The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov by Vladimir Nabokov
It was a beautiful morning. The sparrows twittered like mad in the tall linden tree under the window. A pale-blue, velvet shadow covered the street, and here and there a roof would flash silver. Anton Petrovich was cold and had an unbearable headache. A nip of brandy would be paradise. None in the house. House already deserted; master going away forever. Oh, nonsense. We insist on calmness. The frontdoor bell will ring in a moment. I must keep perfectly calm. The bell is going to ring right now. They are already three minutes late. Maybe they won’t come? Such a marvelous summer morning.… Who was the last person killed in a duel in Russia? A Baron Manteuffel, twenty years ago. No, they won’t come. Good. He would wait another half-hour, and then go to bed—the bedroom was losing its horror and becoming definitely attractive. Anton Petrovich opened his mouth wide, preparing to squeeze out a huge lump of yawn—he felt the crunch in his ears, the swelling under his palate—and it was then that the doorbell brutally rang. Spasmodically swallowing the unfinished yawn, Anton Petrovich went into the front hall, unlocked the door, and Mityushin and Gnushke ushered each other across the threshold.
“Time to go,” said Mityushin, gazing intently at Anton Petrovich. He was wearing his usual pistachio-colored tie, but Gnushke had put on an old frock coat.
“Yes, I am ready,” said Anton Petrovich, “I’ll be right with you.…”
He left them standing in the front hall, rushed into the bedroom, and, in order to gain time, started washing his hands, while he kept repeating to himself, “What is happening? My God, what is happening?” Just five minutes ago there had still been hope, there might have been an earthquake, Berg might have died of a heart attack, fate might have intervened, suspended events, saved him.
“Anton Petrovich, hurry up,” called Mityushin from the front hall. Quickly he dried his hands and joined the others.
“Yes, yes, I’m ready, let’s go.”
“We’ll have to take the train,” said Mityushin when they were outside. “Because if we arrive by taxi in the middle of the forest, and at this hour, it might seem suspicious, and the driver might tell the police. Anton Petrovich, please don’t start losing your nerve.”
“I’m not—don’t be silly,” replied Anton Petrovich with a helpless smile.
Gnushke, who had remained silent until this point, loudly blew his nose and said matter-of-factly: “Our adversary is bringing the doctor. We were unable to find dueling pistols. However, our colleagues did procure two identical Brownings.”
In the taxi that was to take them to the station, they seated themselves thus: Anton Petrovich and Mityushin in back, and Gnushke facing them on the jump seat, with his legs pulled in. Anton Petrovich was again overcome by a nervous fit of yawning. That revengeful yawn he had suppressed. Again and again came that humpy spasm, so that his eyes watered. Mityushin and Gnushke looked very solemn, but at the same time seemed exceedingly pleased with themselves.
Anton Petrovich clenched his teeth and yawned with his nostrils only. Then, abruptly, he said, “I had an excellent night’s sleep.” He tried to think of something else to say.…
“Quite a few people in the streets,” he said, and added, “In spite of the early hour.” Mityushin and Gnushke were silent. Another fit of yawning. Oh, God.…
They soon arrived at the station. It seemed to Anton Petrovich that he had never traveled so fast. Gnushke bought the tickets and, holding them fanwise, went ahead. Suddenly he looked around at Mityushin and cleared his throat significantly. By the refreshment booth stood Berg. He was getting some change out of his trouser pocket, thrusting his left hand deep inside it, and holding the pocket in place with his right, the way Anglo-Saxons do in cartoons. He procured a coin in the palm of his hand and, as he handed it to the woman vendor, said something that made her laugh. Berg laughed too. He stood with legs slightly spread. He was wearing a gray flannel suit.
“Let’s go around that booth,” said Mityushin. “It would be awkward passing right next to him.”
A strange numbness came over Anton Petrovich. Totally unconscious of what he was doing, he boarded the coach, took a window seat, removed his hat, donned it again. Only when the train jerked and began to move did his brain start working again, and in this instant he was possessed by the feeling that comes in dreams when, speeding along in a train from nowhere to nowhere, you suddenly realize that you are traveling clad only in your underpants.
“They are in the next coach,” said Mityushin, taking out a cigarette case. “Why on earth do you keep yawning all the time, Anton Petrovich? It gives one the creeps.”
“I always do in the morning,” mechanically answered Anton Petrovich.
Pine trees, pine trees, pine trees. A sandy slope. More pine trees. Such a marvelous morning.…
“That frock coat, Henry, is not a success,” said Mityushin. “No question about it—to put it bluntly—it just isn’t.”
“That is my business,” said Gnushke.
Lovely, those pines. And now a gleam of water. Woods again. How touching, the world, how fragile.… If I could only keep from yawning again … jaws aching. If you restrain the yawn, your eyes begin watering. He was sitting with his face turned toward the window, listening to the wheels beating out the rhythm Abattoir … abattoir … abattoir …
“Here’s what I advise you to do,” said Gnushke. “Blaze at once. I advise you to aim at the center of his body—you have more of a chance that way.”
“It’s all a question of luck,” said Mityushin. “If you hit him, fine, and if not, don’t worry—he might miss too. A duel becomes real only after the first exchange. It is then that the interesting part begins, so to speak.”
A station. Did not stop long. Why did they torture him so? To die today would be unthinkable. What if I faint? You have to be a good actor.… What can I try? What shall I do? Such a marvelous morning.…
“Anton Petrovich, excuse me for asking,” said Mityushin, “but it’s important. You don’t have anything to entrust to us? I mean, papers, documents. A letter, maybe, or a will? It’s the usual procedure.”
Anton Petrovich shook his head.
“Pity,” said Mityushin. “Never know what might happen. Take Henry and me—we’re all set for a sojourn in jail. Are your affairs in order?”
Anton Petrovich nodded. He was no longer able to speak. The only way to keep from screaming was to watch the pines that kept flashing past.
“We get off in a minute,” said Gnushke, and rose. Mityushin rose also. Clenching his teeth, Anton Petrovich wanted to rise too, but a jolt of the train made him fall back into his seat.
“Here we are,” said Mityushin
Only then did Anton Petrovich manage to separate himself from the seat. Pressing his monocle into his eye socket, he cautiously descended to the platform. The sun welcomed him warmly.
“They are behind,” said Gnushke. Anton Petrovich felt his back growing a hump. No, this is unthinkable, I must wake up.
They left the station and set out along the highway, past tiny brick houses with petunias in the windows. There was a tavern at the intersection of the highway and of a soft, white road leading off into the forest. Suddenly Anton Petrovich stopped.
“I’m awfully thirsty,” he muttered. “I could do with a drop of something.”
“Yes, wouldn’t hurt,” said Mityushin. Gnushke looked back and said, “They have left the road and turned into the woods.”
“It will only take a minute,” said Mityushin.
The three of them entered the tavern. A fat woman was wiping the counter with a rag. She scowled at them and poured three mugs of beer.
Anton Petrovich swallowed, choked slightly, and said, “Excuse me for a second.”
“Hurry,” said Mityushin, putting his mug back on the bar.
Anton Petrovich turned into the passage, followed the arrow to men, mankind, human beings, marched past the toilet, past the kitchen, gave a start when a cat darted under his feet, quickened his step, reached the end of the passage, pushed open a door, and
An old fisherman, suntanned, the color of smoked flounder and wearing a straw hat, indicated the way to the Wannsee station. The road at first skirted the lake, then turned into the forest, and he wandered through the woods for about two hours before emerging at the railroad tracks. He trudged to the nearest station, and as he reached it a train approached. He boarded a car and squeezed in between two passengers, who glanced with curiosity at this fat, pale, moist man in black, with painted cheeks and dirty shoes, a monocle in his begrimed eye socket. Only upon reaching Berlin did he pause for a moment, or at least he had the sensation that, up to that moment, he had been fleeing continuously and only now had stopped to catch his breath and look around him. He was in a familiar square. Beside him an old flower woman with an enormous woolen bosom was selling carnations. A man in an armorlike coating of newspapers was touting the title of a local scandal sheet. A shoeshine man gave Anton Petrovich a fawning look. Anton Petrovich sighed with relief and placed his foot firmly on the stand; whereupon the man’s elbows began working lickety-split.
It is all horrible, of course, he thought, as he watched the tip of his shoe begin to gleam. But I am alive, and for the moment that is the main thing. Mityushin and Gnushke had probably traveled back to town and were standing guard before his house, so he would have to wait a while for things to blow over. In no circumstances must he meet them. Much later he would go to fetch his things. And he must leave Berlin that very night.…
“Dobryy den’ [Good day], Anton Petrovich,” came a gentle voice right above his ear.
He gave such a start that his foot slipped off the stand. No, it was all right—false alarm. The voice belonged to a certain Leontiev, a man he had met three or four times, a journalist or something of the sort. A talkative but harmless fellow. They said his wife deceived him right and left.
“Out for a stroll?” asked Leontiev, giving him a melancholy handshake.
“Yes. No, I have various things to do,” replied Anton Petrovich, thinking at the same time, “I hope he proceeds on his way, otherwise it will be quite dreadful.”
Leontiev looked around, and said, as if he had made a happy discovery, “Splendid weather!”
Actually he was a pessimist and, like all pessimists, a ridiculously unobservant man. His face was ill-shaven, yellowish and long, and all of him looked clumsy, emaciated, and lugubrious, as if nature had suffered from toothache when creating him.
The shoeshine man jauntily clapped his brushes together. Anton Petrovich looked at his revived shoes.
“Which way are you headed?” asked Leontiev.
“And you?” asked Anton Petrovich.
“Makes no difference to me. I’m free right now. I can keep you company for a while.” He cleared his throat and added insinuatingly, “If you allow me, of course.”
“Of course, please do,” mumbled Anton Petrovich. Now he’s attached himself, he thought. Must find some less familiar street, or else more acquaintances will turn up. If I can only avoid meeting those two.…
“Well, how is life treating you?” asked Leontiev. He belonged to the breed of people who ask how life is treating you only to give a detailed account of how it is treating them.
“Oh, well, I am all right,” Anton Petrovich replied. Of course he’ll find out all about it afterwards. Good Lord, what a mess. “I am going this way,” he said aloud, and turned sharply. Smiling sadly at his own thoughts, Leontiev almost ran into him and swayed slightly on lanky legs. “This way? All right, it’s all the same to me.”
What shall I do? thought Anton Petrovich. After all, I can’t just keep strolling with him like this. I have to think things over and decide so much.… And I’m awfully tired, and my corns hurt.
As for Leontiev, he had already launched into a long story. He spoke in a level, unhurried voice. He spoke of how much he paid for his room, how hard it was to pay, how hard life was for him and his wife, how rarely one got a good landlady, how insolent theirs was with his wife.
“Adelaida Albertovna, of course, has a quick temper herself,” he added with a sigh. He was one of those middle-class Russians who use the patronymic when speaking of their spouses.
They were walking along an anonymous street where the pavement was being repaired. One of the workmen had a dragon tattooed on his bare chest. Anton Petrovich wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and said: “I have some business near here. They are waiting for me. A business appointment.”
“Oh, I’ll walk you there,” said Leontiev sadly.
Anton Petrovich surveyed the street. A sign said “HOTEL.” A squalid and squat little hotel between a scaffolded building and a warehouse.
“I have to go in here,” said Anton Petrovich. “Yes, this hotel. A business appointment.”
Leontiev took off his torn glove and gave him a soft handshake. “Know what? I think I’ll wait a while for you. Won’t be long, will you?”
“Quite long, I’m afraid,” said Anton Petrovich.
“Pity. You see, I wanted to talk something over with you, and ask your advice. Well, no matter. I’ll wait around for a while, just in case. Maybe you’ll get through early.”
Anton Petrovich went into the hotel. He had no choice. It was empty and darkish inside. A disheveled person materialized from behind a desk and asked what he wanted.
“A room,” Anton Petrovich answered softly.
The man pondered this, scratched his head, and demanded a deposit. Anton Petrovich handed over ten marks. A red-haired maid, rapidly wiggling her behind, led him down a long corridor and unlocked a door. He entered, heaved a deep sigh, and sat down in a low armchair of ribbed velvet. He was alone. The furniture, the bed, the wash-stand seemed to awake, to give him a frowning look, and go back to sleep. In this drowsy, totally unremarkable hotel room, Anton Petrovich was at last alone.
Hunching over, covering his eyes with his hand, he lapsed into thought, and before him bright, speckled images passed by, patches of sunny greenery, a boy on a log, a fisherman, Leontiev, Berg, Tanya. And, at the thought of Tanya, he moaned and hunched over even more tensely. Her voice, her dear voice. So light, so girlish, quick of eye and limb, she would perch on the sofa, tuck her legs under her, and her skirt would float up around her like a silk dome and then drop back. Or else, she would sit at the table, quite motionless, only blinking now and then, and blowing out cigarette smoke with her face upturned. It’s senseless.… Why did you cheat? For you did cheat. What shall I do without you? Tanya!… Don’t you see—you cheated. My darling—why? Why?
Emitting little moans and cracking his finger joints, he began pacing up and down the room, bumping against the furniture without noticing it. He happened to stop by the window and glance out into the street. At first he could not see the street because of the mist in his eyes, but presently the street appeared, with a truck at the curb, a bicyclist, an old lady gingerly stepping off the sidewalk. And along the sidewalk slowly strolled Leontiev, reading a newspaper as he went; he passed and turned the corner. And, for some reason, at the sight of Leonti
“But how can it be? I must decide to do something,” Anton Petrovich said in a thin voice. Perhaps there was a way out? They had tormented him for a while, but enough was enough. Yes, he had to decide. He remembered the suspicious gaze of the man at the desk. What should one say to that person? Oh, obviously: “I’m going to fetch my luggage—I left it at the station.” So. Good-bye forever, little hotel! The street, thank God, was now clear: Leontiev had finally given up and left. How do I get to the nearest streetcar stop? Oh, just go straight, my dear sir, and you will reach the nearest streetcar stop. No, better take a taxi. Off we go. The streets grow familiar again. Calmly, quite calmly. Tip the taxi driver. Home! Five floors. Calmly, quite calmly he went into the front hall. Then quickly opened the parlor door. My, what a surprise!
In the parlor, around the circular table, sat Mityushin, Gnushke, and Tanya. On the table stood bottles, glasses, and cups. Mityushin beamed—pink-faced, shiny-eyed, drunk as an owl. Gnushke was drunk too, and also beamed, rubbing his hands together. Tanya was sitting with her bare elbows on the table, gazing at him motionlessly.…
“At last!” exclaimed Mityushin, and took him by the arm. “At last you’ve shown up!” He added in a whisper, with a mischievous wink, “You sly-boots, you!”
Anton Petrovich now sits down and has some vodka. Mityushin and Gnushke keep giving him the same mischievous but good-natured looks. Tanya says: “You must be hungry. I’ll get you a sandwich.”
Yes, a big ham sandwich, with the edge of fat overlapping. She goes to make it and then Mityushin and Gnushke rush to him and begin to talk, interrupting each other.
“You lucky fellow! Just imagine—Mr. Berg also lost his nerve. Well, not ‘also,’ but lost his nerve anyhow. While we were waiting for you at the tavern, his seconds came in and announced that Berg had changed his mind. Those broad-shouldered bullies always turn out to be cowards. ‘Gentlemen, we ask you to excuse us for having agreed to act as seconds for this scoundrel.’ That’s how lucky you are, Anton Petrovich! So everything is now just dandy. And you came out of it honorably, while he is disgraced forever. And, most important, your wife, when she heard about it, immediately left Berg and returned to you. And you must forgive her.”