The Summer Guest

by Alison Anderson

  If only Pasha had a friend who might take an interest in Elena. Perhaps one of Anton Pavlovich’s numerous brothers . . . Who knows, I haven’t given up hope for her. It’s children she wants, really, more than a husband.

  She needs to believe in something being born, growing, prospering. She sees too much of the other, and loses her faith in life.

  As for me . . . did I want children? I don’t think so. I never loved a man enough to begin to imagine binding with him not just to create a child—that is easy enough even without love—but above all to raise it and love it and bring it to adulthood with an aptitude for life. I loved many children as a doctor, and I am glad I have that to think of.

  I’m sitting by the riverbank. Natasha brought me here to my favorite spot, above the willow (where the pike bite), overlooking the bend in the river and the three small islands like heavy rivercraft drifting toward a town where there will be dancing . . . I convert the rays of the sun to images in memory—of course I see nothing but I see everything, because I know it hasn’t changed. The smell of warm earth and lilac and the acacia trees, the tang of the Psyol . . . on the far side, the domes of St. Vladimir’s reflect the sunlight. There are several small boats in among the islands, I can hear the fishermen calling to each other, can almost tell the distance between them; perhaps Anton Pavlovich is in one of them with his friends. He has adopted a young lad from the village whom he takes with him everywhere. Panas. The boy is very quiet in my presence, and as soon as the two of them go off together, I can hear all the questioning and fascination in his voice as he asks what’s wrong with me. My sad eyes, remembering Panas as a small, mischievous boy, always carrying a stray puppy under one arm.

  I have the dogs with me for company, Rosa and Pulka; they sit beside me panting in the heat, then run off to explore. It seems quiet, almost lonely, until I hear them scrabbling back up the embankment to splatter me with their doggie happiness and water from the Psyol.

  It is so warm! I have opened my parasol and balance it against my shoulder as I write. I should like

  Later.

  I cannot remember where I left off at that moment; Anton Pavlovich stopped by, so to speak, to admire me on my throne above the river. He startled me and apologized; he was alone, stretching his legs before going to join the others. I was not to worry, Natasha had come to find them and would return to me shortly, and in the meantime he would hold my parasol and ward off bandits and highwaymen.

  With the parasol? I asked.

  With my charm and wit. Bandits are particularly fond of charm, and highwaymen literally go to pieces over a chest full of wit.

  I’m in good hands, I see.

  He sat down beside me. I sensed he must have been wearing a hat and now was fanning the air with the brim. What a peaceful view, he said simply. I should come here to write, as you do. He paused, then said, My brother Nikolay is a painter. When he comes, I’ll bring him here, to this very spot. Perhaps you could sit for him, just as you are, with the parasol and your notebook on your lap. You inhabit your own world, with your notebook.

  I blushed and said, It keeps me occupied.

  Please don’t write anything libelous about my hat. It fell in the river, and I rescued it at great risk to my person and my dignity. I imagine it must smell of water sprites and crocodiles.

  I shall write exactly what you just told me.

  Do that. And you’re not to confuse crocodiles with alligators.

  Or water sprites with rusalki, or good Ukrainian peasants with amateur fishermen from Moscow.

  No risk of that.

  There was a moment of comfortable yet searching silence. As if there were much he wanted to say but did not dare. So I went first, boldly: And your novel, Anton Pavlovich? How is it coming along—or have you been using the drafts for bait?

  Ah, you’re teasing me. I don’t answer teasing questions.

  I smiled, then said with an excess of indulgence, I don’t mean to belittle your work. On the contrary, it’s very important, and—

  But now you do belittle me.

  What do you mean?

  Implying it must be important.

  But it is!

  Medicine is important. Building schools is important—what Natalya Mikhailovna is doing. Writing stories, on the other hand, is negligibly lucrative and entertaining, that’s all.

  You don’t really believe that.

  There was a pause, and a scrabbling sound as if he were pulling a handful of grass and tossing it beside him, then he gave a slightly scoffing laugh and said, No.

  We need novels somehow, don’t we? I asked. And why? We need literature and poetry the way we need music or the view of the Psyol—which I have lost, and which makes literature more important to me than ever. Perhaps I’ve answered my own question. But why literature, Anton Pavlovich? Why words? You must know?

  Ah, I suppose it’s like anything, Zinaida Mikhailovna, like religion or, as you say, music. Is there really an answer? Do we want an answer? For some mysterious reason, a story—and all the more so a poem—finds an echo in one’s spirit, first of all. It can entertain, as I said, then it can console, as you said, and obviously, it helps us to see and understand the world. And it asks questions, helps us to find answers—and beauty. Not to forget beauty. And like any other form of art, I suppose literature can—something your mama would like—literature can be uplifting—although I do not like the word, I feel I’m being put in a basket and hoisted on pulleys to some mountain monastery where an unwashed monk will be waiting to take receipt of me along with a side of bacon and some smelly cheese.

  Yes, I see what you mean, I laughed. Although I suppose it’s not the same for everyone.

  Not everyone has access to it—too heavy for the basket, perhaps. Take Anya, for example, with her round bottom. I believe her appreciation of art stops at the difference between sauce à la polonaise and sauce à l’ukrainienne. She’s not been educated beyond that. That is why we need schools, to give everyone the wherewithal to appreciate art. Well, you know what I’m getting at, I’m sure.

  Yes. And surely you don’t need Anya to read your stories. You have enough appreciative readers.

  My voice glowed more than I intended, but I continued: And the novel, then—I mean, your novel?

  The novel, the novel . . . Yes, I have started, but what I have thus far amounts to no more than a story without an ending. How am I to find the time and continuity to turn it into a novel, between fishing at dawn, and breakfast, and strolling about with Pleshcheyev and Vata, and soothing Mamasha’s grievances, and helping your sister, and meeting my friends at the station—

  But if you can find time for the stories, surely for the novel it is just a question of perseverance.

  Indeed. So it may be my own fault, not the circumstances. With a story, my character arrives with a flourish, waves his smelly hat at me, says, Here’s the dilemma, how do I dry my hat? Get that down on paper. And strides off again. Out of my life, and it’s done. But how does one deal with a complicated, irascible, endearing landowner or professor with a flighty wife and five brats and two dogs striding into one’s life for a whole year of smelly-hat flourishing?

  But you do want to write a novel?

  Yes, yes! And there are people who want me to do it. I’ve no end of encouraging souls, they want me to expand, as it were, get my teeth into the big themes, develop my characters beyond the moment of . . . dilemma, let’s say, to see repercussions and conflict and redemption and all that, like Tolstoy, I suppose. Yes, it could be good to write about this very view, and how it looks not just now but in winter, too, or in November with the first snowflakes . . .

  Oh, yes! When the leaves have fallen, you can see a little cottage over there behind the trees, and the shack on the island, also hidden behind all that growth. Things come to light. It’s very different. Melancholic. You wonder if there will ever be lilac again. It’s bleak and yet it’s beautiful in its way. There are storms, waves on the river, and the islands seem to move
. . .

  Yes! I could put all that in a novel, couldn’t I? But I could also use just that moment in a story.

  You must try, if it’s what you want, wherever you go for your inspiration—

  Please, none of that! As I said, my inspiration is my bank manager—

  Oh, Anton Pavlovich, now you really are making fun of me. Excuse me if I’m presumptuous, but I think your inspiration is this view, and my dogs, and my parasol.

  Zinaida Mikhailovna, how can I argue with you? So what should I do? How am I to find the endurance, the continuity, to write this novel? How am I to keep my family and friends and the aroma of Anya’s sauces from disrupting my work?

  What if . . . what if you were to keep a notebook where you could trace out the trajectory of the story so that you knew exactly where your characters were going, and you would remember where they had been—

  But half the time I don’t know where they’re going! That’s the magic of the thing—they are completely unruly, downright intractable. I had no idea Sofya Petrovna would leave her husband.

  I fell silent. I didn’t know what else to suggest. I supposed that writing a novel was a mixture of determination and concentration, and indeed, external factors—like money or noise or a river full of fish—could be terrible distractions.

  Well, Anton Pavlovich, I said finally, if there is any way I can assist you, if an audience for your first drafts could help, could urge you on, like those readers in England waiting for the next installment of Great Expectations—

  Yes, you can play Queen Victoria, and I’ll be the court jester bringing you the daily installment of Adventures and Misadventures on the River Psyol.

  How deftly he always stepped away from himself. It was quite intriguing, almost exhausting, to try to get to know a person, only to find the jester constantly stepping in between.

  Altogether a rather delightful jester.

  As if on cue, Natasha arrived to walk with me back to the house.

  Maria Pavlovna has been reading to me, a wicked story by her brother called “The Witch.” A narrow-minded, foolish deacon accuses his beautiful young wife of seducing all the strange men she meets, while inducing terrible natural phenomena such as thunderstorms and blizzards. Maria Pavlovna sees the story as an allegory for jealousy, that the husband is using the wrath of nature to explain his own anger against his wife’s dangerous beauty. I remind her of the deep superstition of country people, and that any form of envy toward beauty or good fortune can be translated into accusations of witchcraft.

  No doubt your brother is aware of this, too, I said.

  He is certainly aware of the inexplicable mystery of beauty. He reveres it but is also deeply suspicious of it.

  (I love to hear Maria Pavlovna speak, with her intonation so similar to Anton Pavlovich’s; she uses the same exclamations, the same rhythm to her sentences. And then there is her laugh, altogether her own.)

  He is quite the idiot at the moment, she said. He has been talking incessantly about the miller’s daughter. You know the one?

  Yes, I remember her, though she was still a child, really, the last time I saw her. Blue eyes and thick long hair in coiled braids, flaxen . . . a pure Ukrainian beauty, straight out of a tale. Have you seen her?

  She was silent for a moment then said mysteriously, Antosha cannot reconcile the idea of beauty with his everyday life. He must remain in awe of it. I wonder if that is why he has not married.

  This afternoon I took Rosa and made my way to the guesthouse. I forced myself somewhat; I haven’t been feeling well, a slight dizziness, possibly signaling a seizure. It is very warm. I sense the sky is deep gray, heavy with storm clouds. Still, I’m not looking for excuses; rather, I need to defy my own traitorous body, tell myself that in the heat and electricity and dizziness, I can still do as I like for as long as possible; I will not be bedridden until I am given no choice. And if my defiance helps to defer that time, so much the better. I do not believe, as Mama does, that some venerable bearded men in night shifts are waiting to usher me into the Grand Drawing Room in the Sky. It is now that I want to live.

  So, the guesthouse. We made our way slowly; Rosa is so good, she does not run off, she runs circles round me, whines gently if I am slow, as if to indicate where I must go. We went around the back and into the garden, and I paused and leaned on my stick. I sensed a presence, but no one greeted me. Was I mistaken? I waited for a moment, again thought I heard a faint sound, as of paper or a chair creaking. Then, just as I called, Is anyone there? there was a simultaneous exclamation, and Anton Pavlovich said, Goodness, Zinaida Mikhailovna, you startled me, you and your dog, what quiet ghosts you are on a warm day!

  I smiled and apologized and started toward his voice; his hand was on my elbow instantly, leading me up the steps and to a chair.

  He shouted to Anya to bring us some tea, then inquired after my health. Fair enough. The same, I lied. And you? I asked. You’re alone here? Where are the others?

  They’ve gone to the river; I’ll join them later. I was staying behind to read my correspondence.

  A rustling of paper.

  Oh, I’ve disturbed you—

  Sit, sit, Zinaida Mikhailovna, these can wait.

  When the tea arrived, Anya arranged a small table next to me and poured my glass; rarely has that familiar sound of hot flowing liquid against glass seemed more delicious, despite the heat; I might even venture to say nostalgic. (I’m sure Anton Pavlovich would tell me a sound can be neither delicious nor nostalgic, but my senses are all confused, as are words, with loss of vision.)

  I receive so many letters now, he said, it’s quite astonishing. Most are from people I know, but quite a few from strangers who hope I’ll usher them into writerhood.

  And will you?

  If I . . . if I think they have talent—then they ought to be encouraged, naturally.

  And if they haven’t?

  Well, it’s awkward, isn’t it. A bit like a rather hopeless case, medically.

  (I heard his smile, he sipped his tea.) You have to tell them something they do not want to hear, that they have no talent.

  Precisely, he replied. Or that they have talent but write about uninteresting, dull people, or that no one will understand their fantasy, or that they’ll never get past the censor. Speaking of censors—

  I interrupted him. But surely you should not be the sole judge of their writing abilities? Just as I was seen by several doctors . . . It is, after all, your opinion; someone else—Monsieur Pleshcheyev or Natasha—might read their writing and find it perfectly acceptable.

  Of course, this happens all the time, Zinaida Mikhailovna; but they have asked for my opinion, and I must give it them. I give advice if I think there is any hope, naturally—cut out this scene, make that character less verbose, don’t give your opinion on the fish in the Psyol, for no one in Moscow or Saint Petersburg could give a kopeck about that—

  I laughed and said, There, you’re much mistaken. We have the rising star of the Moscow literary world staying in our guesthouse this summer, and he’s quite obsessed with the fish in the Psyol.

  There was a pleasant silence.

  I confess, Zinaida Mikhailovna, that it is a terrible burden—a responsibility—to have to judge another’s literary talent. Who indeed am I to judge? Why don’t they write to Tolstoy or Leskov?

  I’m sure many of them have. But you are very approachable—they must sense that, in your choice of characters. You don’t write about counts and grand dukes. Or Napoleon.

  Well then, henceforth I shall. Excellent advice, Zinaida Mikhailovna. Merci.

  Je vous en prie.

  One of these letters—he rustled the paper—is from a young girl in Novorossiysk. She has sent me a novel she has written, and she tells me it is about the love between a prince from Piter and a young girl from Novorossiysk. I haven’t read a line yet, but I dread what I shall find. A novel that my mama would read, with a handkerchief at her side—

  Anton Pavlovich, you ar
e hard on us. First of all, you do not know if what this young lady has written will be sentimental rubbish. Even if that is her perfume I smell wafting from the page.

  He shook the letter: Damask rose, she doesn’t skimp.

  And you mustn’t have such a prejudice against young girls—it may show up in your writing! What other matter does our fine Mother Russia give a woman to write about? What world do they know other than balls and officers and country estates—if they are well-to-do; or hoping for a decent marriage or, worse still, desperately running off with their lovers, as your characters do? Can she write about going to medical school or becoming privy councillor or traveling to Siberia to inspect the forests? No! Anton Pavlovich, you disappoint me, you lack imagination!

  He cleared his throat, continued in a low, uncertain tone I had never heard. Zinaida Mikhailovna, you humble me—yes, I have had a moment of terrible prejudice. What can I say?

  Say nothing. Just read the first chapter of her novel. Then you will tell me who is right. You don’t know, she may be another Madame Sand—a potential Madame Sand, that is—and if you go into her novel with a determination not to accept it or like it because she perfumes her letters and writes about princes, then you are no better than some of the blind and self-regarding characters in your own stories!

  No sooner had I said this than I regretted it. Oh, what a wretched day, with this dazzling blinding light in my brain, and the heat! I immediately apologized; I told Anton Pavlovich that I was feeling odd.