The Summer Guest: A Novel of Chekhov

By Alison Anderson

What if Anton Chekhov, undisputed master of the short story, actually wrote a novel—and the manuscript  still existed? This tantalizing possibility drives The Summer Guest, a spellbinding narrative that draws together, across two centuries, the lives of three women through the discovery of a diary.

During the long, hot summer of 1888, an extraordinary friendship blossoms between Anton Chekhov and Zinaida Lintvaryova, a young doctor. Recently blinded by illness, Zinaida has retreated to her family’s estate in the lush countryside of Eastern Ukraine, where she is keeping a diary to record her memories of her earlier life. But when the Chekhov family arrives to spend the summer at a dacha on the estate, and she meets the middle son Anton Pavlovich, her quiet existence is transformed by the connection they share. What begins as a journal kept simply to pass the time becomes an intimate, introspective narrative of Zinaida’s singular relationship with this doctor and writer of growing fame.

More than a century later, in 2014, the unexpected discovery of this diary represents Katya Kendall’s last chance to save her struggling London publishing house. Zinaida’s description of a gifted young man still coming to terms with his talent offers profound insight into a literary legend, but it also raises a tantalizing question: Did Chekhov, known only as a short story writer and playwright, write a novel over the course of their friendship that has since disappeared? The answer could change history, and finding it proves an irresistible challenge for Ana Harding, the translator Katya hires. Increasingly drawn into Zinaida and Chekhov’s world, Ana is consumed by her desire to find the “lost” book. As she delves deeper into the moving account of two lives changed by a meeting on a warm May night, she discovers that the manuscript is not the only mystery contained within the diary’s pages.

Inspired by the real friendship between Chekhov and the Lintvaryov family, landowners in the Ukraine, The Summer Guest is a masterful and utterly compelling literary novel that breathes life into a vanished world, while exploring the transformative power of art and the complexity of love and friendship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: May 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9780062423375

Alison Anderson

ALISON ANDERSON, a native Californian, works as a literary translator in the Swiss Alps. Her many translations include the Europa edition of Muriel Barbery’s The Elegance of the Hedgehog, Ingrid Betancourt’s memoir, and the work of JMG De Clezio. She has also written two previous novels and is the recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Literary Translation Fellowship, as well as fellowships at the prestigious MacDowell Colony and the Hawthornden Retreat for Writers. www.alison-anderson.com

Book preview

Dedication

For Amelia,

and in fond memory of

Gina Berriault,

who loved Chekhov

Note to the Reader

Zinaida Mikhailovna Lintvaryova’s journal is based on a true story, on the little that is known about her from Anton Chekhov’s letters and the obituary that he wrote when she died.

The town of Sumy is located in eastern Ukraine. Both Ukrainian and Russian are spoken there, as they were in Chekhov’s time. For the sake of consistency, I have generally used the Russian versions of Ukrainian proper nouns (Kiev for Kyiv, Elena for Olena, etc.) throughout the book, except when referring to certain contemporary events, where the Ukrainian is more appropriate.

Epigraph

The tyranny of the visible makes us blind.

The brilliance of the word pierces the night of the world.

—CHRISTIAN BOBIN

Cast of Characters

The Lintvaryovs

Aleksandra Vassilyevna, landlady, owner of the Luka Estate

Zinaida Mikhailovna (Zina), her eldest child, a doctor

Elena Mikhailovna (Lena), a doctor

Pavel Mikhailovich (Pasha), manager of the estate, a revolutionary

Natalya Mikhailovna (Natasha), a schoolteacher

Georgi Mikhailovich (Georges), the youngest, a musician

Antonida Fyodorovna (Tonya), Pasha’s wife

The Chekhovs

Pavel Yegorovich, the father

Evgenia Yakovlevna, the mother

Aleksandr Pavlovich (Sasha), the eldest son, a writer and journalist

Nikolay Pavlovich (Kolya), an artist

Anton Pavlovich (Antosha), a doctor and writer

Ivan Pavlovich (Vanya), a schoolteacher

Maria Pavlovna (Masha), the only daughter, a schoolteacher

Mikhail Pavlovich (Misha), a student

Their Guests

Aleksandr Ignatyevich Ivanenko (Sasha), a flautist and cousin to the Lintvaryovs

Valentina (Vata), another cousin

Aleksey Nikolayevich Pleshcheyev, a poet

Kazimir Stanislavovich Barantsevich, a writer

Marian Romualdovich Semashko, a cellist

Aleksey Sergeyevich Suvorin, a wealthy Petersburg publisher

Pavel Matveyevich Svobodin, an actor

Grigory Petrovich, a loyal servant

Anya, a cook

Ulyasha, a maid

Roman, a coachman

Artyomenko, Panas, and Mishka, Anton Pavlovich’s fishing companions

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Note to the Reader

Epigraph

Cast of Characters

The First Summer

The Second Summer

Luka

After Luka

Author’s Note

P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

About the author

About the book

Read on

Praise

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

SHE WROTE:

The road is leading into the distance, the distance where we are going and which we cannot see; there’s a slight rise toward the horizon of tall grass and a long line of poplar trees. It’s deserted, we have the whole world to ourselves; the tall grass is bending to the breeze. The air is the color of candlelight on an icon. The sun has almost reached the horizon. There’s not much time, and yet you feel, with so much space around you, that nothing could ever change: not the sun, or the tall grass, or the road into the distance.

She was pleased with her words.

Well, not exactly her words; they were meant to be his words, and only as she reported them. Perhaps he had said something quite different. They had been for a ride in the carriage, and these words were a gift of vision, a way of helping her see the world. The difficulty lay in capturing a moment: his voice, its warmth and depth, was lost already. What could a short paragraph do to convey so much—the road, the trees, the sky, the light, a whole vista no one could see now, except through words? And his presence there, with her, a brief respite in her darkness, his breath, his low laughter.

You take the words, she thought; by themselves, individually, they are almost meaningless. You take them one by one and you build not only a description, a vision, but also a memory, where you are present, and he is present, too, though neither of you is described by those words. What sort of magic was this?

If she were sentimental, or mystical, she might invoke love, or faith; but for now she must be satisfied with craft. Yes, craft. They were someone else’s words, after all; she was not the author. Just the scribe, the interpreter, the diarist, the translator.

THE FIRST SUMMER

Luka, Sumy, Kharkovsky Province

April 1888

A journal. That is what I need to fill these dull long hours when I used to be working, helping others and forgetting myself. Now it seems I must remember. A journal will occupy me, although there won’t be much to say.

Or will there? If my life were as it had always been until this untimely rebellion of my flesh, I would indeed have little of interest to relate. A catalogue of peasants’ woes: Grigory Petrovich has the gripes again, Anyusha is suffering from sciatica and about to give birth, Kostya’s toes were crushed beneath the cart wheel. My own provincial life: visits to neighboring estates, conversations when we all find a moment to be together, Pasha’s problems, as usual, with the authorities. His politics, of some concern to the tsar’s representatives in our remote province. There would not be much to say about me. But that bit of flesh in my brain is forcing me to withdraw from the life I knew, and I become the subject of my life. This embarrasses me and seems wrong, but Mama and Elena have encouraged me, and now they bring me tea and ink and a bound notebook and sit quietly by me while I scribble as clearly as I can. Mama says, rather too wisely, I am certain you will discover the territory of the soul, as once you discovered the human body.

I laugh and say, You mean I am to dissect myself?

You may dissect us all, in a manner of speaking. You must do what you can, whatever is necessary, to live with your diagnosis.

I’m a doctor, still, and I know what awaits me. Professor Chudnovsky himself was clear about that. I am living, as the English say, on borrowed time. To whom am I to repay this time, and when?

I am young, only thirty, and in our family we live long lives. We are not consumptive, nor are we drinkers of alcohol; we eat well and go for long walks, summer and winter alike. What have I done to deserve this? It’s nothing I caught at the practice, no, no contagious disease like typhus or diphtheria; I am simply a victim of chance misfortune. Yet I have been a useful person: If I had believed in God, I would now lose whatever tattered faith remained. Why has He chosen to take me away when I am useful to Him? Or am I, precisely, too useful, interfering with His ways?

I recall our friends in Kiev, the Zemlinskys, their youngest son was stricken in this way. They asked me about his headaches. There is so little one can do to relieve the pressure. I prescribed laudanum, then morphine. Now the headaches have come to me, though not yet so terrible. Elena will bring me what I need when the time comes . . . I try to accept my fate, if one can speak of fate.

Still I cannot believe what has befallen me, if belief is to the mind as faith is to the heart: My emotions rebel. They were trained for the useful life of a country doctor and its attendant satisfactions and disappointments. I was not meant to be taken so early from my family, and from this task that has given me a sense of honor and accomplishment, and pleasure, too.

Elena has promised that I may continue to work with her now and again. She will be my eyes; I still have my hands and my mind and my experience.

Pasha is a fine brother. He has made me a special device, a box to hold my ledger, with a ruler that I can move down the page after each line, measuring two fingers’ width—there are little notches. It will keep your letters and lines straight, he says, so that what you write will be clear.

For whom am I writing? I won’t be here, some old crone by the fire, to reread my youth. It must be a sort of testament to my family when I am gone. I have nothing else to leave them.

Turnham Green, London

January 2014

KATYA SAT AT her computer, drumming her fingers next to the keyboard. Peter had told her it was time to find a translator for the Sumy diary.

He called it the Sumy diary. Zinaida Mikhailovna was too much of a mouthful, he said. They had been married for over twenty years, and he still couldn’t get his tongue around some of your long Russian names.

Over the years she had learned to be indulgent. His passive Russian was excellent, as were his endearments. Katyusha, Katyenka, Katyushka—those names he could handle. Although sometimes it was simply, most affectionately, Kate.

What would they call it: The Diaries of Zinaida Mikhailovna Lintvaryova? He was right, it was a mouthful, no mainstream publisher would ever bring out a book with such a title, even for a work of nonfiction. She wanted to find something that would convey the Russianness, and the fact that it was a diary. Perhaps Something Something colon, then The Diaries of . . .

Perhaps the translator would have an idea. A translator would have more distance, obviously, might be able to find those few words that would draw the reader’s interest. At the end of her message, Katya would write, We don’t have a title yet. If you have any ideas as you work on the text, please let us know.

Now for the translator.

There was that American woman in France who’d done the Crimea guidebook. Anastasia something. Harding, that was it. Or Vassily Yuryevich. But Vassily Yuryevich was a man. It might be better to have a woman for this project, a female sensibility. She would have done it herself, but she did not want to act as a translator; her English was good enough for most things, had been good enough for those other projects, with the help of an editor, but this was different.

She typed Anastasia Harding to take a closer look at the woman’s background. Many novels translated from French; the most recent one had a very favorable review. Good. The guidebook had been a one-off, and it had been excellent. Not a great deal of work from Russian otherwise, but what mattered was her English, after all. And her female sensibility.

She must care for Zinaida Mikhailovna as much as I have, thought Katya. Together we must bring her back to life, along with her famous guest.

That night, in bed, Peter turned to her. I have a good feeling about this project, he said. It will get us back on our feet, I’m sure of it.

Katya was not so sure. They were governed by something larger than themselves, bearing down on them and their small publishing house. Banks, credit crunch, bailouts, crisis, recession; e-books, online booksellers, the disappearance of bookshops, the closure of libraries, the decline of reading. The monolith of market censorship, too. Oh, the irony, thought Katya, to have left the Soviet Union only to find another form of censorship. All the poetry she had been unable to publish as a student, when she was being watched; she had left her homeland as a young wife, in love not so much with her young husband as with the idea of becoming a poet in the free West. The Free West. Hah.

Well, none of that mattered anymore.

She reached for her husband. She loved him more now than she had in the early years; her present misgivings about the future sharpened her love, brought an almost physical ache of impending loss. It was not something she could say to him, not yet; she had to try, with him, for his sake, to focus her energies.

Polyana Press had been their life together, after all; the child they did not have, the novels and poems they did not write, the journeys they did not take. Perhaps that was why, now, it was failing. They should have loved it for its own sake; it should not have been in lieu of something.

They had been distant with each other lately: He had his worries, and she had hers. They couldn’t share those worries, or it might have brought them closer.

Perhaps you’re right, she whispered. It could be a great success: We have to believe in it, make it happen.

Trust me, Katya, please, I know what I’m doing. He touched her cheek, then left his finger there, while he looked at her in that way she had almost forgotten.

They made love that night for the first time in many months. For so long, their separate worries had deadened desire, even tenderness, but they understood that this silent reproach was not personal, that it came from anger at the injustice of their life at that time, the casual, random cruelty of what had befallen them. Katya had found her private way to accept, to overcome; Peter was still searching, dreaming again like a boy. But perhaps. This wild idea of his.

In the dark they smiled at each other. He stroked her cheek again. She reached out and touched his: warm stubble. This tenderness felt new.

And have you found a translator? he asked.

I think so. Anastasia Harding. If she agrees.

And how long will it take?

Not long. A few months.

A year, then, until publication, give or take. Can we hold on until then? Give it everything we’ve got?

Of course, she whispered.

He sighed, content. She turned her head away. There was a mutinous tear. She told herself it was a tear of emotion—this unexpected closeness. And the release, the letting go. All good reasons for a tear.

A village in eastern France, near the Swiss border

January 2014

ZINAIDA MIKHAILOVNA’S DIARY arrived in her inbox one day. Like a misdirected parcel intended for someone else, as if it had been forgotten in a dusty provincial post office and finally found its way to her, a century late, and only because its intended recipient was long departed from this earth. There was a message from the publisher, Katya Kendall at Polyana Press in London. Ana had worked for them in the past, translating a guidebook to Crimea.

She had hesitated to take on the guidebook at the time, as she would now with Zinaida Mikhailovna. Russian was difficult, its beauty idiosyncratic and complex, and it intimidated her. Ana’s Russian was perfectly adequate, but she didn’t go looking for translations from Russian; they found her. As Katya Kendall had found her that first time, and for a few weeks Ana’s mental space had been all Crimea. She had found herself dreaming of tsars’ palaces and Chekhov’s dachas, of craggy slopes dropping into the Black Sea, and exotic resorts with names like Feodosia and Koktebel and Gurzuf. There were the markers of history, like the Livadia Palace, where the last Romanovs had lived briefly and the Yalta Conference was held, and the villa where Gorbachev was staying at the time of the coup.

Now this new message, just there in her email. Dear Anastasia (if I may), We are terribly excited about this project, Katya Kendall enthused. Would she have a look at the enclosed text and let them know at her earliest convenience whether it was something she would like to take on?

Ana stopped and looked out the window at the lake and the mountains. The sun was setting, leaving a wild streak of light among the clouds; it had rained earlier. She had no reason to refuse; the text, or the ten pages that she had scrolled through, seemed fairly straightforward, even if the language was dated. Four months, she figured, all told. She wasn’t busy, she needed the money. She decided to sleep on it and give Katya Kendall her answer in the morning. Just a formality, sleeping on it; she knew she would say yes.

The publisher had attached a second document, an obituary. Ana skimmed it.

Much later, after she had finished all the rest, its poignant relevance would leave her unable to translate it for three days.

In a postscript, Katya Kendall had written: I thought we could use the obituary as an introduction or an afterword. It’s a remarkable document. Like everything he ever wrote. A story in itself.

At the time Ana didn’t realize who he was. She missed the author’s name in small letters at the bottom of the obituary. Would it have made any difference if she had seen it at once? It was odd, too, that Katya Kendall did not mention him in the body of her message, but then perhaps she was like that, discreet to the point of evasiveness.

The shadow of Zinaida Mikhailovna’s soon-to-be-famous summer guest fell later onto the page, and by then Ana had befriended the diarist in that odd way translators sometimes have, if they are lucky, of knowing their authors through a text, of inhabiting their identity and seeing through their eyes.

The next morning she wrote back to Polyana Press, told them she was interested, and requested a slightly higher rate, citing the antiquated language.

It was Peter Kendall who answered, tersely. Unfortunately, given the economic situation, we cannot offer a better rate. The contract was enclosed. If she was still willing to go ahead, would she print out two copies, sign them, and return them to him?

In the contract, there was a special clause stipulating that the subject of the translation was to be kept confidential.

April 10, 1888

First false warmth of spring. I am sitting in the conservatory in a thick coat. I close my eyes, listen to the birds, and wish I knew the notation for birdsong, so that in dark silent times, winter times, I might ask Georges to play their song to me.

I beg Mamochka to find me something to do, some vegetable to peel, some simple sewing I could do blindly, so to speak. She pushes me away with words of comfort: I must rest, preserve my strength.

I have not had a seizure for some days, but I fear one might be coming. A strange light-headedness, a giddy centrifugal pull on my senses. I think of Elena and everything she has to do, how busy she is these days on calls or with the patients who come to the house. Our peasants are a worrisome lot, and I fear she spoils them; they come to her for a hangnail. Because she is kind, and does not talk down to them, but listens and tries to prescribe a better life with the small means at her disposal. Sometimes a smile suffices, especially with children. It is like religion for them; they place their faith in her and are healed. We speak of it sometimes at dinner; Pasha and Georges scoff; Mamochka nods wisely; Natasha laughs and ridicules us all.

Yesterday Mamochka told us that this summer she will let out the guesthouse. It will go some way toward helping with the household expenses. I fear the arrival of some noisy, vulgar family from Moscow, newly wealthy and full of crass disregard for our provincial ways. Natasha laughs and says that such people go to Yalta, where they can be seen. Who can see them here?

April 25, 1888

Great excitement on the estate. Through our cousin Sasha Ivanenko, Mama has found a family to rent the guesthouse for the summer. A family from Moscow. One of the sons, Mikhail Pavlovich, came to have a look; he told Mama that one of his brothers is a gifted artist, and another a promising writer, and his sister is a teacher; both his parents are still alive, and all the family will be coming at various times over the summer. So Mamochka is brimming with enthusiasm and delight: She can already imagine the wealth of conversation they will bring, the entire outside world—news of Petersburg and Moscow and perhaps even Vienna and Paris—to our humble Luka.

There is a great flurry of cleaning and preparing and I am often on my own, feeling useless and frustrated. Mama gave me some silver to polish—that I could do—but then Ulyasha grew impatient with me, as she wanted to put everything away again as quickly as possible, so she tended to snatch things from me, kindly but firmly.

They arrive next week. I hope they will be sociable, amenable to sharing conversation. I hope they won’t get into political quarrels with Pasha and Georges. I mustn’t get too excited—what if they turn out to be the self-regarding, pretentious sort? But knowing Mama, and knowing Pasha, who must have shown this Mikhail Pavlovich around, they would not agree to come to us if they were not curious, open-minded people—artists, teachers, precisely. The guesthouse is rather run-down as well—Grigory Petrovich had to spend the morning repairing the steps to the porch! The young man didn’t seem to mind; according to Pasha, he just laughed and said, This will be the perfect antidote to Moscow, we are coming for the tranquillity and the river and the garden—and there is so much space! he exclaimed over and over. We live in a chest of drawers in Moscow, he said.

Imagine. A chest of drawers!

It’s true, we cannot imagine how people must live, cramped in flats in Moscow and Petersburg. Here we have so much land and sky . . . I feel it even now that the light has gone—I venture to say I feel it more strongly, this space, when I stand out in the garden and breathe in the fresh air, and the odors come to me from near and far—the linden trees, the river, the stables, incense from the village church, the dog who’s been swimming, the earth after rain, the lovely aroma of burnt caramel from Kharitonenko’s factory, and Pasha stopping by in the evening, smelling of good hard work. That’s how the world comes to me these days.

Sometimes I like to think I can smell the clouds, a faint crisp dampness, full of blue.

May 6, 1888

They have arrived! Mama and Pasha greeted them and helped them settle in. They are not all here yet, just the mother, daughter, and middle son. The father and other brothers will arrive over the course of the summer. The daughter is a teacher, like Natasha: such good company to look forward to! Mama says we are to let them get settled and tomorrow they’ll come for tea. They are tired after thirty hours of train from Moscow.

Pasha says the young man was very gallant and polite but also joking quite easily with Mama and teasing his own mother.

I am infinitely relieved. I was so afraid that they would be like that family who took the summer villa on the neighboring estate all those years ago. Andryusha—Andrey Kirillovich; I’ve never forgotten.

In the meantime, Natasha reads to me. What a luxury. Sometimes she reads too quickly, her voice tripping over the words—that’s her personality, forever in a hurry. We’ve had Anna Karenina again, but she gets impatient with it, impatient with Anna, and with Levin, and with Tolstoy, and our reading degenerates into arguments about the place of women in literature. So, lately she has been reading lighter things, as she calls them—articles from the major papers or short stories; but there, too, we find reasons to argue, or to conclude that life is unfair, and what shall we do about it?

Yes, I say, our lot as women is unfair—but look at our peasants and their children—isn’t their lot even worse? Are we not, in fact, incredibly fortunate?

She tells me that it is relative. She says if I remove the peasantry from the equation, we women become the peasantry. Even if our good fortune, as the Lintvaryova sisters, has been to be educated and enjoy a degree of freedom, that does not reflect the situation in general, and we should use our good fortune to help others, etc.

But we do, I protest, we are helping—

—those less fortunate, she interrupts. But what have we done to change the status of women as a whole?

By example, I insist. If other women see that they can receive an education, become doctors and teachers, find equal positions in work—

She laughs and says, But most women don’t want what we have. They don’t see the situation as it truly is. And authors like Tolstoy do not help, writing of fallen women and ingenues . . .

Natasha, surely you’re exaggerating or simplifying, I counter. One spoiled aristocrat from Petersburg with a broken heart does not represent Russian woman.

But you have heard how Tolstoy exploits his own wife—he could not write if he did not have her there. Although perhaps that is where she wants to be.

Natasha is eager, almost angry, tapping her foot on the floor.

I wish I could see her: her pink cheeks, her eyes burning dark with anger, her eyebrows never still, lively with irony or astonishment. But I cannot, so I say, We would have to ask Sofia Tolstoy herself if that is where—who—she wants to be. We don’t know if she is oppressed or willing.

How could she be willing? Running his household and copying out his dreadful handwriting and keeping all the children and visitors at bay, always in his shadow—

Perhaps she reckons his shadow is better than no shadow. Is it such a bad thing to be in the shadow? Have you thought of the power she might have, agreeing to the shadow?

I smile, and though I cannot see her expression, there is a sudden calm in the room, an end to foot-tapping and exasperated sighs. I have humbled my little sister, but I do not know if it is my shadow—the one in which I live now, permanently—or that of the great man himself that gives her pause for thought.

GOD, IT WAS COLD.

What weather deity had invented that terrible wind they called la bise? He must have been a friend of Monsieur Guillotin of infamous revolutionary fame, thought Ana as she stepped out into the street: Her hair tore at her cheeks, her scarf streamed behind her, and her coat flapped against her legs as if to keep her from walking.

The village was deserted; a last copper sheen caught the roof tiles, and beyond, the russet plaid of fields, the jagged parade of mountains. She walked quickly, pulling her shapka down tighter over her ears, holding her scarf to her nose, her eyes tingling, strained from a day’s work. Not what she had expected, two proto-feminist sisters discussing Tolstoy; but what a restful change from the frivolous or self-absorbed contemporary French novels that were her usual source of income. So what if it wasn’t going to pay much—there were times when work must be about more than income.

But it wasn’t easy to make ends meet, even with the better-paid commissions from bigger publishers—the crime novels and thrillers and bestsellers—that she’d been taking on since her divorce. Her colleagues who did commercial translation made twice as much. When they raised their eyebrows at her, half in commiseration, half in consternation, she pleaded job satisfaction. And she’d made it this far, living on her own in this village for the last three years; she squared her shoulders and raised her chin as her thoughts compelled her onward, into the wind.

Did she miss the easy days, back in Paris, with a husband? Easy only to a point, easier financially; as his business grew, Mathieu had taken on more and more of the burden of expenses. But ultimately, the financial inequality (among other things, not least of which was his infidelity) became a source of strife between them, and they parted. Not amicably, but knowing it was for the best. While Ana’s lawyer had urged her to claim a prestation compensatoire, she wanted total independence. There were no children; she wanted nothing more to do with that part of her life. She was still trying to understand why her reaction had been so violent: Was it the knowledge of having spent twenty years with someone only to end up complete strangers? Or the realization she had nothing to show—not really, most of the books she’d translated were out of print—for all those years? Mathieu had gotten the flat in the Marais (it had been in his family since the Revolution, after all), and Ana had accepted a small moving allowance that enabled her to resettle.

She did not like to think about Mathieu. Once the divorce and the move were behind her, she tried to pick up her life where she had left off before him, as if she were still in her early thirties, but she soon realized that society had changed (as had she, simply by aging physically, if nothing else—the eloquent streaks of gray in her long hair, which she refused to color) and the world was not about to let her get on as she would have liked. So her initial relief at being on her own soured into resentment toward Mathieu, and because she did not want him to poison her life, she forbade herself from thinking about him—a proscription that was often unsuccessful, given precisely such moments when her mind was allowed to wander. She had tried to rescue the good memories of their early years but thus far had been unable. Perhaps it was too soon; perhaps the weight of more recent incompatibility had buried their early happiness for good. How much was her own fault, too? Hadn’t she married him for the wrong reasons—the stability, the companionship, the passport? Which was also why, out of a distorted sense of pride, she had wanted no prestation compensatoire.

For three years now she had been starting over, starting from scratch—relatively late in life, according to some, but you couldn’t dwell on that fact or you would founder in useless projection and disappointment. That was how she saw it.

And her newly regained freedom meant she could organize her days as she saw fit. On a fine day, she could jump in the car and head off exploring the back roads of Haute-Savoie and neighboring Switzerland. The expanse of nature was new to her. She had not known until now how vital it was to her well-being, how comforting and sustaining the presence of clouds and mountains and a glimpse of lake could be. Or something as banal and universal as a bird or a tree! Not that there weren’t parks in Paris, and lovely ones—but so much land and sky to oneself, even in a bitter

Reviews for The Summer Guest

[roses7184_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I began reading The Summer Guest with very little knowledge of Anton Chekhov. Ivanov was assigned reading in college, so I knew that he was a celebrated playwright and story story author. That, however, was the extent to which I was aware of Chekhov's background. I'll admit, that's one of the reasons why I accepted this book for review. I'm always fascinated by historical fiction that adapts the lives of artistic people. That line between fact and fiction blurs beautifully, and I hoped that Alison Anderson would introduce me to a Chekov that was both his real self, and perhaps a bit more.

There are three narrators who lead us through this glimpse into Chekov's life, and each of them was pleasingly different. While multiple points of view aren't always my favorite means of conveying a story, in this case it was a perfect fit. Zinaida's journal entries wove together the rich landscape of the Ukranian countryside, with her thoughts on the very jovial playwright staying on her estate. Katya's story complimented this expertly, as a way of showing Chekov's ideals brought to life. Even Ana's story was an important piece of the puzzle. Her passion for translation, coupled with the fact that this very journal was what pushed her to follow her dream, gave this story balance and depth.

In fact, it's hard not to feel a kinship to these three women, as Chekov's story affects them all in different ways. I especially enjoyed Zinaida's point of view, which is happily one of the main portions of this book. Watching the world come to life through her character, was humbling. Since Zinaida is blind, there are many discussions of the importance of stillness, of listening, of using senses other than sight. A vast amount of the lushness of this novel stems from Zinaida's outlook, and her more intimate discussions with Chekov. I was smitten, and I couldn't help but be caught up in all three of the stories being told as they slowly folded together.

This is a wholly impressive story. I am not, in general, much of a reader of historical fiction. It takes a very well written, and intriguing, story to catch my attention and keep me reading. The Summer Guest accomplished that quite handily. If you're looking for a summer read, I'd recommend this without a second thought.

[janerawoof · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Anton Chekhov was what led me to read this book, since I really like his stories and plays. "The Bishop" is my favorite story. This is not so much HIS story, as that of three women and how he has touched their lives. The first is Zinaida Mikhailovna, one daughter of a gentry family, at whose dacha the author and his family stayed for two summers--1888 and 1889. This fact is historically true; we know this from Chekhov's own letters. The second is Katya Kendall; she and her husband run a small publishing company in England. The business is failing and with the English translation of Zinaida's diary, they hope to recover their fortunes. The third is Ana, a translator, hired to render the work into English. She hopes the translation will bring her fame and also, she searches for a "lost" novel Chekhov is supposed to have been working on. Zinaida gives tantalizing references to it in her diary. The novel skips from woman to woman and we get each of their stories. Zinaida is suffering from an illness that will probably kill her in the end and we see how stoically she bears it. The novel traces her friendship with Chekhov through the diary. A trip to Ukraine by Ana to trace Chekhov's footsteps those fateful summers and possibly find out more brings the novel to a shattering conclusion.The novel was so beautifully and sometimes lyrically written, I was immersed in the world of 19th century Russian life. Zinaida came alive, as did Chekhov. The novel explored the scope and power of imagination and of friendship. Highly recommended.

[topazshell · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

For two years in spring and summer of the year 1888, two families meet at the Luka estate in Ukraine, Russia. Alison Anderson writes about those years in "The Summer Guest." There the Lintvaryova family will meet the Pavlovich family. One member of the Pavlovich family will become a very famous author named Anton Chekov. When we meet him at Luka, he is a Doctor of Medicine as well as a writer. He will spend unforgettable times with Zinaida Mikhailovna.Zinaida M. is blind, suffers severe headaches and also seizures. However, she is always available for conversations with her family, friends and especially Anton Pavlovich. At this time, her most loved possession is her notebook. This diary will become the focus of a publisher named Katya and her husband, Peter, and a translator named Ana in the Twenty-First Century.There are many delightful and meaningful aspects of this novel. One is the difference between the West and Russia. According to Alison Anderson, there is a philosophical side to Russians. Therefore, the conversations between these two and others at the guest house can become very heavy and thoughtful. For example, there are thoughts about death, the afterlife and why serious illnesses enter our lives and whom should a person love in marriage and how passionate should that person feel about their chosen vocation. Anton Pavlovich talks about time. He is aware that time is not infinite. To use the gift of time well, should he spend most of it healing other people or writing a novel.When thinking of the title, I did have a hard time dealing with "The Summer Guest." I expected to read more about Anton Pavlovich and his family and friends rather than Zinaida Mikhailovna. This, of course, is due to his fame as a Russian author. He is the writer of "The Cherry Orchard" and "The Sea Gull" and other plays and short stories. However, Alison Anderson's focus seems to lean more on the importance of a woman's struggles during a five year illness.This woman's life is given great significance by Alison Anderson. I caught on to her respect for this woman like a fish would to a worm. I will remember Zinaida's thoughtful conversations and her contributions to the family and her desire to leave the diary as a legacy to her niece. My point is why not give the title of the book to Zinaida M. rather than to the author, Anton Chekov, or perhaps, a title including both of these wonderful Russian people. As it stands now, the title is a bit misleading.Yes, the author puts much in perspective about Anton Pavlovich near the end of the novel. This part of the Russian novel is very real and important too. I also would like to applaud the author for writing so much about the invisible life of a book translator.. I do not think these men and women get enough recognition. It came down to worrying whether Ana would receive all of her pay. This made me question the character of Katya and Peter. Were they truly honest as publishers while dealing with Russian Literature?I have to write Zinaida M. does come across as a wonderful person. I can see her walking with one hand on the shoulder of someone else while carrying a baby on her hip. I can see her touching every part of Anton P's face in order to remember him, and I can see her sharing talks with her sister, Elena and their mother. Seeing this lady's handwriting in a notebook would have thrilled me beyond words.As for Anton P., I will always see him walking from his bedroom through his brother's bedroom. His brother died early of consumption. I wonder did he think of his brother each time he passed through that bedroom. Anton P. seems like such a sensitive man. I'm sure he could hear again his brother coughing or his difficulty while trying to talk. Love, life, death, nature it is all here in "The Summer Guest" by Alison Anderson.

[diannebottinelli · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Summer Guest is a novel about the two summer Anton Chekhov spends in a summer home in Eastern Ukraine. He develops a friendship with the eldest daughter Zinaida Lintvaryova of the summer hosts. They are both physicians and writers, so they have many common interests. Zinaida is going blind and their relationship is limited to the times they can be together. He becomes her confident and Chekhov confesses to her that he is wants to write a novel.Two complicated contemporary women become involved in this mystery of a lost work that may or not have been written.I enjoyed the realistic presentation of Zinaida , her progression of blindness, and what that would have meant to a young professional who was very engaged in her medical practice and writing. I felt her helplessness as she falls in love with Chekhov, but realizes it is limited to the days they spend together now and has no future.A century later Katya Kendall discovers a diary written by Zinaida during this summer and sees it as a chance to save her struggling London publishing house. Ana Harding, the translator that Katya hires, becomes very involved in the mysterious diary and possible novel of Chekhov wrote or did not write.I liked the ending which I will not reveal.The mingling of the characters from the past and present made it an excellent read with a twist of mystery that remained until the last pages.I highly recommend this book for all readers.

[wagner5sarah35 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I struggled to get into this book, although I did make it to the end, and then I felt the conclusion was somewhat unsatisfying. I enjoy learning more about Anton Chekhov (his short story The Bet still stands out vividly among the reading required for my high school English class), but the focus of this novel is more on translation. An interesting book, but one I found less than engrossing.

[pamici_2 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Wonderful book! I devoured it as fast as I was able and am sad to have finished.

[beamis12 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Another one I had put down at one point, but after reading Angela's review, picked it back up. Another advantage to reading friends review, Chrissie's this time too, I knew what and what not to expect. Chekov of course being the draw for this one, I knew not to expect much in the way of information about him, though there was some. But, I came to love the three women's stories in their own right, three different threads, different time periods. Three woman who used Chekov, though only one knew him personally back in the 1880's, to come to terms with events in their own lives. I loved reading Zinaida's diaries, though her illness was very sad, for the most part the diaries celebrated life, family and friendship. This part was my favorite. A little mystery thrown in, a journey to the past and a revelation I didn't see coming. So I ended up enjoying this quiet read, these three women and whatever information there was about Chekov. Sometimes the second time is the charm. In this case it was.Arc from publisher.