rise of modernity, fears about technological progress, and the dislocation commonly associated with rapid urbanization generated widespread anxieties about the future. Yet this fin-de-siècle atmosphere did not necessarily translate into an appreciation of ruins, at least not universally. To be sure, a powerful nostalgia for prereform estate life swept through the nobility, resulting not only in countless memoirs about family life on the estate, but also in a reevaluation of the aesthetic significance of estate architecture and a glorification of the role of the estate as a hotbed of culture.2 Enhanced by collective memories of freedom, stylish demeanor, and cultural pursuit, the estate underwent a mythological transfiguration, through which it became a site of authentic Russianness.3 A strong attachment to place emerged, tinged with elegiac feelings. The identity of the Westernized nobility progressively crystallized in the country estate. Its physical decay seemed to herald the demise not only of a whole social order, but also of the cultural and intellectual values that underpinned the life of the nobility . Of course, as in Western Europe, Russian estate gardens had often conjured up the presence of death before, be it only through artificial Between Erasure and Nurture 107 ruins. But in those instances, what was at stake was a generalized philosophical sensibility of memento mori, even if on some occasions, the real or imagined demise of specific estates had already been contemplated.4 Now decay was becoming tangible and widespread.5 Paradoxically, it is among the Westernizers, those who were committed to liberal principles of government and to economic and social progress modeled on Western Europe, that the ruin of the estate evoked the strongest feelings.6 Their representations of the estate foregrounded the poetic allure of the place, the free, yet educated lifestyle it accommodated, and the creativity of its residents, writers, musicians, or painters, along with the erotic opportunities it afforded. As early as 1859 Ivan Turgenev captured the transitional position of nobles of his generation in his famous novel A Nest of Gentlefolk. The central protagonist, Fedor Lavretskii, a nobleman who cannot quite set foot in life and ends up “a lonely, homeless wanderer,” is fascinated by the spectacle of stagnation and slow demise that surrounds him in the Russian provinces.7 Upon returning to his patrimonial estate after a stay in Paris, Lavretskii is struck by the “old, sluggish flies covered with white dust” that took over the mansion, while the overgrown, unkempt garden enchants him. Aware that “in other places on earth life was seething, roaring, and hurrying,” he succumbs “to the contemplation of this vanishing, fading life; sorrow over the past melted in his soul, like spring snow, and—strange thing!—never had he ever felt such a deep and strong sense of the motherland.”8 The commitment to modernization generated a compensatory vision of the lost countryside Eden, but this nostalgia was itself the by-product of a Westernized sensibility alert to the aura of ruins. Interestingly, it is precisely this nostalgia that underpins a vision of national distinctiveness. The vanishing past becomes the quintessence of Russianness , which modernization is likely to efface. Ivan Goncharov’s novel Oblomov likewise addresses the sense that Russia is drifting into decay while the Western world boldly forges ahead and creates a vibrant future for itself. The main protagonist, Il’ia Oblomov, clings to Romantic ideas of harmony and wholeness, but he is obsessed by the fear that his life is falling to pieces. His name, Oblomov, hints at fragmentariness—“oblomok” means fragment, broken piece. His surroundings are in disarray: the furniture is partly broken, his valet not only is in the habit of dropping objects, especially china, but also wears torn clothes. His flat is untidy and his estate yields next to nothing. Oblomov himself is compared to a ruin.9 He is the fragmentary product of plural influences, including liberal economic thought, and has lost touch with the patriarchal lifestyle to...

Share