Preface
I found it interesting that I had already started forming swaying opinions of Pavlova based on the snippets found in the preface. I can see where some of her critics are coming from in saying that she was too much devoted to her art; however, I would say the same thing of a man acting the same way, whereas I believe their angle was that only men could devote themselves so wholeheartedly to art-for-art's-sake. This is just my view on healthy balances. I sense a kind of brokenness in her from the descriptions of her conduct, damage taken from her having to forge ahead in constant struggle and some measure of insecurity that would mostly come from her cultural situation but perhaps somewhat from the fact that she has no normalized, rarely-shaken female model to look to in her life. Instead, all around her are her "mute sisters" not yet free. So it seems to make sense that when even praise for her poetry comes with mockery of her own character, and she and her poetry are at once one and the same (in how fully she's thrown her life into being a poet) and conflicting (in the woman-poet struggle and other dualities described) that she would have some need of seeking approval and promotion of her art all the time. All of this makes me pretty curious to read her only book.
Chapter 1
It would seem at first that Pavlova alternates between rather straightforward dialogue and either romantic or at least very sense-based descriptions (as in the atmosphere of the drawing room and the rest of the party, and the magic of the night outdoors) and practical explanations or interpretations of culture (like with the Englishwoman/maid.) But in the dialogue are details and hints just as rich, such as Cecily's preference of a man's appearance, and the blonde girl's sudden question and Cecily's reaction implying that Dmitry Ivachinsky might fit such a description. His "almost feminine shyness" then seems to reappear during the dream poem: "And from his lips there came a word\ Sadder than the song of far-off strings;\ It seemed as if a quiet kiss\ Had touched her youthful brow." It's pretty striking how Pavlova is able to convey almost whatever amount of depth she chooses by combining prose with poetry the way she has. The dream seems to bring life ("the midnight radiance of all the worlds,\ And all the sighs...Melt into a single harmony") to the happens of her day that are otherwise dreary (the young man "fed up with conversations," the amusement of the "terrible man") or even subduedly vicious (the one circle speaking ill of the dead, the tall lady's condescending comments about country neighbours, and the blonde girl's cutting comments).
Chapter 2
Already she's late because dreaming and sleep are more appealing than the real world in which Cecily walks. Apparently I was wrong to assume the man in the dream was Dmitry; Cecily reveals to Olga that it was the dead man the one circle had discussed at the party in the previous chapter. That gives much more sense to the part of the poem mentioning that it was a phantom and someone she had never met who was being described. We learn some background about high society and how it is able to forgive Madame Valitsky's past, and about how her and Vera Vladimirovna shape their daughters with such terrible precision. To me it seems counterintuitive to try to "keep them safe in all their childlike innocence" while also trying to arrange marriages for them. The probably lengthly transition from innocence into whatever we might want to call the state in which Vera and Natalia Afanasevna operate (perhaps live is too positive a word?) seems almost bound to be tragic. The dead man returns and laments this in Cecily's dream and claims that whatever of God's spirit that's still alive in her is only able to move amongst the "world amidst the world" of her dreaming. He promises not to ruin her life during the day by "lifting the veil" and exposing high society's lies for what they are.
Chapter 3
Perhaps the poor poet's role as almost a pawn (and his unvoiced thoughts that perhaps to feel, reason, love, and pray might be important to humanity (p. 58)) are reflective of Pavlova's experience of how poets are treated, but the language she uses seems to cut down critics of the art. "Prince Somebody" being "inflamed by his own eloquence" rather than hearing Vera Vladimirovna's humble rebuke seems to be an effective satire in defense of such poor poets' purity, as is the revelation of the meaninglessness of the whole conversation to at least one of the youth there ("What a pleasant evening!" being met with "Especially since it's over," in passing). But after this scene Pavlova returns to painting Vera much more monstrously, as having destroyed so many natural and beautiful aspects of Cecily. Even her talents are crammed into vases for decoration (not exactly her words, p. 60) rather than being allowed to spread and come to fruition as she pleases. The dream in this chapter seems to break from the dead man and come out of the poetry Cecily heard read that day. It describes hope for the world as perhaps it ought to be, not in an original or innocent sense, but in a redeemed sense, with poet-prophets heard and heeded, and the holy gifts of nature recognized as blessing and being blessed in return by human beings. This seems to be a fleshing out, maybe a daylit version, of the mysterious depth of the stars Cecily has been drawn in by in the past few chapters.
Chapter 4
Continuing the theme of what has been done by her mother to Cecily, we find in Petrovsky Park too the dripping irony, "...nature made herself unnatural. In a word, everything was as it should be." A few things mentioned in the preface, the "violent female daring" quote and the part about Pavlova using horseback riding as a sexual metaphor, show up in this chapter, but it seems like a more careful analysis might be needed to draw out what the author is saying by these. Not that the preface author was wrong, quite the opposite. These and other seeming "iceberg tips" are sprinkled all throughout the book, but without such interpretive hints as the preface gave I'm not sure I would've picked up on much of their meaning even after a second reading. In any case, the metaphor in particular seems to fit, but it's difficult to say how that colours her conversation with the prince--does it extend to include his/their fright at her flight? It would seem to fuel Dmitry's later jealousy as the one who didn't "tame" the situation.
The inevitable-transition-tragedy thread continues here with Madame Valitsky's further meddling and Pavlova's comment to Vera Vladimirovna, "Where was your sharp eye, watchful mother?"
The preface again helps us interpret, as the dream sequence seems to revert to the dead man and the pattern of inverse relationship to the day's events in the eyes of Cecily. She is becoming drunk with love, but her dream is getting darker and simultaneously more truthful, at least, that is, if you read it not as prescription, but as rebuke. "You are a woman!" is repeated to her, preceding the implications of that that high society via Vera has hammered into her from a young age. The world as it ought to be as described in the previous chapter is in stark contrast here: "Light of ecstasy, holy revelations,\ Gifts of heaven--you are useless to us." Sharing any of this pain with men is impossible: "Do not call the slaves of need, the blind sons of care\ Into your secret world, the world of your heart," and reconciliation with the Lord who since Cecily's birth has been inextricable tied with the rules of propriety (back on p. 59) seems even less likely this side of Heaven, with the final verses rhetorical exhortation to, at the end of the oppressive journey\ Ask...why the creator's orders are so stern\ And why the lot of the powerless still harder." Is this Pavlova's own question, wrestling with God? Or is 'creator' uncapitalized in order to redirect the question to high society, constantly (re)creating itself? In any case, the weight of all this is fairly unfathomable, but the next chapter comes around nonetheless without delay.
Chapter 5
Pavlova's sardonic wit continues in the un-nature theme with Cecily and her mother "enjoying what they imagined was nature and the morning." Then she outright lays into Vera (and any like her) for what she's done to Cecily:
Her soul was so highly polished, her understanding so confused, her natural talents so over-organized and mutilated by the unsparing way she had been brought up that every problem of life embarrassed and terrified her. Her mother's lessons and moral teachings were about as useful to her in relation to life as are the endless commentaries of zealous scholars to Shakespeare and Dante. Once you have read them through, you won't understand even th clearest and simplest idea in the poet's creation any more.Ouch! And how true. But Pavlova can't decide for certain whether such traditions carry on intentionally or not: "...mothers like Vera...most likely understand something of the possible consequences of their method," (emphasis mine) yet what will happen to the benefit of the doubt she extends to Cecily if or when Cecily inevitably follows her mother's molding? For all the simple-minded innocence Pavlova assumes "probably" on the part of Nadezhda Ivanova (p. 66), perhaps Vera Vladimirovna actually just feels a primal sense of relief (from the responsibility that weighs her down, p. 75) finally getting rid of the perfect copy of herself she's followed through to the end in shaping in her daughter. As the author herself asks about Nadezhda, "how can we know?"
Another lesson in Valitsky/Vladimirovna's vision of a woman's role comes in the latter's comment in front of Cecily about the woman who has just died, "the wife is guilty. Her duty is to know how to bind him to her and make him love virtue." Interesting coming from one whose husband is "always at the club," (p. 50), unless perhaps the club is considered a place of virtue--we're not really told.
The sexual metaphor from Cecily and Victor's previous interaction seems to continue at the next social gathering, Pavlova giving the summary of the prince being "one who can give in exchange for a flower he has taken a half million in yearly income." It seems plausible that a flower here could represent Cecily's virginity, although obviously only in the hypothetical sense within the narrative.
As an aside, it's really interesting how Pavlova at times seems almost bound to reinforce the very system she's fighting against. What I'm looking at is the part when the prince leaves, and Dmitry, humiliated, has remained next to Nadezhda. What about Nadezhda's perspective? It seems unimportant given her role (as "this living piece of furniture", p. 78) in the story, and yet Pavlova hints (as mentioned on p. 50 earlier as well as on p. 78 with the prince's surprise at her) that there may be more depth than we'll know. Perhaps Pavlova wasn't able to get inside such people in her own life, and so focused on the experiences she did know better; but it does seem to reinforce, somewhat, that the important people are those with money (cf. the opening line of the book, "But are they rich?" as well as the way in which this section is sandwiched between two gossip-discussions of the estates of dead and living people.) These latter references might actually lead us to believe that this is just another exposition within itself, not unintended irony in real life for us as readers.
To be honest, I couldn't really follow what was going on in this chapter's dream sequence with the two voices, and I didn't have time to go back and read it more carefully, so hopefully whoever was on chapter five will lay it out for me more simply in class.
Chapter 6
Cecily's birthday is immediately described with an underlying ridiculousness about it, from the expensiveness of the gaiety to the meaninglessness in the exchange of birthday notes and responses. Then when Olga arrives we return to the part about a woman's role mentioned last chapter. Saving a man from himself is fleshed out as the allure that will draw a woman to him: "The greater the danger, the deeper the abyss ready to swallow him, the more glorious is the triumph, the more tempting the success, the greater the pleasure in stretching out to the one who is perishing a saving hand, fragile and yet all-powerful." This theme reminds me of the protagonist in The Stone Angel, and makes me wonder whether the same lack of success will befall anyone (any woman?) similarly motivated toward marriage. Within the context of this high society, however, it seems that the allure described above would be doubled by the fact that in all other ways society women are creatively constrained (from Cecily's natural talents to the barbs Pavlova inserts about how women-poets in particular are something ugly.) Though sad in a sense, and implicitly labeled as pathetic by Pavlova ("In society's lexicon, this sort of move [going along with her mother's plan (in order) to get the Prince for herself] is called 'adroit' or 'clever,'") it seems to make sense that Olga would act in accordance with the system. Even more so, the possibility of control isn't limited to increasing a man's virtue, but "she was capable of bringing Dmitry to desperation," seemingly confirmed by Cecily's own graceful image in the mirror. Not that she would wish to use this control for evil--indeed, the next thing she does in the context of her relationship with Dmitry is to have him promise not to gamble any more (p. 90)--but rather this adds all the more weight of responsibility for her to save him since it's within the realm of possibility for her. Ironically this comes at perhaps the larger cost of her independence: again (in the continuing metaphor), there's an exchange involving a flower of hers, and Dmitry has replaced Prince Victor as the victor.
But back to the chronological story...
Chapters 7-10
Pavlova uses some comic relief in the next chapter by setting up Vera and the Princess to scheme with one another one Madame Valitsky's behalf, with Vera's plans to marry her daughter to the Prince completely undermined by her method of "tactful" communication, in which she unwittingly blesses a marriage to Dmitry instead. Some well-chosen words for Cecily's feelings, "She could touch her dream come true," (p. 106) and "Weary with happiness..." (p. 106). As the wedding plans envelop her life with busyness, there's yet another ironic smirk using Nadezhda as one to be pitied more than those in threadbare poverty, even though she is perhaps the most internally peaceful-happy character in the book, if not free in every sense. She's free because nobody really cares what happens with her, so there are no power politics of which she is the object. Meanwhile at the pre-wedding celebrations Dmitry has, egged on by his compatriots, bet them that he won't settle down, but will rather party all the more wildly:
"Of course," one of them added, "who would want to get married if the blessed state of matrimony made it necessary to give up wine and good times." (p. 124)Worse yet, on the wedding day, irony is in full swing, with Dimtry's friends' conversation, "'These nervous wives are a punishment from God! He'll be unhappy with her for life.' 'He'll cure her,' Ilichev said cold-bloodedly." (p. 130) The weather reflects the situation that Cecily is now stuck with: the "menacing clouds ... were carried no one knows where." (p. 131) And the fall into the abyss is complete: she has been so entirely programmed to reject that which might have freed her, that all she can do is continue into self-destruction.
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