“Your romantic vigil …” I began, compelling myself to maintain that lifesaving levity, and trying to convince myself that the vernal breeze was a bit vulgar too, and that I was enjoying myself hugely.
I had not yet taken a good look at Vanya; I always needed a little time to get acclimated to her presence before looking at her. Now I saw she was wearing a black silk skirt and a white pullover with a low V neck, and that her hairdo was especially sleek. She went on looking through her lorgnette at the open book—a pogromystic novelette by a Russian lady in Belgrade or Harbin. How high we were above the street, right up in the gentle, rumpled sky … The vacuum cleaner inside stopped its buzzing. “Uncle Pasha is dead,” she said, lifting her head. “Yes, we got a telegram this morning.”
What did I care if the existence of that jovial, half-witted old man had come to an end? But at the thought that, along with him, had died the happiest, the shortest-lived image of Smurov, the image of Smurov the bridegroom, I felt that I could not restrain any more the agitation that had long been welling within me. I do not know how it started—there must have been some preparatory motions—but I remember finding myself perching on the wide wicker arm of Vanya’s chair, and already clutching her wrist—that long-dreamt-of, forbidden contact. She blushed violently, and her eyes suddenly began to shine with tears—how clearly I saw her dark lower eyelid fill with glistening moisture. At the same time she kept smiling—as though with unexpected generosity she wished to bestow on me all the various expressions of her beauty. “He was such an amusing old man,” she said to explain the radiance on her lips, but I interrupted her:
“I can’t go on like this, I can’t stand it any longer,” I mumbled, now snatching her wrist, which would immediately grow tense, now turning an obedient leaf in the book on her lap, “I have to tell you … It doesn’t make any difference now—I am leaving and shall never see you again. I have to tell you. After all, you don’t know me … But actually I wear a mask—I am always hidden behind a mask …”
“Come, come,” said Vanya, “I know you very well indeed, and I see everything, and understand everything. You are a good, intelligent person. Wait a moment, I’ll take my handkerchief. You’re sitting on it. No, it fell down. Thank you. Please let go of my hand—you mustn’t touch me like that. Please, don’t.”
She was smiling anew, assiduously and comically raising her eyebrows, as if inviting me to smile too, but I had lost all control of myself, and some impossible hope was fluttering near me; I went on talking and gesticulating so wildly that the wicker chair arm creaked under me, and there were moments when the parting in Vanya’s hair was right under my lips, whereupon she would carefully move her head away.
“More than life itself,” I was saying rapidly, “more than life itself, and already for a long time, since the very first moment. And you are the first person that has ever told me that I am good …”
“Please don’t,” pleaded Vanya. “You are only hurting yourself, and me. Look, why don’t you let me tell you how Roman Bogdanovich made a declaration of love to me. It was hilarious …”
“Don’t you dare,” I cried. “Who cares about that clown? I know, I know you would be happy with me. And, if there is anything about me that you don’t like, I’ll change—in any way you wish, I’ll change.”
“I like everything about you,” said Vanya, “even your poetic imagination. Even your propensity to exaggerate at times. But above all I like your kindness—for you are very kind, and love everyone very much, and then you’re always so absurd and charming. All the same, though, please stop grabbing my hand, or I shall simply get up and leave.”
“So there is hope after all?” I asked.
“Absolutely none,” said Vanya. “And you know it perfectly well yourself. And besides, he should be here any minute now.”
“You cannot love him,” I shouted. “You are deceiving yourself. He is not worthy of you. I could tell you some awful things about him.”
“That will be enough,” said Vanya and made as if to get up. But at this point, wishing to arrest her movement, I involuntarily and uncomfortably embraced her, and at the warm, woolly, transparent feel of her pullover a turbid, excruciating delight began to bubble within me; I was ready for anything, even for the most revolting torture, but I had to kiss her at least once.
“Why are you struggling?” I babbled. “What can it cost you? For you it’s only a little act of charity—for me, it’s everything.”
I believe I might have consummated a shiver of oneirotic rapture had I been able to hold her a few seconds longer; but she managed to free herself and stand up. She moved away to the balcony railing, clearing her throat and narrowing her eyes at me, and somewhere in the sky there rose a long harp-like vibration—the final note. I had nothing more to lose. I blurted out everything, I shouted that Mukhin did not and could not love her, in a torrent of triteness I depicted the certainty of our happiness if she married me, and, finally, feeling that I was about to break into tears, threw down her book, which somehow I happened to be holding, and turned to go, forever leaving Vanya on her balcony, with the wind, with the hazy spring sky, and with the mysterious bass sound of an invisible airplane.
In the parlor, not far from the door, Mukhin sat smoking. He followed me with his eyes and said calmly, “I never thought you were such a scoundrel.” I saluted him with a curt nod of the head and left.
I descended to my room, took my hat, and hurried out into the street. Upon entering the first flower shop I saw, I began tapping my heel and whistling, as there was no one in sight. The enchantingly fresh aroma of flowers all around me stimulated my voluptuous impatience. The street continued in the side mirror adjoining the display window, but this was but an illusionary continuation: a car that had passed from left to right would vanish abruptly, even though the street awaited it imperturbably; another car, which had been approaching from the opposite direction, would vanish as well—one of them had been only a reflection. Finally the salesgirl appeared. I selected a big bouquet of lilies of the valley; cold gems dripped from their resilient bells, and the salesgirl’s fourth finger was bandaged—must have pricked herself. She went behind the counter and for a long time fussed and rustled with a lot of nasty paper. The tightly bound stems formed a thick, rigid sausage; never had I imagined that lilies of the valley could be so heavy. As I pushed the door, I noticed the reflection in the side mirror: a young man in a derby carrying a bouquet, hurried toward me. That reflection and I merged into one. I walked out into the street.
I walked in extreme haste, with mincing steps, surrounded by a cloudlet of floral moisture, trying not to think about anything, trying to believe in the marvelous healing power of the particular place toward which I hurried. Going there was the only way to avert disaster: life, hot and burdensome, full of the familiar torment, was about to bear down on me again and rudely disprove that I was a ghost. It is frightening when real life suddenly turns out to be a dream, but how much more frightening when that which one had thought a dream—fluid and irresponsible—suddenly starts to congeal into reality! I had to put a stop to this, and I knew how to do it.
Upon reaching my destination, I began to press the button of the bell, without pausing to catch my breath; I rang as if quenching an unbearable thirst—lengthily, greedily, in utter self-oblivion. “All right, all right, all right,” she grumbled, opening the door. I dashed across the threshold and thrust the bouquet into her hands.
“Oh, how beautiful!” she said, and, a little bewildered, fixed me with her old, pale-blue eyes.
“Don’t thank me,” I shouted, impetuously raising my hand, “but do me one favor: allow me to have a look at my old room. I implore you.”
“The room?” said the old lady. “I’m sorry, but unfortunately it is not free. But how beautiful, how nice of you——”
“You didn’t quite understand me,” I said, quivering with impatience. “I only want to have a look. That’s all. Nothing more. For the flowers I brought you. Please.
I’m sure the roomer has gone to work …”
Deftly slipping past her, I ran along the corridor, and she came after me. “Oh dear, the room is rented,” she kept repeating. “Dr. Galgen has no intention of leaving. I can’t let you have it.”
I yanked the door open. The furniture was somewhat differently distributed; a new pitcher stood on the washstand; and, on the wall behind it I found the hole, carefully plastered over—yes, the moment I found it I felt reassured. With my hand pressed to my heart I gazed at the secret mark of my bullet: it was my proof that I had really died; the world immediately regained its reassuring insignificance—I was strong once again, nothing could hurt me. With one sweep of my fancy I was ready to evoke the most fearsome shade from my former existence.
With a dignified bow to the old woman I left this room where, once upon a time, a man had bent over double as he released the fatal spring. In passing through the front hall, I noticed my flowers lying on the table and, feigning absent-mindedness, scooped them up, telling myself that the stupid old woman little deserved such an expensive gift. In fact, I could send it to Vanya, with a note both sad and humorous. The moist freshness of the flowers felt good; the thin paper had yielded here and there, and, squeezing with my fingers the cool green body of the stems, I recalled the gurgling and dripping that had accompanied me into nothingness. I walked leisurely along the very edge of the sidewalk and, half-closing my eyes, imagined that I was moving along the rim of a precipice, when a voice suddenly hailed me from behind.
“Gospodin Smurov,” it said in a loud but hesitant tone. I turned at the sound of my name, involuntarily stepping off the sidewalk with one foot. It was Kashmarin, Matilda’s husband, and he was pulling off a yellow glove, in a terrific hurry to proffer me his hand. He was without the famous cane, and had changed somehow—perhaps he had put on weight. There was an embarrassed expression on his face, and his large, lusterless teeth were simultaneously gritting at the rebellious glove and grinning at me. At last his hand, with outspread fingers, fairly gushed toward me. I felt an odd weakness; I was deeply touched; my eyes even began to smart.
“Smurov,” he said, “you can’t imagine how glad I am to have run into you. I’ve been searching for you frantically but nobody knew your address.”
Here it dawned upon me that I was listening much too politely to this apparition from my former life, and, deciding to take him down a peg or two, I said, “I have nothing to discuss with you. You should be grateful I did not take you to court.”
“Look, Smurov,” he said plaintively, “I’m trying to apologize for my vile temper. I couldn’t live at peace with myself after our—uh—heated discussion. I felt horrible about it. Allow me to confess something to you, as one gentleman to another. You see, I learned afterwards that you were neither the first nor the last, and I divorced her—yes, divorced her.”
“There can be no question of you and me discussing anything,” I said, and took a sniff of my fat, cold bouquet.
“Oh, don’t be so spiteful!” exclaimed Kashmarin. “Come on, hit me, give me a good punch, and then we’ll make up. You don’t want to? There, you’re smiling—that’s a good sign. No, don’t hide behind those flowers—I can see you’re smiling. So, now we can talk like friends. Allow me to ask how much money you are making.”
I pouted awhile longer, and then answered him. All along I had to restrain a desire to say something nice, something to show how touched I was.
“Well, then, look,” said Kashmarin. “I’ll get you a job that pays three times as much. Come and see me tomorrow morning at the Hotel Monopole. I’ll introduce you to a useful person. The job is a snap, and trips to the Riviera and to Italy are not to be ruled out. Automobile business. You’ll stop by, then?”
He had, as they say, hit the bull’s-eye. I had long been fed up with Weinstock and his books. I started sniffing at the cold flowers again, hiding in them my joy and my gratitude.
“I’ll think it over,” I said, and sneezed.
“God bless you!” exclaimed Kashmarin. “Don’t forget then—tomorrow. I’m so glad, so very glad I ran into you.”
We parted. I ambled on slowly, my nose buried in the bouquet.
Kashmarin had borne away yet another image of Smurov. Does it make any difference which? For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist. Smurov, however, will live on for a long time. The two boys, those pupils of mine, will grow old, and some image or other of me will live within them like a tenacious parasite. And then will come the day when the last person who remembers me will die. A fetus in reverse, my image, too, will dwindle and die within that last witness of the crime I committed by the mere fact of living. Perhaps a chance story about me, a simple anecdote in which I figure, will pass on from him to his son or grandson, and so my name and my ghost will appear fleetingly here and there for some time still. Then will come the end.
And yet I am happy. Yes, happy. I swear, I swear I am happy. I have realized that the only happiness in this world is to observe, to spy, to watch, to scrutinize oneself and others, to be nothing but a big, slightly vitreous, somewhat bloodshot, unblinking eye. I swear that this is happiness. What does it matter that I am a bit cheap, a bit foul, and that no one appreciates all the remarkable things about me—my fantasy, my erudition, my literary gift … I am happy that I can gaze at myself, for any man is absorbing—yes, really absorbing! The world, try as it may, cannot insult me. I am invulnerable. And what do I care if she marries another? Every other night I dream of her dresses and things on an endless clothesline of bliss, in a ceaseless wind of possession, and her husband shall never learn what I do to the silks and fleece of the dancing witch. This is love’s supreme accomplishment. I am happy—yes, happy! What more can I do to prove it, how to proclaim that I am happy? Oh, to shout it so that all of you believe me at last, you cruel, smug people …
About the Author
Vladimir Nabokov was born in St. Petersburg on April 23, 1899. His family fled to the Crimea in 1917, during the Bolshevik Revolution, then went into exile in Europe. Nabokov, studied at Trinity College, Cambridge, earning a degree in French and Russian literature in 1922, and lived in Berlin and Paris for the next two decades, writing prolifically, mainly in Russian, under the pseudonym Sirin. In 1940 he moved to the United States, where he pursued a brilliant literary career (as a poet, novelist, memoirist, critic, and translator) while teaching Russian, creative writing, and literature at Stanford, Wellesley, Cornell, and Harvard. The monumental success of his novel Lolita (1955) enabled him to give up teaching and devote himself fully to his writing. In 1961 he moved to Montreux, Switzerland, where he died in 1977. Recognized as one of the master prose stylists of the century in both Russian and English, he translated a number of his original English works—including Lolita—into Russian, and collaborated on English translations of his original Russian works.
A PUBLISHING EVENT
The final, unfinished novel from
Vladimir Nabokov
The Original of Laura
After years of controversy surrounding the fate of Nabokov’s final manuscript, Knopf will publish the last work by one of the 20th century’s acknowledged masters of literature. An essential part of Nabokov’s oeuvre, The Original of Laura blurs the line between the author’s life and fiction. This edition, uniquely designed by Chip Kidd, includes facsimiles of the 138 note cards on which it was written.
Available November 2009 in hardcover from Knopf
$35.00 • 304 page • 978-0-307-27189-1
Please visit www.aaknopf.com
BOOKS BY VLADIMIR NABOKOV
ADA, OR ARDOR
Ada, or Ardor tells a love story troubled by incest, but is also at once a fairy tale, epic, philosophical treatise on the nature of time, parody of the history of the novel, and erotic catalogue.
Fiction/Literature/97
8-0-679-72522-0
BEND SINISTER
While it is filled with veiled puns and characteristically delightful wordplay, Bend Sinister is first and foremost a haunting and compelling narrative about a civilized man and his child caught up in the tyranny of a police state.
Fiction/Literature/978-0-679-72727-9
DESPAIR
Extensively revised by Nabokov in 1965, thirty years after its original publication, Despair is the wickedly inventive and richly derisive story of Hermann, a man who undertakes the perfect crime: his own murder.
Fiction/Literature/978-0-679-72343-1
THE ENCHANTER
The Enchanter is the precursor to Nabokov’s classic novel, Lolita. At once hilarious and chilling, it tells the story of an outwardly respectable man and his fatal obsession with certain pubescent girls.
Fiction/Literature/978-0-679-72886-3
THE EYE
The Eye is as much farcical detective story as it is a profoundly refractive tale about the vicissitudes of identities and appearances. Smurov is a lovelorn, self-conscious Russian émigré living in prewar Berlin who commits suicide after being humiliated by a jealous husband, only to suffer greater indignities in the afterlife.