excellence of her translation. As if it were a book she had written herself. This was her chance. And she felt sure it would lead to other things.
She looked out the window of her attic study. In winter, when the trees were bare, she could see as far as the lake and the mountains beyond. The sky had cleared, and there was a pink wash of sunset on the white peaks. The tree in her neighborâs yard wore a sleeve of ice. She opened the window, let a breath of frost into the room.
May 22, 1888
For two days Anton Pavlovich has not come. Natasha tells me he is terribly busy with Monsieur Pleshcheyev. She went over to the guesthouse to invite them for this eveningâGeorges has been practicing and is ready to play for us, and perhaps the gentlemen will share some of their literary work.
Our young cousin Vata is visiting us for a few weeks, so Natasha took her along to meet them, and she tells me Vata was very impressed by the great poet. Naturally, he could be her grandfather, but she is in awe of his stature, his fame . . . Natasha says Vata has grown into a silly, provincial little thing; she hides her hand behind her back to keep from sucking her thumb; we are supposed to be trying to give her some culture, some finish, as the English sayânow she meets her first poet and goes quite dotty.
And what about Anton Pavlovich? I ask Natasha. He must be more handsome than Pleshcheyevâheâs quite young, isnât he?
I think he frightens Vata, said Natasha. She amuses him, so he says teasing, wicked things, practically drives her into Pleshcheyevâs arms for refuge. Pleshcheyev pats her on the head and says, There, there.
And with you?
Who, with me?
Anton Pavlovich?
She laughs her short, chiming laugh. With me? He knows Iâll only return the compliment, so heâs terribly circumspect. For the moment he respects me, which is almost a pity. I rather like that teasing side of his.
After a pause I ask, And heâs not engaged to be married?
It seems not. Itâs odd, no? Heâs got his mother and sister to look after him, so heâs obviously in no hurry, but given his looks, youâd thinkâ
What does he look like?
Tall and lanky, thick dark hair and a little beard, and very nice eyes that donât miss a thing. Rather more like an eternal student than a doctor, a bit like our Pasha without the politics. Or at any rate, whenever we try to pin him down on his politics he evades the issue.
And Monsieur Pleshcheyev?
Elderly, white beard, portly . . . With Anton Pavlovich, they share a certainâhow to describe itâgentleness. I cannot decide in the case of Anton Pavlovich whether it is because he is a doctor or a writer. There is something about men who work with wordsâpoets, writersâdo you suppose it makes them different?
I knew I was about to make a terribly banal suggestion, but I went ahead with it. Natasha can be so abrasive at times, she doesnât always take the time to understand why people are this way or that, so I said, since she had asked, Well, perhaps they spend more time examining what it is that makes us human in an immaterial wayâemotions, language?
Oh, well said, Zinochka. I must read more poetry, then. Improve my soul, in other words.
It wouldnât hurt, I said with a smile.
She reached over and stroked my cheek. After a pause, with a touch of mischief in her voice, she said, But did you know that this same Monsieur Pleshcheyev, who could be anybodyâs cozy grandfather, was a revolutionary in his youth and was sent to Siberia for ten years? He was in the Petrashevsky Circle with Dostoyevsky. Condemned to hang, then pardoned.
How extraordinary!
Pasha and Tonya canât get enough of him and keep pressinghim to tell them about his youth, but he keeps changing the subject. Iâm an old man now, he says, and chuckles, my time for revolutions is past. Iâve come here to write poetry.
She had lowered her voice in a
She looked out the window of her attic study. In winter, when the trees were bare, she could see as far as the lake and the mountains beyond. The sky had cleared, and there was a pink wash of sunset on the white peaks. The tree in her neighborâs yard wore a sleeve of ice. She opened the window, let a breath of frost into the room.
May 22, 1888
For two days Anton Pavlovich has not come. Natasha tells me he is terribly busy with Monsieur Pleshcheyev. She went over to the guesthouse to invite them for this eveningâGeorges has been practicing and is ready to play for us, and perhaps the gentlemen will share some of their literary work.
Our young cousin Vata is visiting us for a few weeks, so Natasha took her along to meet them, and she tells me Vata was very impressed by the great poet. Naturally, he could be her grandfather, but she is in awe of his stature, his fame . . . Natasha says Vata has grown into a silly, provincial little thing; she hides her hand behind her back to keep from sucking her thumb; we are supposed to be trying to give her some culture, some finish, as the English sayânow she meets her first poet and goes quite dotty.
And what about Anton Pavlovich? I ask Natasha. He must be more handsome than Pleshcheyevâheâs quite young, isnât he?
I think he frightens Vata, said Natasha. She amuses him, so he says teasing, wicked things, practically drives her into Pleshcheyevâs arms for refuge. Pleshcheyev pats her on the head and says, There, there.
And with you?
Who, with me?
Anton Pavlovich?
She laughs her short, chiming laugh. With me? He knows Iâll only return the compliment, so heâs terribly circumspect. For the moment he respects me, which is almost a pity. I rather like that teasing side of his.
After a pause I ask, And heâs not engaged to be married?
It seems not. Itâs odd, no? Heâs got his mother and sister to look after him, so heâs obviously in no hurry, but given his looks, youâd thinkâ
What does he look like?
Tall and lanky, thick dark hair and a little beard, and very nice eyes that donât miss a thing. Rather more like an eternal student than a doctor, a bit like our Pasha without the politics. Or at any rate, whenever we try to pin him down on his politics he evades the issue.
And Monsieur Pleshcheyev?
Elderly, white beard, portly . . . With Anton Pavlovich, they share a certainâhow to describe itâgentleness. I cannot decide in the case of Anton Pavlovich whether it is because he is a doctor or a writer. There is something about men who work with wordsâpoets, writersâdo you suppose it makes them different?
I knew I was about to make a terribly banal suggestion, but I went ahead with it. Natasha can be so abrasive at times, she doesnât always take the time to understand why people are this way or that, so I said, since she had asked, Well, perhaps they spend more time examining what it is that makes us human in an immaterial wayâemotions, language?
Oh, well said, Zinochka. I must read more poetry, then. Improve my soul, in other words.
It wouldnât hurt, I said with a smile.
She reached over and stroked my cheek. After a pause, with a touch of mischief in her voice, she said, But did you know that this same Monsieur Pleshcheyev, who could be anybodyâs cozy grandfather, was a revolutionary in his youth and was sent to Siberia for ten years? He was in the Petrashevsky Circle with Dostoyevsky. Condemned to hang, then pardoned.
How extraordinary!
Pasha and Tonya canât get enough of him and keep pressinghim to tell them about his youth, but he keeps changing the subject. Iâm an old man now, he says, and chuckles, my time for revolutions is past. Iâve come here to write poetry.
She had lowered her voice in a
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