Authors: Vladimir Nabokov
He was practically in the passage, but all at once changed his mind and came back.
“In the days of my youth and folly,” he said, “when we students were once making merry, the most blasphemous fellow among us got especially tight, so as soon as he reached the helpless stage, we dressed him up in a cassock, shaved a round patch on his pate and late at night knocked at the door of a cloister, whereupon a nun appeared and one of us said to her:
‘Ah, ma soeur, voyez dans quel triste état s’est mis ce pauvre abbé—see
this poor priest’s sorry condition! Take him, let him sleep it off in one of your cells.’ And fancy, the nuns took him. What a laugh we had!” The doctor lowered his haunches slightly and slapped them. The thought suddenly occurred to me that, who knows, maybe he was saying all this (disguised him … wanted him to pass for someone else) with a certain secret design, that maybe he was sent to spy … and again fury possessed me, but glancing at his foolishly beaming wrinkles, I controlled myself, pretended to laugh; he waved his hands very contentedly and at last, at last, left me in peace.
In spite of a grotesque resemblance to Rascalnikov—No, that’s wrong. Canceled. What came next? Yes, I decided that the very first thing to do was to obtain as many newspapers as possible. I ran downstairs. On one of the landings I happened upon the fat abbé, who looked at me with commiseration: from his oily smile I deduced that the doctor had already managed to tell the world of our reconciliation.
Coming out into the court I was at once half stunned by the wind; I did not give in, though, but clapped myself eagerly against the gate, and then the bus appeared, I signaled
to it, I climbed in and we rolled down hill with the white dust madly whirling. In town I got several German dailies and took the occasion to call at the post office. There was no letter for me, but, on the other hand, I found the papers full of news, much too full, alas.… Today after a week of all-absorbing literary labor, I am cured and feel only contempt, but at the time the cold sneering tone of the Press almost drove me crazy.
Here is the general picture I finally put together: on Sunday noon, the tenth of March, in a wood, a hairdresser from Koenigsdorf found a dead body. How he came to be in that wood, which, even in summer, remained unfrequented, and why it was only in the evening that he made his find known, are puzzles still unsolved. Next follows that screamingly funny story which I have, I think, mentioned already: the car purposely left by me on the border of the wood was gone. Its imprints, a succession of T’s, established the make of the tires, while certain Koenigsdorf inhabitants possessing phenomenal memories recollected having seen a blue Icarus pass, small model, wire wheels, to which the bright and pleasant fellows at the garage in my street added information concerning horsepower and cylinders, and gave not only the car’s police number, but also the factory one of engine and chassis.
The general assumption is that at this very instant I am spinning about in that Icarus somewhere—which is deliciously ludicrous. Now, it is obvious to me, that somebody saw my car from the highway and, without further ado, appropriated it, overlooking in his hurry, the corpse lying close by.
Inversely, that hairdresser who did notice the corpse asserts that there was no car around whatsoever. He is a suspicious character, that man! It would seem to be the most natural thing in the world for the police to pounce upon him; people
have had their heads chopped off for less, but you may be sure that nothing of the sort has happened, they do not dream of seeing in him the possible murderer; no, the guilt has been laid upon me, straightaway, unreservedly, with cold and callous promptitude, as though they were joyfully eager to convict me, as though it were vengeance, as though I had long been offending them and they had long been thirsting to punish me. Not only taking for granted, with strange prejudication, that the dead man could not be I; not only failing to observe our resemblance, but, as it were,
a priori
, excluding its possibility (for people do not see what they are loath to see), the police gave a brilliant example of logic when they expressed their surprise at my having hoped to deceive the world simply by dressing up in my clothes an individual who was not in the least like me. The imbecility and blatant unfairness of such reasoning are highly comic. The next logical step was to make me mentally deficient; they even went so far as to suppose I was not quite sane and certain persons knowing me confirmed this—that ass Orlovius among others (wonder who the others were), his story being that I used to write letters to myself (rather unexpected).
What baffled the police absolutely, was the question how did my victim (the word “victim” was particularly relished by the Press) come to be in my clothes, or better, say, how had I managed to force a live man to put on not only my suit, but down to my socks and shoes, which being too small for him ought to have hurt—(well, as to shoeing him, I could have done that post-factum, wise guys!)
In getting into their heads that it was not my corpse, they behaved just as a literary critic does, who at the mere sight of a book by an author whom he does not favor, makes up his mind that the book is worthless and thence proceeds to
build whatever he wants to build, on the basis of that first gratuitous assumption. Thus, faced by the miracle of Felix’s resemblance to me, they hurled themselves upon such small and quite immaterial blemishes as would, given a deeper and finer attitude towards my masterpiece, pass unnoticed, the way a beautiful book is not in the least impaired by a misprint or a slip of the pen. They mentioned the roughness of the hands, they even sought out some horny growth of the gravest significance, noting, nevertheless, the neatness of the nails on all four extremities; and somebody—to the best of my belief, that hairdresser who found the body—drew the sleuths’ attention to the fact that on the strength of certain details visible to a professional (lovely, that) it was clear that the nails had been pared by an expert—which ought to have inculpated
him
and not me!
Try as I may, I cannot find out what was Lydia’s demeanor at the inquest. As none doubted that the murdered man was not I, she has certainly been, or still is, suspected of complicity: her own fault to be sure—ought to have understood that the insurance money had faded into thin air, so no use butting in with widow’s wailings. She will break down in the long run, and never questioning my innocence but striving to save my head, will give away my brother’s tragic story; to no avail, however, for it may be established without much difficulty that I never had any brother; and as to the suicide theory, well, there is hardly any chance of the official imagination swallowing that trigger-and-string stunt.
Of the greatest importance to my present security is the fact that the murdered man’s identity is unknown and
cannot
be known. Meanwhile I have been living under his name, traces of which I have already left here and there, so that I might be run to earth in no time were it discovered
whom
I have, to use the accepted term, plugged. But there is no way of discovering it, which suits me admirably, as I am too tired to plan and act all over again. And, indeed, how could I divest myself of a name, which, with such art I have made my own? For I look like my name, gentlemen, and it fits me as exactly as it used to fit him. You must be fools not to understand.
Now as to that car, it ought to be found sooner or later—not that it will help them much; for I
wanted
it to be found. What fun! They think I am meekly sitting at the wheel, whereas, actually, they will find a very ordinary and very scared thief.
I make no mention here of the monstrous epithets which those irresponsible scribblers, those purveyors of thrills, those villainous quacks who set up their stalls where blood has been spilt, consider it necessary to award me; neither shall I dwell upon the solemn arguments of a psychoanalytic kind in which writers-up rejoice. All that drivel and dirt incensed me at the outset, especially the fact of my being associated with this or that oaf with vampirish tastes, who, in his day, had helped to raise the number of sold copies. There was, for instance, that fellow who burned his car with his victim’s body inside, after having wisely sawed off part of the feet, as the corpse had turned out to exceed in length his, the car owner’s, measure. But to hell with them! They and I have nothing in common. Another point that maddened me was that the papers printed my passport photo (on which I indeed look like a criminal, and not like myself at all, so maliciously did they touch it up) instead of some other one, that one, say, where I dip into a book—an expensive affair in tender milk-chocolate shades; and the same photographer took me in another pose, finger at the temple, grave eyes looking up at you from under bent
brows: that is the way German novelists like to be taken. Really, they had many to choose from. There are some good snapshots too—that one, for example, which depicts me in bathing shorts on Ardalion’s plot of land.
Oh, by the way—almost forgot, the police during their careful investigations, examining every bush and even digging into the soil, discovered nothing; nothing, except one remarkable object, namely: a bottle—
the
bottle—of homemade vodka. It had been lying there since June: I have, as far as I recollect, described Lydia’s hiding it.… Pity I didn’t bury a balalaika somewhere too, so as to give them the pleasure of imagining a Slavic murder to the clinking of goblets and the singing of
“Pazhaláy zhemen-áh, dara-gúy-ah
.…” “Do take pity of me, dear.…”
But enough, enough. All that disgusting mess is due to the inertia, pigheadedness, prejudice of humans, failing to recognize me in the corpse of my flawless double. I accept, with a feeling of bitterness and contempt, the bare fact of unrecognition (whose mastery was not darkened by it?) but I keep on firmly believing in my double’s perfection. I have nothing to blame myself for. Mistakes—pseudo mistakes—have been imposed upon me retrospectively by my critics when they jumped to the groundless conclusion that my very idea was radically wrong, thereupon picking out those trifling discrepancies, which I myself am aware of and which have no importance whatever in the sum of an artist’s success. I maintain that in the planning and execution of the whole thing the limit of skill was attained; that its perfect finish was, in a sense, inevitable; that all came together, regardless of my will, by means of creative intuition. And so, in order to obtain recognition, to justify and save the offspring of my
brain, to explain to the world all the depth of my masterpiece, did I devise the writing of the present tale.
For, after crumpling and flinging aside one last newspaper, having sucked it dry, learned everything; with a burning, itching sensation creeping over me, and an intense desire to adopt at once certain measures I alone could appreciate; it was then, in that state, that I sat down at my table and began to write. If I were not absolutely certain of my literary forces, of the remarkable knack—at first it was tough, uphill business. I panted and stopped and then went on again. My toil, mightily wearing me out, gave me a queer delight. Yes, a drastic remedy, an inhuman, medieval purge; but it proved efficient.
Since the day I began a full week has gone by; and now my work is nearing its end. I am calm. Everyone at the hotel is beautifully nice to me; the treacle of affability. At present I take my meals separately, at a little table near the window. The doctor approves of my separation, and heedless of my being within earshot he explains to people that a nervous subject requires peace and that as a rule musicians are nervous subjects. During meals he frequently addresses me across the room from the top of the table d’hôte recommending some dish or else jokingly asking me whether I could not be tempted to join in the general repast just only for today, and then they all glance over at me in a most good-natured fashion.
But how tired I am, how deadly tired. There have been days, the day before yesterday for instance—when, except for two short interruptions, I wrote nineteen hours at a stretch; and do you suppose I slept after that? No, I could not sleep, and my whole body strained and snapped as if I were being broken on the wheel. Now, however, when I am finishing
and have almost nothing more to add to my tale, it is quite a wrench to part with all this used-up paper; but part with it I must; and after reading my work over again, correcting it, sealing it up and bravely posting it, I shall have, I suppose, to move on farther, to Africa, to Asia—does not much matter whither—though I am so reluctant to move, so desirous of quietude. Indeed, let the reader only imagine the position of a man living under a certain name, not because he cannot obtain another passp—
I have moved to a slightly higher altitude: disaster made me shift my quarters.
I thought there would be ten chapters in all—my mistake! It is odd to remember how firmly, how composedly, in spite of everything, I was bringing the tenth one to a close; which I did not quite manage—and happened to break my last paragraph on a rhyme to “gasp.” The maid bustled in to make up my room, so having nothing better to do, I went down into the garden; and there a heavenly, soft stillness enfolded me. At first I did not even realize what was the matter, but I shook myself and suddenly understood, the hurricane wind which had been raging lately was stilled.
The air was divine, there drifted about the silky floss of sallows; even the greenery of indeciduous leafage tried to look renovated; and the half-bared, athletic torsos of the cork oaks glistened a rich red.
I strolled along the main road; on my right, the swarthy vineyards slanted, their still naked shoots standing in uniform pattern and looking like crouching, crooked cemetery crosses. Presently I sat down on the grass, and as I looked across the vineyards at the golden gorse-clad top of a hill, which was up to its shoulders in thick oak foliage, and at the deep-deep blue-blue sky, I reflected with a kind of melting tenderness
(for perhaps the essential, though hidden, feature of my soul is tenderness) that a new simple life had started, leaving the burden of laborious fantasies behind. Then, afar, from the direction of my hotel, the motorbus appeared and I decided to amuse myself for the very last time with reading Berlin papers. Once in the bus, I feigned to sleep (and pushed that performance to smiling in my dream), because I noticed, among the passengers, the commercial traveler in ham; but soon I fell asleep authentically.