Happy Life with a Russian Wife

What brings together a man and a woman from different cultures? What helps them grow in spite of the challenges of an international marriage?

In this section, you will find articles and posts, and excerpts from books with stories on international marriages. The opinions and observations from outside, especially those of a person belonging to another culture are valuable and interesting because they are individual and sincere.

You will be able to learn more about different points of view on family matters and to share your own experiences and lessons learnt.

Please, do not hesitate to register and join our discussion by leaving your comments.

Here’s the first piece of observations: an excerpt from the book “The Daily Life of the American Family” written by a Russian journalist, Ada Baskina. We hope that it will be helpful in understanding the difference in emotional perception of the world shared by spouses in an international couple:

“In numerous surveys conducted by American sociologists among married couples, the question, “What is the most important for you in a family life?” provides a diverse set of possible answers, such as “material prosperity,” “children,” “shelter from life’s storms,” “love,” “the common spiritual interests,” etc. Out of them, “love” always gets in the first place in the answers of the surveyed. Thus, the value of a romantic love, so strongly asserted by Max Lerner, a connoisseur of the American culture, gets its sociological evidence.

Nevertheless, our talk about love is not over. Studying further on Lerner’s work on the “Development of Civilization in America,” I came across a strange message, “American parents, especially mothers who do not have a sufficient emotional life… suffer from a deficiency of emotion …”

How could that be? Where is it, “love, love all around” as sung in one American song? Can there exist the lack of something, when that “something” is everywhere in abundance? Here arises a new issue about the very quality of love, that is, its emotional fullness. Not wishing to philosophize in vain, I shall better refer again to another statement made by Max Lerner. It defines the features of the Americans’ emotional lives as follows, “The American way of life with all its outward vigor is not generally emotionally expressive. The emotional richness of the Romance nations, for example, seems to be a volatile extravagance here.”

To better understand this claim to the emotional side of American life, I turned to the book “From Nyet to Da: Understanding the Russians” written by another American, Yale Richmond. Comparing the behavior of people belonging to two cultures, he draws attention to the following difference: “The Russian soul, that is, sensitivity and rich spirituality, is in stark contrast to American rationalism, materialism and pragmatism…” Obviously, as a sociologist, Yale does not have the words to describe the typical features of the Russian emotionality called Soul in one word. So he just quotes Tatyana Tolstaya, who surely has enough of the power of observation and the wealth of expressive means, “In the Russian culture, feelings are seen as a clearly positive value… The more people express their emotions, the better they are perceived as being more honest, more open … Soul is the sensitivity, dreaminess, imagination, proneness to tears, compassion, dedication, patience that helps survive in intolerable circumstances; poetry… and a fancy to wander through the dark, damp alleys of consciousness … “(I apologize for the reverse translation). The Russian soul causes J. Richmond’s “respect and admiration.” Both he and his compatriot Max Lerner lack that kind of bright emotionality in their native culture.

Now I want to share a love story, which I think perfectly illustrates what was said. I mentioned that my friend Bridget McDana had lived with her husband Greg for ten years cheerfully and harmoniously. They had much in common. Both were the people of art: she was a theatrical manager, and he was a composer. Both liked to spend time at theaters, musical concerts, and in clubs. They had many friends who admired their way of life.

Several times they both visited Russia: Greg had composed a musical specifically for the Tomsk Operetta Theater, and had it performed there. Both Bridget and Greg were wild about those trips: the Russians’ hospitality, interesting conversations at the table, and vodka, which relaxed so wonderfully and helped find one’s tongue as it had turned out. Upon returning home, they kept on talking about the beautiful distant country.

Once Greg went to Russia alone, because Bridget’s theatrical season began and she was unable to accompany him. He wanted to stay, but actors from the Tomsk Theatre could not wait: the rehearsals had to be started immediately.

At the airport, they parted gently. “We’ve never separated before,” said Greg. “I will miss you.” – “I will miss you too,” promised Bridget.

He was to return in a month, but later he called to say he was being delayed. Then he postponed his arrival for more… Finally, he called, “I am flying out and will arrive soon; meet me.” At the Rotary Club, which was the club for the most respected people of the city, where Bridget was a member of the Board, the next meeting was scheduled for an excellent event: Greg’s sharing his story on his long trip to Russia. He had spoken there before, showing slides, playing Russian melodies on the piano, singing Russian songs. Bridget added her impressions from their various meetings in Russia. Club members were anticipating the pleasure… They had waited for him for two hours. This seemed strange, since it was certain that Greg had returned two days ago. But the absence of Bridget was even more frightening, because she had never missed a meeting. Their phone answered cheerfully by Bridget’s voice recorded on the answering machine a long time ago.

Finally, when it became clear that something terrible had happened, the club chairman’s cell phone rang and the voice of the living Bridget reported that they were all right, but unfortunately Greg could not come. He was sick.

Greg was really sick, not physically, but mentally. In fact, he told his wife that he fell in love in Tomsk. “Is she beautiful? Is she more beautiful than me?” Bridget smiled. She knew that as a musician and actor, Greg was a susceptible person. Something like that had happened a couple of times before. She did not pay much attention to it. – “No, you cannot be compared to her. You’re much prettier,” he answered. – “So, is she younger? I’m already 31, I’m an old lady,” she continued to joke. – “She is 42. She has two children and even a grandchild,” he said, and continued without taking a breath, “I promised to marry her.”

It became clear to Bridget that something should be done immediately. She called a family psychologist. He asked what had happened. She briefly described their situation. The psychologist said he could arrange a meeting with them only in a week, but he was sure that during this time they would solve their problem themselves. But they resolved it neither before their meeting with the psychologist nor after. Poor Greg was unable to break the deadlock. “Don’t you love me anymore?” asked Bridget. “I love you,” her husband answered honestly. “Then what’s the matter?” – “I also love her.” – “Then why do you prefer her? Imagine how many new problems you will draw to your life with this marriage!” – “I can imagine,” replied Greg hopelessly. “But it is some sort of a different kind of love. It is such a powerful force. I have not experienced anything like that in my whole life. And could not even imagine that such things happen in reality.”

Much later, when they had already been divorced, I recreated the events in retrospect – the slurred picture that defies all logic, except of course the logic of feelings. I pieced together this jigsaw puzzle out of the Bridget’s revelations and conversations with our common friends to whom Greg was trying to explain something. But what could be possibly explained in that situation? Well, the lady was a usual woman. An interpreter. A loving mother. And a devoted lover. She knew how to listen to him – not only with her ears, but with all her being. She did not simply understand him. She penetrated into the depths of his “Self” and pulled out the best. He did not think that he was able to open so fully; he did not know what abilities lay at the bottom of his soul. He did not suspect that he could love in such a way – so blindly, unconsciously, dissolving into another person. It was she who taught him. And she did not simply empathize – she seemed to be taking all the brunt of his worries. He feared nothing with her. And it gave him such a pleasure (he, of course, said he’d got a real “thrill”) no sophisticated sex could have given. Although everything was all right with sex too. He discovered a previously unknown passion in himself.

Telling me about this, Bridget was blaming her Scandinavian origin: someone of her distant ancestors came from Sweden, and the northerners are known to be discreet people incapable of open displays of affection. But I think the issue here is about the American culture. It simply does not imply such brightness, such nakedness and whirlwind, and depth of emotions.

Greg married his beloved from Siberia, brought her to Chicago together with all her relatives. He assumed, as everybody had prophesied, that this idyll would not last for long. “Well, let it be. I will be grateful even for that period of time,” he said. But eight years passed. Our common friends say that he is still happy.

Bridget is happy too. She married a real American – a successful, wealthy, and self-confident man. He likes having such an elegant and charming wife. And he still cannot get it, what this eccentric Greg did not have enough.”