JК
The Real Life of Sebastian Knight :: Набоков Владимир Владимирович
Страница: 45 из 124She did it very well, although, like most women, she was inclined to be somewhat didactic in retrospection.
'Do you mean to say,' I interrupted her at a certain point of her story, 'that nobody ever found out what that other woman's name was?'
'No,' said Miss Pratt.
'But how shall I find her,' I cried.
'You never will.'
'When do you say it began?' I interrupted again, as she referred to his illness.
'Well,' she said, 'I'm not quite sure. What I witnessed wasn't his first attack. We were coming out of some restaurant. It was very cold and he could not find a taxi. He got nervous and angry. He started .to run towards one that had drawn up a little way off. Then he stopped and said he was not feeling well. I remember he took a pill or something out of a little box and crushed it in his white silk scarf, sort of pressing it to his face as he did so. That must have been in twenty-seven or twenty-eight.'
I asked several more questions. She answered them all in the same conscientious fashion and went on with her dismal tale.
When she had gone, I wrote it all down – but it was dead, dead. I simply had to see Clare! One glance, one word, the mere sound of her voice would be sufficient (and necessary, absolutely necessary) to animate the past. Why it was thus I did not understand, just as I have never understood why on a certain unforgettable day some weeks earlier I had been so sure that if I could find a dying man alive and conscious I would learn something which no human being had yet learnt.
Then one Monday morning I made a call.
The maid showed me into a small sitting room. Clare was at home, this at least I learnt from that ruddy and rather raw young female. (Sebastian mentions somewhere that English novelists never' depart from a certain fixed tone when describing housemaids.) On the other hand I knew from Miss Pratt that Mr Bishop was busy in the City on weekdays; queer – her having married a man with the same name, no relation either, just pure coincidence. Would she not see me? Fairly well off, I should say, but not very…. Probably an L-shaped drawing room on the first floor and over that a couple of bedrooms. The whole street consisted of just such close-pressed narrow houses. She was long in roaking up her mind…. Should I have risked telephoning first? Had Miss Pratt already told her about the letters? Suddenly I heard soft footfalls coming down the stairs and a huge man in a black dressing-gown with purple facings came bouncing into the room.
'I apologize for my attire,' he said, 'but I am suffering from a severe cold.
'Do you mean to say,' I interrupted her at a certain point of her story, 'that nobody ever found out what that other woman's name was?'
'No,' said Miss Pratt.
'But how shall I find her,' I cried.
'You never will.'
'When do you say it began?' I interrupted again, as she referred to his illness.
'Well,' she said, 'I'm not quite sure. What I witnessed wasn't his first attack. We were coming out of some restaurant. It was very cold and he could not find a taxi. He got nervous and angry. He started .to run towards one that had drawn up a little way off. Then he stopped and said he was not feeling well. I remember he took a pill or something out of a little box and crushed it in his white silk scarf, sort of pressing it to his face as he did so. That must have been in twenty-seven or twenty-eight.'
I asked several more questions. She answered them all in the same conscientious fashion and went on with her dismal tale.
When she had gone, I wrote it all down – but it was dead, dead. I simply had to see Clare! One glance, one word, the mere sound of her voice would be sufficient (and necessary, absolutely necessary) to animate the past. Why it was thus I did not understand, just as I have never understood why on a certain unforgettable day some weeks earlier I had been so sure that if I could find a dying man alive and conscious I would learn something which no human being had yet learnt.
Then one Monday morning I made a call.
The maid showed me into a small sitting room. Clare was at home, this at least I learnt from that ruddy and rather raw young female. (Sebastian mentions somewhere that English novelists never' depart from a certain fixed tone when describing housemaids.) On the other hand I knew from Miss Pratt that Mr Bishop was busy in the City on weekdays; queer – her having married a man with the same name, no relation either, just pure coincidence. Would she not see me? Fairly well off, I should say, but not very…. Probably an L-shaped drawing room on the first floor and over that a couple of bedrooms. The whole street consisted of just such close-pressed narrow houses. She was long in roaking up her mind…. Should I have risked telephoning first? Had Miss Pratt already told her about the letters? Suddenly I heard soft footfalls coming down the stairs and a huge man in a black dressing-gown with purple facings came bouncing into the room.
'I apologize for my attire,' he said, 'but I am suffering from a severe cold.