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The Real Life of Sebastian Knight :: Набоков Владимир Владимирович
Страница: 92 из 124'Exactly,' he replied rather putting me off (the right answer would have been: Oh, no, she is an ugly blonde). Half an hour later, I entered a gloomy-looking house not far from the Santй prison. My ring was answered by a fat elderly woman with waved bright orange hair, purplish jowls and some dark fluff over her painted lip.
'May I speak to Mademoiselle Lydia Bohemsky?' I said.
'C'est moi,' she replied with a terrific Russian accent.
'Then I'll bring the things,' I muttered and hurriedly left the house. I sometimes think that she may be still standing in the doorway.
When next day I called again at Madame von Graun's flat, the maid showed me into another room – a kind of boudoir doing its best to look charming. I had already noticed on the day before the intense warmth in the flat – and as the weather outside was, though decidedly damp, yet hardly what you would call chilly, this orgy of central heating seemed rather exaggerated. I was kept waiting a long time. There were several oldish French novels on the console; most of them by literary prizewinners, and a well thumbed copy of Dr Axel Munthe's San Michele. A bunch of carnations stood in a self-conscious vase. There were a few other fragile knick-knacks about – probably quite nice and expensive, but I always have shared Sebastian's almost pathological dislike for anything made of glass or china. Last but not least, there was a sham piece of polished furniture, containing, I felt, that horror of horrors: a radio set Still, all things considered, Helene von Graun seemed to be a person of 'taste and culture'.
At last, the door opened and the lady I had seen on the previous day sidled in – I say sidled because she was turning her head back and down, talking to what turned out to be a frog-faced, wheezing, black bulldog, which seemed reluctant to waddle in.
'Remember my sapphire,' she said giving me her little cold hand. She sat down on the blue sofa and pulled up the heavy bulldog. 'Viens, mon vieux,' she panted, 'viens. He is pining away without Helene,' she said when the beast was made comfortable among the cushions. 'It's a shame, you know, I thought she would be back this morning, but she rang up from Dijon and said she would not arrive till Saturday (today was Tuesday). I'm dreadfully sorry. I did not know where to reach you. Are you 'very disappointed?' – and she looked at me with her chin on her clasped hands and her sharp elbows in close-fitting velvet propped on her knees.
'Well,' I said, 'if you tell me something more about Madame Graun, perhaps I may be consoled.
'May I speak to Mademoiselle Lydia Bohemsky?' I said.
'C'est moi,' she replied with a terrific Russian accent.
'Then I'll bring the things,' I muttered and hurriedly left the house. I sometimes think that she may be still standing in the doorway.
When next day I called again at Madame von Graun's flat, the maid showed me into another room – a kind of boudoir doing its best to look charming. I had already noticed on the day before the intense warmth in the flat – and as the weather outside was, though decidedly damp, yet hardly what you would call chilly, this orgy of central heating seemed rather exaggerated. I was kept waiting a long time. There were several oldish French novels on the console; most of them by literary prizewinners, and a well thumbed copy of Dr Axel Munthe's San Michele. A bunch of carnations stood in a self-conscious vase. There were a few other fragile knick-knacks about – probably quite nice and expensive, but I always have shared Sebastian's almost pathological dislike for anything made of glass or china. Last but not least, there was a sham piece of polished furniture, containing, I felt, that horror of horrors: a radio set Still, all things considered, Helene von Graun seemed to be a person of 'taste and culture'.
At last, the door opened and the lady I had seen on the previous day sidled in – I say sidled because she was turning her head back and down, talking to what turned out to be a frog-faced, wheezing, black bulldog, which seemed reluctant to waddle in.
'Remember my sapphire,' she said giving me her little cold hand. She sat down on the blue sofa and pulled up the heavy bulldog. 'Viens, mon vieux,' she panted, 'viens. He is pining away without Helene,' she said when the beast was made comfortable among the cushions. 'It's a shame, you know, I thought she would be back this morning, but she rang up from Dijon and said she would not arrive till Saturday (today was Tuesday). I'm dreadfully sorry. I did not know where to reach you. Are you 'very disappointed?' – and she looked at me with her chin on her clasped hands and her sharp elbows in close-fitting velvet propped on her knees.
'Well,' I said, 'if you tell me something more about Madame Graun, perhaps I may be consoled.