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Authors: Vladimir Nabokov, John Banville
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too.
“Paul, just a word,” murmured Albinus and he cleared his throat and went into the study. Paul came in and stood by the window.
“This is a tragedy,” said Albinus.
“Let me tell you one thing,” exclaimed Paul at length, staring out of the window. “It will be exceedingly lucky if Elisabeth survives the shock. She—”
He broke off. The black cross on his cheek went up and down.
“She’s like a dead woman, as it is. You have …You are … In fact, you’re a scoundrel, sir, an absolute scoundrel.”
“Aren’t you being rather rude?” said Albinus, trying to smile.
“It’s monstrous!” shouted Paul, looking at his brother-in-law for the first time. “Where did you pick her up? How did this prostitute dare to write to you?”
“Gently, gently,” said Albinus, and licked his lips.
“I’ll thrash you, I’m hanged if I don’t!” shouted Paul still louder.
“Remember Frieda,” muttered Albinus. “She can hear every word.”
“Will you give me an answer?”—and Paul tried to catch hold of the lapel of his coat, but Albinus with a sickly grin slapped him on the hand.
“I refuse to be cross-examined,” he whispered. “All this is extremely painful. Can’t you think it’s some dreadful misunderstanding? Suppose—”
“You’re lying!” roared Paul, thumping the floor with a chair, “you cad! I’ve just been to see her. A little harlot, who ought to be in a reformatory. I knew you’d lie, you cad. How could you do such a thing? This is not mere vice, it’s …”
“That’s enough,” Albinus interrupted almost inaudibly.
A motor lorry drove past; the window panes rattled slightly.
“Oh, Albert,” said Paul, in an unexpectedly calm and melancholy tone, “who would have thought it …”
He went out. Frieda was sobbing in the wings. Someone carried out the luggage. Then all was silent.
10
T HAT afternoon Albinus packed his suitcase and drove to Margot’s rooms. It had not been easy to persuade Frieda to remain in the empty flat, Finally she agreed when he proposed that her young man, a worthy police-sergeant, should occupy what had been the nurse’s bedroom. And if anyone rang up she was to say that Albinus had unexpectedly left for Italy with his family.
Margot received him coldly. That morning she had been roused by a fat irate gentleman who was looking for his brother-in-law; he had called her names. The cook, a particularly hefty woman, had pushed him out, thank goodness!
“This flat is really only meant for one person,” she said, glancing at Albinus’ suitcase.
“Oh, please,” he murmured miserably.
“Anyway there’s a lot of things we must talk about. I’ve no intention of listening to the insults of your idiotic relations”—and she walked upand down the room in her red silk wrapper, her right hand at her left armpit, and puffed hard at a cigarette. With her dark hair falling over her brow she looked like a gypsy.
After tea she drove off to buy a gramophone. Why a gramophone? On this of all days … Utterly exhausted and with a splitting headache, Albinus lay on the sofa in the hideous drawing room and thought: “Something unspeakably awful has happened, but I’m really quite calm. Elisabeth’s swoon lasted twenty minutes, and then she screamed; probably it was terrible to hear her; and I’m quite calm. She is still my wife and I love her, and I shall, of course, shoot myself if she dies by my fault. I wonder how they explained to Irma the move to Paul’s flat and all the hurry and upset? It was disgusting the way Frieda described it: ‘and madam screamed, and madam screamed.’… Odd, because Elisabeth had never raised her voice before in her life.”
The next day, while Margot was out buying records, he wrote a long letter. In this he assured his wife quite sincerely, although maybe in too florid a style, that he treasured her as before, despite his little escapade “which has bruised our family happiness as the knife of a
“Paul, just a word,” murmured Albinus and he cleared his throat and went into the study. Paul came in and stood by the window.
“This is a tragedy,” said Albinus.
“Let me tell you one thing,” exclaimed Paul at length, staring out of the window. “It will be exceedingly lucky if Elisabeth survives the shock. She—”
He broke off. The black cross on his cheek went up and down.
“She’s like a dead woman, as it is. You have …You are … In fact, you’re a scoundrel, sir, an absolute scoundrel.”
“Aren’t you being rather rude?” said Albinus, trying to smile.
“It’s monstrous!” shouted Paul, looking at his brother-in-law for the first time. “Where did you pick her up? How did this prostitute dare to write to you?”
“Gently, gently,” said Albinus, and licked his lips.
“I’ll thrash you, I’m hanged if I don’t!” shouted Paul still louder.
“Remember Frieda,” muttered Albinus. “She can hear every word.”
“Will you give me an answer?”—and Paul tried to catch hold of the lapel of his coat, but Albinus with a sickly grin slapped him on the hand.
“I refuse to be cross-examined,” he whispered. “All this is extremely painful. Can’t you think it’s some dreadful misunderstanding? Suppose—”
“You’re lying!” roared Paul, thumping the floor with a chair, “you cad! I’ve just been to see her. A little harlot, who ought to be in a reformatory. I knew you’d lie, you cad. How could you do such a thing? This is not mere vice, it’s …”
“That’s enough,” Albinus interrupted almost inaudibly.
A motor lorry drove past; the window panes rattled slightly.
“Oh, Albert,” said Paul, in an unexpectedly calm and melancholy tone, “who would have thought it …”
He went out. Frieda was sobbing in the wings. Someone carried out the luggage. Then all was silent.
10
T HAT afternoon Albinus packed his suitcase and drove to Margot’s rooms. It had not been easy to persuade Frieda to remain in the empty flat, Finally she agreed when he proposed that her young man, a worthy police-sergeant, should occupy what had been the nurse’s bedroom. And if anyone rang up she was to say that Albinus had unexpectedly left for Italy with his family.
Margot received him coldly. That morning she had been roused by a fat irate gentleman who was looking for his brother-in-law; he had called her names. The cook, a particularly hefty woman, had pushed him out, thank goodness!
“This flat is really only meant for one person,” she said, glancing at Albinus’ suitcase.
“Oh, please,” he murmured miserably.
“Anyway there’s a lot of things we must talk about. I’ve no intention of listening to the insults of your idiotic relations”—and she walked upand down the room in her red silk wrapper, her right hand at her left armpit, and puffed hard at a cigarette. With her dark hair falling over her brow she looked like a gypsy.
After tea she drove off to buy a gramophone. Why a gramophone? On this of all days … Utterly exhausted and with a splitting headache, Albinus lay on the sofa in the hideous drawing room and thought: “Something unspeakably awful has happened, but I’m really quite calm. Elisabeth’s swoon lasted twenty minutes, and then she screamed; probably it was terrible to hear her; and I’m quite calm. She is still my wife and I love her, and I shall, of course, shoot myself if she dies by my fault. I wonder how they explained to Irma the move to Paul’s flat and all the hurry and upset? It was disgusting the way Frieda described it: ‘and madam screamed, and madam screamed.’… Odd, because Elisabeth had never raised her voice before in her life.”
The next day, while Margot was out buying records, he wrote a long letter. In this he assured his wife quite sincerely, although maybe in too florid a style, that he treasured her as before, despite his little escapade “which has bruised our family happiness as the knife of a
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