JК
The Real Life of Sebastian Knight :: Набоков Владимир Владимирович
Страница: 98 из 124Eh bien, кtes-vous d'accord?'
17
Very curious, I mused: there seemed to be a slight family likeness between Nina Rechnoy and Helene von Graun – or at least between the two pictures which the husband of one and the friend of the other had painted for me. Between the two there was not much to choose. Nina was shallow and glamorous, Helene cunning and hard; both were flighty; neither was much to my taste – nor should I have thought to Sebastian's. I wondered if the two women had known each other at Blauberg: they would have gone rather well together – theoretically; in reality they would probably have hissed and spat at each other. On the other hand, I could now drop the Rechnoy clue altogether – and that was a great relief. What that French girl had told me about her friend's lover could hardly have been a coincidence. Whatever the feelings I experienced at learning' the way Sebastian had been treated, I could not help being satisfied that my inquiry was nearing its end and that I was spared the impossible task of unearthing Pahl Pahlich's first wife, who for all I knew might be in jail or in Los Angeles.
I knew I was being given my last chance, and as I was anxious to make sure I would get at Helene von Graun, I made a tremendous effort and sent her a letter to her Paris address, so that she might find it on her arrival. It was quite short: I merely informed her that I was her friend's guest at Lescaux and had accepted this invitation with the sole object of meeting her; I added that there was an important piece of literary business which I wished to discuss with her. This last sentence was not very honest, but I thought it sounded enticing. I had not quite understood whether her friend had told her anything about my desire to see her when she telephoned from Dijon. I was desperately afraid that on Sunday Madame Lecerf might blandly inform me that Helene had left for Nice instead. After posting that letter I felt that at any rate I had done all in my power to fix our rendezvous.
I started at nine in the morning, so as to reach Lescaux around noon as arranged. I was already boarding the train when I realized with a shock that on my way I would pass St Damier where Sebastian had died and was buried. Here I had travelled one unforgettable night. But now I failed to recognize anything: when the train stopped for a minute at the little St Damier platform, its inscription alone told me that I had been there. The place looked so simple and staid and definite compared to the distorted dream impression which lingered in my memory. Or was it distorted now?
I felt strangely relieved when the train moved on: no more was I treading the ghostly tracks I had followed two months before.
17
Very curious, I mused: there seemed to be a slight family likeness between Nina Rechnoy and Helene von Graun – or at least between the two pictures which the husband of one and the friend of the other had painted for me. Between the two there was not much to choose. Nina was shallow and glamorous, Helene cunning and hard; both were flighty; neither was much to my taste – nor should I have thought to Sebastian's. I wondered if the two women had known each other at Blauberg: they would have gone rather well together – theoretically; in reality they would probably have hissed and spat at each other. On the other hand, I could now drop the Rechnoy clue altogether – and that was a great relief. What that French girl had told me about her friend's lover could hardly have been a coincidence. Whatever the feelings I experienced at learning' the way Sebastian had been treated, I could not help being satisfied that my inquiry was nearing its end and that I was spared the impossible task of unearthing Pahl Pahlich's first wife, who for all I knew might be in jail or in Los Angeles.
I knew I was being given my last chance, and as I was anxious to make sure I would get at Helene von Graun, I made a tremendous effort and sent her a letter to her Paris address, so that she might find it on her arrival. It was quite short: I merely informed her that I was her friend's guest at Lescaux and had accepted this invitation with the sole object of meeting her; I added that there was an important piece of literary business which I wished to discuss with her. This last sentence was not very honest, but I thought it sounded enticing. I had not quite understood whether her friend had told her anything about my desire to see her when she telephoned from Dijon. I was desperately afraid that on Sunday Madame Lecerf might blandly inform me that Helene had left for Nice instead. After posting that letter I felt that at any rate I had done all in my power to fix our rendezvous.
I started at nine in the morning, so as to reach Lescaux around noon as arranged. I was already boarding the train when I realized with a shock that on my way I would pass St Damier where Sebastian had died and was buried. Here I had travelled one unforgettable night. But now I failed to recognize anything: when the train stopped for a minute at the little St Damier platform, its inscription alone told me that I had been there. The place looked so simple and staid and definite compared to the distorted dream impression which lingered in my memory. Or was it distorted now?
I felt strangely relieved when the train moved on: no more was I treading the ghostly tracks I had followed two months before.