Free The Summer Guest by Alison Anderson Page B

unlike what Anton Pavlovich had just said: that she must remember her training, must distinguish the person from the body, etc., and yet whenever she concluded with a sigh, But we grew up with these people!, I would find myself unable to offer any other comfort or advice. And we would sit on in the gloom until Pasha or Georges or Natasha roused us from our apathy.
    Anton Pavlovich delivered me to my armchair and took his leave with these words for Elena: I would advise her, too, to be less conservative with her prescriptions. Can you tell her that, with all due respect? To obtain maximum effectiveness. Just a thought; it might help. He paused, then added, You yourself seem far more dispassionate, shall we say. It must have been easier—when you practiced, I mean—to keep the demons at bay.
    Yes, I generally seemed well suited to the scientific angle, so to speak—why is the body ill? Not why do we, as human beings, tend to react to illness with such terrible anxiety and distress . . . How are we to live, otherwise? I smiled and added, It’s just altogether too much if you don’t take your distance.
    He placed his hand briefly on my forearm and said, Quite so. Good night, Zinaida Mikhailovna.
    May 28, 1888
    Tonya came to see me today. She is tired of being isolated in their cottage and is terribly worried that Elena and Pasha mightbe away when her time comes. I reassure her that if worse comes to worst, which it won’t, I can deliver the baby with my eyes closed (so to speak) and a bit of help from Mamochka.
    She’s a lovely girl, Tonya; Pasha has been fortunate to find her. She is hardworking and doesn’t mind his politics—in fact, I believe she shares them. She doesn’t mind that he dresses like a peasant and works like one, or that he has embraced the Marxist cause. She has taken an interest in his farming methods and helps him a great deal. He has set her up with a loom, and she weaves tablecloths and useful things for us all—rough and full of small mistakes that she apologizes for, pointing them out when you’d never have noticed them otherwise. I used to help her choose the colors. Now I run my fingers over the weave, looking for the irregularities, as if they told a story.
    I shall be an aunt soon. It’s a strange thought.
    I suspect Elena wants children, although she’s never actually said as much, at least to me. When your chances of marriage are slim, you don’t discuss children. I don’t doubt she would have them without a husband if the world allowed it. She doesn’t get along with Tonya, and I think it’s because she’s envious. Or jealous. She’s always had a soft spot for Pasha, he is more her little brother than mine, they used to go riding and fishing together as children; and now she’s both confused and elated that Pasha is about to become a father. I shouldn’t be writing this, I know Elena might read it someday, but perhaps I lack the courage to tell her to her face that she must wish them well, that I’m sure they’ll let her spend all the time she likes with the baby, but she mustn’t make things awkward for them with her stormy behavior.
    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