Read Online The Eye by Vladimir Nabokov - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Vladimir Nabokov
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girl … Who had sent him, and whom he was trailing, it is hard to say. Though I did learn from one reliable source … But then I don’t want to say anything.”
Much more entertaining was Gretchen’s (or Hilda’s) concept of Smurov. One day in January a new pair of silk stockings disappeared from Vanya’s wardrobe, whereupon everyone remembered a multitude of other petty losses: 70 pfennigs in change left on the table and huffed like a piece in checkers: a crystal powder box that “escaped from the Nes S. S. R.,” as Khrushchov punned; a silk handkerchief, much treasured for some reason (“Where on earth could I have put it?”). Then, one day, Smurov came wearing a bright-blue tie with a peacock sheen, and Khrushchov blinked and said that he used to have a tie just exactlylike that; Smurov grew absurdly embarrassed, and he never wore that tie again. But, of course, it did not enter anyone’s head that the silly goose had stolen the tie (she used to say, by the way, “A tie is a man’s best ornament”) and had given it, out of sheer mechanical habit, to her boyfriend of the moment—as Smurov bitterly informed Weinstock. Her undoing came when Evgenia happened to enter her room while she was out, and found in the dresser a collection of familiar articles resurrected from the dead. And so Gretchen (or Hilda) left for an unknown destination; Smurov tried to locate her but soon gave up and confessed to Weinstock that enough was enough. That evening Evgenia said she had learned some remarkable things from the janitor’s wife. “It was not a fireman, it was not a fireman at all,” said Evgenia, laughing, “but a foreign poet, isn’t that delightful? … This foreign poet had had a tragic love affair and a family estate the size of Germany, but he was forbidden to return home, really delightful, isn’t it? … It’s a pity the janitor’s wife didn’t ask what his name was—I’m sure he was Russian, and I wouldn’t even be surprised if it were someone who comes to see us … Forinstance, that chap last year, you know whom I mean—the dark boy with the fatal charm, what was his name?”
“I know whom you have in mind,” Vanya put in. “That baron something or other.”
“Or maybe it was somebody else,” Evgenia went on. “Oh, that’s
so
delightful! A gentleman who was all soul, a ‘spiritual gentleman,’ says the janitor’s wife. I could die laughing …”
“I’ll make a point of taking all that down,” said Roman Bogdanovich in a juicy voice. “My friend in Tallin will get a most interesting letter.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of it?” asked Vanya. “I started keeping a diary several times but always dropped it. And when I read it over I was always ashamed of what I had put down.”
“Oh, no,” said Roman Bogdanovich. “If you do it thoroughly and regularly you get a good feeling, a feeling of self-preservation, so to speak—you preserve your entire life, and, in later years, rereading it, you may find it not devoid of fascination. For instance, I’ve done a description of you that would be the envy of any professional writer. A stroke here, a stroke there, and there it is—a complete portrait …”
“Oh, please show me!” said Vanya.
“I can’t,” Roman Bogdanovich answered with a smile.
“Then show it to Evgenia,” said Vanya.
“I can’t. I’d like to, but I can’t. My Tallin friend stores up my weekly contributions as they arrive, and I deliberately keep no copies so there will be no temptation to make changes ex post facto—to cross things out and so on. And one day, when Roman Bogdanovich is very old, Roman Bogdanovich will sit down at his desk and start rereading his life. That’s who I’m writing for—for the future old man with the Santa-Claus beard. And if I find that my life has been rich and worth while, then I shall leave this memoir as a lesson for posterity.”
“And if it’s all nonsense?” asked Vanya.
“What is nonsense
Much more entertaining was Gretchen’s (or Hilda’s) concept of Smurov. One day in January a new pair of silk stockings disappeared from Vanya’s wardrobe, whereupon everyone remembered a multitude of other petty losses: 70 pfennigs in change left on the table and huffed like a piece in checkers: a crystal powder box that “escaped from the Nes S. S. R.,” as Khrushchov punned; a silk handkerchief, much treasured for some reason (“Where on earth could I have put it?”). Then, one day, Smurov came wearing a bright-blue tie with a peacock sheen, and Khrushchov blinked and said that he used to have a tie just exactlylike that; Smurov grew absurdly embarrassed, and he never wore that tie again. But, of course, it did not enter anyone’s head that the silly goose had stolen the tie (she used to say, by the way, “A tie is a man’s best ornament”) and had given it, out of sheer mechanical habit, to her boyfriend of the moment—as Smurov bitterly informed Weinstock. Her undoing came when Evgenia happened to enter her room while she was out, and found in the dresser a collection of familiar articles resurrected from the dead. And so Gretchen (or Hilda) left for an unknown destination; Smurov tried to locate her but soon gave up and confessed to Weinstock that enough was enough. That evening Evgenia said she had learned some remarkable things from the janitor’s wife. “It was not a fireman, it was not a fireman at all,” said Evgenia, laughing, “but a foreign poet, isn’t that delightful? … This foreign poet had had a tragic love affair and a family estate the size of Germany, but he was forbidden to return home, really delightful, isn’t it? … It’s a pity the janitor’s wife didn’t ask what his name was—I’m sure he was Russian, and I wouldn’t even be surprised if it were someone who comes to see us … Forinstance, that chap last year, you know whom I mean—the dark boy with the fatal charm, what was his name?”
“I know whom you have in mind,” Vanya put in. “That baron something or other.”
“Or maybe it was somebody else,” Evgenia went on. “Oh, that’s
so
delightful! A gentleman who was all soul, a ‘spiritual gentleman,’ says the janitor’s wife. I could die laughing …”
“I’ll make a point of taking all that down,” said Roman Bogdanovich in a juicy voice. “My friend in Tallin will get a most interesting letter.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of it?” asked Vanya. “I started keeping a diary several times but always dropped it. And when I read it over I was always ashamed of what I had put down.”
“Oh, no,” said Roman Bogdanovich. “If you do it thoroughly and regularly you get a good feeling, a feeling of self-preservation, so to speak—you preserve your entire life, and, in later years, rereading it, you may find it not devoid of fascination. For instance, I’ve done a description of you that would be the envy of any professional writer. A stroke here, a stroke there, and there it is—a complete portrait …”
“Oh, please show me!” said Vanya.
“I can’t,” Roman Bogdanovich answered with a smile.
“Then show it to Evgenia,” said Vanya.
“I can’t. I’d like to, but I can’t. My Tallin friend stores up my weekly contributions as they arrive, and I deliberately keep no copies so there will be no temptation to make changes ex post facto—to cross things out and so on. And one day, when Roman Bogdanovich is very old, Roman Bogdanovich will sit down at his desk and start rereading his life. That’s who I’m writing for—for the future old man with the Santa-Claus beard. And if I find that my life has been rich and worth while, then I shall leave this memoir as a lesson for posterity.”
“And if it’s all nonsense?” asked Vanya.
“What is nonsense
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