JК
The Real Life of Sebastian Knight :: Набоков Владимир Владимирович
Страница: 46 из 124My name is Bishop and I gatheryou want to see my wife.'
Had he caught that cold, I thought in a curious flash of fancy, from the pink-nosed husky-voiced Clare I had seen twelve years ago?
'Why, yes,' I said, 'if she hasn't forgotten me. We met once in Paris!
'Oh, she remembered your name all right,' said Mr Bishop, looking at me squarely, 'but I am sorry to say she can't see you,'
'May I call later?' I asked.
There was a slight silence, and then Mr Bishop asked. 'Am I right in presuming that your visit is connected in some way with your brother's death?' There he stood before roe, hands thrust into his dressing-gown pockets, looking at roe, his fair hair brushed back with an angry brush – a good fellow, a decent fellow, and I hope he will not mind my saying so here. Quite recently, I may add, in very sad circumstances, letters have been exchanged between us, which have quite done away with any ill-feeling that might have crept into our first conversation.
'Would that prevent her seeing me?' I asked in my turn. It was a foolish phrase, I admit.
'You are not going to see her in any case,' said Mr Bishop. 'Sorry,' he added, relenting a little, as he felt I was safely drifting out. 'I am sure that in other circumstances… but you see my wife is not overkeen to recall past friendships, and you will forgive me if I say quite frankly I do not think you should have come.'
I walked back feeling I had bungled it badly. I pictured to myself what I would have said to Clare had I found her alone. Somehow I managed to convince myself now that had she been alone, she would have seen me: so an unforeseen obstacle belittles those one had imagined. I would have said: 'Let us not talk of Sebastian. Let us talk of Paris. Do you know it well? Do you remember those pigeons? Tell me what you have been reading lately…. And what about films? Do you still lose your gloves, parcels?' Or else I might have resorted to a bolder method, a direct attack. 'Yes, I know how you must feel about it, but please, please, talk to me about him. For the sake of his portrait. For the sake of little things which will wander away and perish if you refuse to let me have them for my book about him.' Oh, I was sure she would never have refused.
And two days later with this last intention firm in my mind, I made still another attempt. This time I was resolved to be much more circumspect. It was a fine morning, quite early yet, and I was sure she would not stay indoors.
Had he caught that cold, I thought in a curious flash of fancy, from the pink-nosed husky-voiced Clare I had seen twelve years ago?
'Why, yes,' I said, 'if she hasn't forgotten me. We met once in Paris!
'Oh, she remembered your name all right,' said Mr Bishop, looking at me squarely, 'but I am sorry to say she can't see you,'
'May I call later?' I asked.
There was a slight silence, and then Mr Bishop asked. 'Am I right in presuming that your visit is connected in some way with your brother's death?' There he stood before roe, hands thrust into his dressing-gown pockets, looking at roe, his fair hair brushed back with an angry brush – a good fellow, a decent fellow, and I hope he will not mind my saying so here. Quite recently, I may add, in very sad circumstances, letters have been exchanged between us, which have quite done away with any ill-feeling that might have crept into our first conversation.
'Would that prevent her seeing me?' I asked in my turn. It was a foolish phrase, I admit.
'You are not going to see her in any case,' said Mr Bishop. 'Sorry,' he added, relenting a little, as he felt I was safely drifting out. 'I am sure that in other circumstances… but you see my wife is not overkeen to recall past friendships, and you will forgive me if I say quite frankly I do not think you should have come.'
I walked back feeling I had bungled it badly. I pictured to myself what I would have said to Clare had I found her alone. Somehow I managed to convince myself now that had she been alone, she would have seen me: so an unforeseen obstacle belittles those one had imagined. I would have said: 'Let us not talk of Sebastian. Let us talk of Paris. Do you know it well? Do you remember those pigeons? Tell me what you have been reading lately…. And what about films? Do you still lose your gloves, parcels?' Or else I might have resorted to a bolder method, a direct attack. 'Yes, I know how you must feel about it, but please, please, talk to me about him. For the sake of his portrait. For the sake of little things which will wander away and perish if you refuse to let me have them for my book about him.' Oh, I was sure she would never have refused.
And two days later with this last intention firm in my mind, I made still another attempt. This time I was resolved to be much more circumspect. It was a fine morning, quite early yet, and I was sure she would not stay indoors.