The Summer Guest (8 page)

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 are 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.

But Zinaida Mikhailovna, you're quite right, I insist. Perhaps I am feeling somewhat odd myself, with this burden of correspondents and family and friends.

Tell me—regarding our young lady from Novorossiysk—what is it in so-called ladies' novels that is so repellent to our male readers? Do you know, Anton Pavlovich? I should like to have your opinion.

He made a sort of nervous sound, not a laugh, exactly, nor quite clearing his throat, then said, I believe, from what I have observed of my own brothers and of men in general . . . that love and relations with women complicate our lives immensely. And we wish it were not so—but we have . . . no control. So if you ask us to read a novel that is about nothing but love—love desired and exalted, as women feel, and often write about when they are writers—then as men, we sense we are not only unworthy of such exalted feelings but also trapped—do you understand, Zinaida Mikhailovna?

I nodded. And added very quietly, For a few pages, you might perceive what our lives are made of.

And a good man will have a guilty conscience—never a pleasant sensation; a bad one will be merely bored. Impatient.

That may be, indeed.

But you have been fortunate in your life, as a woman, no? And please don't think that I judge women as I judge novels by girls from Novorossiysk. I would like to think I've known many women with lives not unlike your own—women who are educated and talented, who are interested in the outside world, participating fully—

My life has been like that, yes. And would have continued in that way.

There was a long silence; we drank our tea.

You are very stoic, Zinaida Mikhailovna. You are an example. More than that. If only—

I raised my head. Anton Pavlovich, what else can I be? Others may weep, but self-pity would only blind me further to the life that remains. Am I stoic? I try to live, to understand this time I have, to share and go on helping others with their lives if I can.

You can. He cleared his throat, then said, How have you learned to live with your illness?

(I was tempted to say something glib, like: It has been a very good teacher. But I decided to try to reach inside and understand how, indeed, I had learned this stoicism. If one can really understand and express such a thing.)

It was very hard at first. Of course it came on so gradually, but once the symptoms were unmistakable, there were some days of tears, and not getting out of bed, and—and almost wishing I could die then, and have done with my suffering, and my family's. But after three or four days, I suppose it was my reason, my will, a determination, though none of those things would ever have been strong enough if I did not love life. It is loving life, yes. I am fortunate to have my family; I want to be with them for as long as I can. That's all.

His hand was suddenly upon mine, very warm, slightly damp with the heat. He left it there for a few seconds, the weight of his palm and fingers. I could not see him, other than through his hand. Then he removed it and laughed gently. It is sticky heat, isn't it?

Yes. Perhaps it's going to rain.

Tell me, Zinaida Mikhailovna, these letters I've received—they're quite roughed up, actually. You have busy censors in Sumy, do you?

Yes. Pasha and Georges keep them entertained. Or rather, don't keep them entertained, they know better than to write anything the tsar's censors might relish. But the censors do keep on hoping, and reading, and I expect now you've caught their fancy as well.

A letter from my publisher in Piter. I've invited him to join us, but it's more likely, knowing his tastes and his lifestyle, that I will go to join him, perhaps in July. He has a villa in the Crimea.