The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov (35 page)

Anton Petrovich mechanically lowered his little suitcase to the floor, without taking his eyes off Berg, who tilted up his impassive face, flipped back a bright length of tie, and passed it through the knot. “Above all, don’t get excited,” said Berg, carefully tightening the knot. “Please don’t get excited. Stay perfectly calm.”

Must do something, Anton Petrovich thought, but what? He felt a
tremor in his legs, an absence of legs—only that cold, aching tremor. Do something quick.… He started pulling a glove off one hand. The glove was new and fit snugly. Anton Petrovich kept jerking his head and muttering mechanically, “Go away immediately. This is dreadful. Go away.…”

“I’m going, I’m going, Anton,” said Berg, squaring his broad shoulders as he leisurely got into his jacket.

If I hit him, he’ll hit me too, Anton Petrovich thought in a flash. He pulled off the glove with a final yank and threw it awkwardly at Berg. The glove slapped against the wall and dropped into the wash-stand pitcher.

“Good shot,” said Berg.

He took his hat and cane, and headed past Anton Petrovich toward the door. “All the same, you’ll have to let me out,” he said. “The downstairs door is locked.”

Scarcely aware of what he was doing, Anton Petrovich followed him out. As they started to go down the stairs, Berg, who was in front, suddenly began to laugh. “Sorry,” he said without turning his head, “but this is awfully funny—being kicked out with such complications.” At the next landing he chuckled again and accelerated his step. Anton Petrovich also quickened his pace. That dreadful rush was unseemly.… Berg was deliberately making him go down in leaps and bounds. What torture … Third floor … second … When will these stairs end? Berg flew down the remaining steps and stood waiting for Anton Petrovich, lightly tapping the floor with his cane. Anton Petrovich was breathing heavily, and had trouble getting the dancing key into the trembling lock. At last it opened.

“Try not to hate me,” said Berg from the sidewalk. “Put yourself in my place.…”

Anton Petrovich slammed the door. From the very beginning he had had a ripening urge to slam some door or other. The noise made his ears ring. Only now, as he climbed the stairs, did he realize that his face was wet with tears. As he passed through the front hall, he heard again the noise of running water. Hopefully waiting for the tepid to grow hot. But now above that noise he could also hear Tanya’s voice. She was singing loudly in the bathroom.

With an odd sense of relief, Anton Petrovich returned to the bedroom. He now saw what he had not noticed before—that both beds were tumbled and that a pink nightgown lay on his wife’s. Her new evening dress and a pair of silk stockings were laid out on the sofa: evidently, she was getting ready to go dancing with Berg. Anton Petrovich took his expensive fountain pen out of his breast pocket. “
I
cannot bear to see you. I cannot trust myself if I see you.”
He wrote standing up, bending awkwardly over the dressing table. His monocle was blurred by a large tear … the letters swam.…
“Please go away. I am leaving you some cash. I’ll talk it over with Natasha tomorrow. Sleep at her house or at a hotel tonight—only please do not stay here.”
He finished writing and placed the paper against the mirror, in a spot where she would be sure to see it. Beside it he put a hundred-mark note. And, passing through the front hall, he again heard his wife singing in the bathroom. She had a Gypsy kind of voice, a bewitching voice … happiness, a summer night, a guitar … she sang that night seated on a cushion in the middle of the floor, and slitted her smiling eyes as she sang.… He had just proposed to her … yes, happiness, a summer night, a moth bumping against the ceiling, “My soul I surrender to you, I love you with infinite passion.…” “How dreadful! How dreadful!” he kept repeating as he walked down the street. The night was very mild, with a swarm of stars. It did not matter which way he went. By now she had probably come out of the bathroom and found the note. Anton Petrovich winced as he remembered the glove. A brand-new glove afloat in a brimming pitcher. The vision of this brown wretched thing caused him to utter a cry that made a passerby start. He saw the dark shapes of huge poplars around a square and thought, Mityushin lives here someplace. Anton Petrovich called him up from a bar, which arose before him as in a dream and then receded into the distance like the taillight of a train. Mityushin let him in but he was drunk, and at first paid no attention to Anton Petrovich’s livid face. A person unknown to Anton Petrovich sat in the small dim room, and a black-haired lady in a red dress lay on the couch with her back to the table, apparently asleep. Bottles gleamed on the table. Anton Petrovich had arrived in the middle of a birthday celebration, but he never understood whether it was being held for Mityushin, the fair sleeper, or the unknown man (who turned out to be a Russified German with the strange name of Gnushke). Mityushin, his rosy face beaming, introduced him to Gnushke and, indicating with a nod the generous back of the sleeping lady, remarked casually, “Adelaida Albertovna, I want you to meet a great friend of mine.” The lady did not stir; Mityushin, however, did not show the least surprise, as if he had never expected her to wake up. All of this was a little bizarre and nightmarish—that empty vodka bottle with a rose stuck into its neck, that chessboard on which a higgledy-piggledy game was in progress, the sleeping lady, the drunken but quite peaceful Gnushke.…

“Have a drink,” said Mityushin, and then suddenly raised his
eyebrows. “What’s the matter with you, Anton Petrovich? You look very ill.”

“Yes, by all means, have a drink,” with idiotic earnestness said Gnushke, a very long-faced man in a very tall collar, who resembled a dachshund.

Anton Petrovich gulped down half a cup of vodka and sat down.

“Now tell us what’s happened,” said Mityushin. “Don’t be embarrassed in front of Henry—he is the most honest man on earth. My move, Henry, and I warn you, if after this you grab my bishop, I’ll mate you in three moves. Well, out with it, Anton Petrovich.”

“We’ll see about that in a minute,” said Gnushke, revealing a big starched cuff as he stretched out his arm. “You forgot about the pawn at h-five.”

“H-five yourself,” said Mityushin. “Anton Petrovich is going to tell us his story.”

Anton Petrovich had some more vodka and the room went into a spin. The gliding chessboard seemed on the point of colliding with the bottles; the bottles, together with the table, set off toward the couch; the couch with mysterious Adelaida Albertovna headed for the window; and the window also started to move. This accursed motion was somehow connected with Berg, and had to be stopped—stopped at once, trampled upon, torn, destroyed.…

“I want you to be my second,” began Anton Petrovich, and was dimly aware that the phrase sounded oddly truncated but could not correct that flaw.

“Second what?” said Mityushin absently, glancing askance at the chessboard, over which Gnushke’s hand hung, its fingers wriggling.

“No, you listen to me,” Anton Petrovich exclaimed with anguish in his voice. “You just listen! Let us not drink any more. This is serious, very serious.”

Mityushin fixed him with his shiny blue eyes. “The game is canceled, Henry,” he said, without looking at Gnushke. “This sounds serious.”

“I intend to fight a duel,” whispered Anton Petrovich, trying by mere optical force to hold back the table that kept floating away. “I wish to kill a certain person. His name is Berg—you may have met him at my place. I prefer not to explain my reasons.…”

“You can explain everything to your second,” said Mityushin smugly.

“Excuse me for interfering,” said Gnushke suddenly, and raised his index finger. “Remember, it has been said: ‘Thou shalt not kill!’ ”

“The man’s name is Berg,” said Anton Petrovich. “I think you know him. And I need two seconds.” The ambiguity could not be ignored.

“A duel,” said Gnushke.

Mityushin nudged him with his elbow. “Don’t interrupt, Henry.”

“And that is all,” Anton Petrovich concluded in a whisper and, lowering his eyes, feebly fingered the ribbon of his totally useless monocle.

Silence. The lady on the couch snored comfortably. A car passed in the street, its horn blaring.

“I’m drunk, and Henry’s drunk,” muttered Mityushin, “but apparently something very serious has happened.” He chewed on his knuckles and looked at Gnushke. “What do you think, Henry?” Gnushke sighed.

“Tomorrow you two will call on him,” said Anton Petrovich. “Select the spot, and so on. He did not leave me his card. According to the rules he should have given me his card. I threw my glove at him.”

“You are acting like a noble and courageous man,” said Gnushke with growing animation. “By a strange coincidence, I am not unfamiliar with these matters. A cousin of mine was also killed in a duel.”

Why “also”? Anton Petrovich wondered in anguish. Can this be a portent?

Mityushin took a swallow from his cup and said jauntily: “As a friend, I cannot refuse. We’ll go see Mr. Berg in the morning.”

“As far as the German laws are concerned,” said Gnushke, “if you kill him, they’ll put you in jail for several years; if, on the other hand, you are killed, they won’t bother you.”

“I have taken all that into consideration,” Anton Petrovich said solemnly.

Then there appeared again that beautiful expensive implement, that shiny black pen with its delicate gold nib, which in normal times would glide like a wand of velvet across the paper; now, however, Anton Petrovich’s hand shook, and the table heaved like the deck of a storm-tossed ship.… On a sheet of foolscap that Mityushin produced, Anton Petrovich wrote a cartel of defiance to Berg, three times calling him a scoundrel and concluding with the lame sentence:
“One of us must perish.”

Having done, he burst into tears, and Gnushke, clucking his tongue, wiped the poor fellow’s face with a large red-checked handkerchief, while Mityushin kept pointing at the chessboard, repeating ponderously, “You finish him off like that king there—mate in three moves and no questions asked.” Anton Petrovich sobbed, and tried to brush
away Gnushke’s friendly hands, repeating with childish intonations, “I loved her so much, so much!”

And a new sad day was dawning.

“So at nine you will be at his house,” said Anton Petrovich, lurching out of his chair.

“At nine we’ll be at his house,” Gnushke replied like an echo.

“We’ll get in five hours of sleep,” said Mityushin.

Anton Petrovich smoothed his hat into shape (he had been sitting on it all the while), caught Mityushin’s hand, held it for a moment, lifted it, and pressed it to his cheek.

“Come, come, you shouldn’t,” mumbled Mityushin and, as before, addressed the sleeping lady, “Our friend is leaving, Adelaida Albertovna.”

This time she stirred, awakened with a start, and turned over heavily. Her face was full and creased by sleep, with slanting, excessively made-up eyes. “You fellows better stop drinking,” she said calmly, and turned back toward the wall.

At the corner of the street Anton Petrovich found a sleepy taxi, which whisked him with ghostly speed through the wastes of the blue-gray city and fell asleep again in front of his house. In the front hall he met Elspeth the maid, who opened her mouth and looked at him with unkind eyes, as if about to say something; but she thought better of it, and shuffled off down the corridor in her carpet slippers.

“Wait,” said Anton Petrovich. “Is my wife gone?”

“It’s shameful,” the maid said with great emphasis. “This is a madhouse. Lug trunks in the middle of the night, turn everything upside down.…”

“I asked if my wife was gone,” Anton Petrovich shouted in a high-pitched voice.

“She is,” glumly answered Elspeth.

Anton Petrovich went on into the parlor. He decided to sleep there. The bedroom, of course, was out of the question. He turned on the light, lay down on the sofa, and covered himself with his overcoat. For some reason his left wrist felt uncomfortable. Oh, of course—my watch. He took it off and wound it, thinking at the same time, Extraordinary, how this man retains his composure—does not even forget to wind his watch. And, since he was still drunk, enormous, rhythmic waves immediately began rocking him, up and down, up and down, and he began to feel very sick. He sat up … the big copper ashtray … quick.… His insides gave such a heave that a pain shot through his groin … and it all missed the ashtray. He fell asleep right away. One foot in its black shoe and gray spat dangled from the couch, and
the light (which he had quite forgotten to turn off) lent a pale gloss to his sweaty forehead.

Mityushin was a brawler and a drunkard. He could go and do all kinds of things at the least provocation. A real daredevil. One also recalls having heard about a certain friend of his who, to spite the post office, used to throw lighted matches into mailboxes. He was nicknamed the Gnut. Quite possibly it was Gnushke. Actually, all Anton Petrovich had intended to do was to spend the night at Mityushin’s place. Then, suddenly, for no reason at all that talk about duels had started.… Oh, of course Berg must be killed; only the matter ought to have been carefully thought out first, and, if it had come to choosing seconds, they should in any case have been gentlemen. As it was, the whole thing had taken on an absurd, improper turn. Everything had been absurd and improper—beginning with the glove and ending with the ashtray. But now, of course, there was nothing to be done about it—he would have to drain this cup.…