The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov (55 page)

“I’ve also heard rumors,” said very much perturbed Ilya Borisovich, “but I thought it was slander spread by competitors, or mere stupidity.
Can it be really possible that no second issue will ever come out? It is awful!”

“They have no funds. The review is a disinterested, idealistic enterprise. Such publications, alas, perish.”

“But how, how can it be!” cried Ilya Borisovich, with a Russian splash-gesture of helpless dismay. “Haven’t they approved my thing, don’t they want to print it?”

“Yes, too bad,” said Euphratski calmly. “By the way, tell me—” and he changed the subject.

That night Ilya Borisovich did some hard thinking, conferred with his inner self, and next morning phoned his friend to submit to him certain questions of a financial nature. Euphratski’s replies were listless in tone but most accurate in sense. Ilya Borisovich pondered some more and on the following day made Euphratski an offer to be submitted to
Arion
. The offer was accepted, and Ilya Borisovich transferred to Paris a certain amount of money. In reply he got a letter with expressions of deep gratitude and a communication to the effect that the next issue of
Arion
would come out in a month’s time. A postscript contained a courteous request:

Ilya Borisovich answered:

(He had in view an old female cousin and two or three business acquaintances. His son did not read Russian.)

Here began the era in his life which the wits denoted by the term “apropos.” Either in a Russian bookshop, or at a meeting of the Friends of Expatriate Arts, or else simply on the sidewalk of a West Berlin street, you were amiably accosted (“Ah! How goes it?”) by a person you knew slightly, a pleasant and dignified gentleman wearing horn-rimmed glasses and carrying a cane, who would engage you in casual conversation about this and that, would imperceptibly pass from this and that to the subject of literature, and would suddenly say: “Apropos,
here’s what Galatov writes me. Yes—Galatov. Galatov the Russian Djoys.”

You take the letter and scan it:

“He got my patronymic wrong,” adds Ilya Borisovich with a kindly chuckle. “You know how writers are: absentminded! The journal will come out in September, you will read my little work.” And replacing the letter in his wallet, he takes leave of you and with a worried air hurries away.

Literary failures, hack journalists, special correspondents of forgotten newspapers derided him with savage volupty. Such hoots are emitted by delinquents torturing a cat; such a spark glows in the eyes of a no longer young, sexually unlucky fellow telling a particularly dirty story. Naturally, it was behind his back that they jeered, but they did so with the utmost
sans-gêne
, disregarding the superb acoustics of every locus of tattle. Being, however, as deaf to the world as a grouse in courtship, he probably did not catch one sound of all this. He blossomed, he walked his cane with a new, novelistic stance, he started writing to his son in Russian with an interlinear German translation of most of the words. At the office one knew already that I.B. Tal was not only an excellent person but also a
Schriftsteller
, and some of his business friends confided their love secrets to him as themes he might use. To him, sensing a certain warm zephyr, there began to flock in, through front hall or back door, the motley mendicancy of emigration. Public figures addressed him with respect. The fact could not be denied: Ilya Borisovich was indeed surrounded by esteem and fame. Not a single party in a cultured Russian milieu passed without his name being mentioned.
How
it was mentioned, with
what
kind of snicker, hardly matters: the thing, not the way, is important, says true wisdom.

At the end of the month Ilya Borisovich had to leave town on a tedious business trip and so he missed the advertisements in Russian-language newspapers regarding the coming publication of
Arion 2
. When he returned to Berlin, a large cubical package awaited him on the hallway table. Without taking his topcoat off, he instantaneously undid the parcel. Pink, plump, cool tomes. And, on the covers,
ARION
in purple-red letters. Six copies.

Ilya Borisovich attempted to open one; the book crackled deliciously but refused to unclose. Blind, newborn! He tried again, and
caught a glimpse of alien, alien versicles. He swung the mass of uncut pages from right to left—and happened to spot the table of contents. His eye raced through names and titles, but
he
was not there,
he
was not there! The volume endeavored to shut, he applied force, and reached the end of the list. Nothing! How could that be, good God? Impossible! Must have been omitted by chance from the table, such things happen, they happen! He was now in his study, and seizing his white knife, he stuck it into the thick, foliated flesh of the book. First Galatov, of course, then poetry, then two stories, then again poetry, again prose, and farther on nothing but trivia—surveys, critiques, and so forth. Ilya Borisovich was overwhelmed all at once by a sense of fatigue and futility. Well, nothing to be done. Maybe they had too much material. They’ll print it on the next number. Oh, that’s for certain! But a new period of waiting—Well, I’ll wait. Mechanically he kept sifting the soft pages between finger and thumb. Fancy paper. Well, I’ve been at least of some help. One can’t insist on being printed instead of Galatov or—And here, abruptly, there jumped out and whirled and went tripping, tripping along, hand on hip, in a Russian dance, the dear, heart-warm words: “…  her youthful, hardly formed bosom … violins were still weeping … both little tickets … the spring night welcomed them with a car—” and on the reverse page, as inevitably as the continuation of rails after a tunnel: “essing and passionate breath of wind—”

“How the deuce didn’t I guess immediately!” ejaculated Ilya Borisovich.

It was entitled “Prologue to a novel.” It was signed “A. Ilyin,” with, in parentheses, “To be continued.” A small bit, three pages and a half, but what a
nice
bit! Overture. Elegant. “Ilyin” is better than “Annenski.” Might have been a mix-up even if they had put “Ilya Annenski.” But why “Prologue” and not simply:
Lips to Lips
, Chapter One? Oh, that’s quite unimportant.

He reread the piece thrice. Then he laid the magazine aside, paced his study, whistling negligently the while, as if nothing whatever had happened: well, yes, there’s that book lying there—some book or other—who cares? Whereupon he rushed toward it and reread himself eight times in a row. Then he looked up “A. Ilyin, p. 205” in the table of contents, found p. 205, and, relishing every word, reread his “Prologue.” He kept playing that way for quite a time.

The magazine replaced the letter. Ilya Borisovich constantly carried a copy of
Arion
under his arm, and upon running into any sort of acquaintance, opened the volume at a page that had grown accustomed
to presenting itself.
Arion
was reviewed in the papers. The first of those reviews did not mention Ilyin at all. The second had: “Mr. Ilyin’s ‘Prologue to a novel’ must surely be a joke of some kind.” The third noted merely that Ilyin and another were newcomers to the magazine. Finally, a fourth reviewer (in a charming, modest little periodical appearing somewhere in Poland) wrote as follows: “Ilyin’s piece attracts one by its sincerity. The author pictures the birth of love against a background of music. Among the indubitable qualities of the piece one should mention the good style of the narration.” A new era started (after the “apropos” period and the book-carrying one): Ilya Borisovich would extract that review from his wallet.

He was happy. He purchased six more copies. He was happy. Silence was readily explained by inertia, detraction by enmity. He was happy. “To be continued.” And then, one Sunday, came a telephone call from Euphratski: “Guess,” he said, “who wants to speak to you? Galatov! Yes, he’s in Berlin for a couple of days. I pass the receiver.”

A voice never yet heard took over. A shimmering, urgeful, mellow, narcotic voice. A meeting was settled.

“Tomorrow at five at my place,” said Ilya Borisovich, “what a pity you can’t come tonight!”

“Very regrettable,” rejoined the shimmering voice; “you see, I’m being dragged by friends to attend
The Black Panther
—terrible play—but it’s such a long time since I’ve seen dear Elena Dmitrievna.”

Elena Dmitrievna Garina, a handsome elderly actress, who had arrived from Riga to star in the repertoire of a Russian-language theater in Berlin. Beginning at half-past eight. After a solitary supper Ilya Borisovich suddenly glanced at his watch, smiled a sly smile, and took a taxi to the theater.

The “theater” was really a large hall meant for lectures, rather than plays. The performance had not yet started. An amateur poster featured Garina reclining on the skin of a panther shot by her lover, who was to shoot her later on. Russian speech crepitated in the cold vestibule. Ilya Borisovich relinquished into the hands of an old woman in black his cane, his bowler, and his topcoat, paid for a numbered jetton, which he slipped into his waistcoat pocket, and leisurely rubbing his hands looked around the vestibule. Close to him stood a group of three people: a young reporter whom Ilya Borisovich knew slightly, the young man’s wife (an angular lady with a lorgnette), and a stranger in a flashy suit, with a pale complexion, a little black beard, beautiful ovine eyes, and a gold chainlet around his hairy wrist.

“But why, oh why,” the lady was saying to him vivaciously, “why did you print it? ‘Cause you know—”

“Now stop attacking that unfortunate fellow,” replied her interlocutor in an iridescent baritone voice. “All right, he’s a hopeless mediocrity, I grant you that, but evidently we had reasons—”

He added something in an undertone and the lady, with a click of her lorgnette, retorted in anger, “Excuse me, but in my opinion, if you print him only because he supports you financially—”

“Doucement, doucement
. Don’t proclaim our editorial secrets.”

Here Ilya Borisovich caught the eye of the young reporter, the angular lady’s husband, and the latter froze for an instant and then moaned with a start, and proceeded to push his wife away with his whole body, but she continued to speak at the top of her voice: “I’m not concerned with the wretched Ilyin, I’m concerned with matters of principle—”

“Sometimes, principles have to be sacrificed,” coolly said the opal-voiced fop.

But Ilya Borisovich was no longer listening. He saw things through a haze, and being in a state of utter distress, not yet realizing fully the horror of the event, but instinctively striving to retreat as fast as possible from something shameful, odious, intolerable, he moved at first toward the vague spot where vague seats were being sold, but then abruptly turned back, almost collided with Euphratski who was hurrying toward him, and made for the cloakroom.

Old woman in black. Number 79. Down there. He was in a desperate hurry, had already swept his arm back to get into a last coat sleeve, but here Euphratski caught up with him, accompanied by the other, the other—

“Meet our editor,” said Euphratski, while Galatov, rolling his eyes and trying not to let Ilya Borisovich regain his wits, kept catching the sleeve in a semblance of assistance and talking fast: “Innokentiy Borisovich, how are you? Very glad to make your acquaintance. Pleasant occasion. Allow me to help you.”

“For God’s sake, leave me alone,” muttered Ilya Borisovich, struggling with the coat and with Galatov. “Go away. Disgusting. I can’t. It’s disgusting.”

“Obvious misunderstanding,” put in Galatov at top speed.

“Leave me alone,” cried Ilya Borisovich, wrenched himself free, scooped up his bowler from the counter, and went out, still putting on his coat.

He kept whispering incoherently as he marched along the sidewalk; then he spread his hands: he had forgotten his cane!

Automatically he continued to walk, but presently with a quiet little stumble came to a stop as if the clockwork had run out.

He would go back for the thing once the performance had started. Must wait a few minutes.

Cars sped by, tramcars rang their bells, the night was clear, dry, spruced up with lights. He began to walk slowly toward the theater. He reflected that he was old, lonely, that his joys were few, and that old people must pay for their joys. He reflected that perhaps even tonight, and in any case, tomorrow, Galatov would come with explanations, exhortations, justifications. He knew that he must forgive everything, otherwise the “To be continued” would never materialize. And he also told himself that he would be fully recognized after his death, and he recollected, he gathered up in a tiny heap, all the crumbs of praise he had received lately, and slowly walked to and fro, and after a while went back for his cane.

T
HE
vastest room in their St. Petersburg mansion was the library. There, before the drive to school, Peter would look in to say good morning to his father. Crepitations of steel and the scraping of soles: every morning his father fenced with Monsieur Mascara, a diminutive elderly Frenchman made of gutta-percha and black bristle. On Sundays Mascara came to teach Peter gymnastics and pugilism—and usually interrupted the lesson because of dyspepsia: through secret passages, through canyons of bookcases, through deep dim corridors, he retreated for half an hour to one of the water closets on the first floor. Peter, his thin hot wrists thrust into huge boxing gloves, waited, sprawling in a leather armchair, listening to the light buzz of silence, and blinking to ward off somnolence. The lamplight, which on winter mornings seemed always of a dull tawny tint, shone on the rosined linoleum, on the shelves lining the walls, on the defenseless spines of books huddling there in tight ranks, and on the black gallows of a pear-shaped punching ball. Beyond the plate-glass windows, soft slow snow kept densely falling with a kind of monotonous and sterile grace.