The Eye by Vladimir Nabokov Read Free Book Online Page A

viewed Smurov without emotion. A certain bias in his favor that had existed at the outset, had given way to simple curiosity. And yet I experienced an excitement new to me. Just as the scientist does not care whether the color of a wing is pretty or not, or whether its markings are delicate or lurid (but is interested only in its taxonomic characters), I regarded Smurov, without any aesthetic tremor; instead, I found a keen thrill in the classification of Smurovian masks that I had so casually undertaken.
    The task was far from easy. For instance, I knew perfectly well that insipid Marianna sawin Smurov a brutal and brilliant officer of the White Army, “the kind that went around stringing people up right and left,” as Evgenia informed me in the greatest secrecy during a confidential chat. To define this image accurately, however, I would have had to be familiar with Marianna’s entire life, with all the secondary associations that came alive inside her when she looked at Smurov—other reminiscences, other chance impressions and all those lighting effects that vary from soul to soul. My conversation with Evgenia took place soon after Marianna Nikolaevna’s departure; it was said she was going to Warsaw, but there were obscure implications of a still more eastwardly journey—perhaps back to the fold; and so Marianna carried away with her and, unless someone sets her right, will preserve to the end of her days, a very particular idea of Smurov.
    “And how about you,” I asked Evgenia, “what idea have
you
formed?”
    “Oh, that’s hard to say, all at once,” she replied, a smile enhancing both her resemblance to a cute bulldog and the velvety shade of her eyes.
    “Please,” I insisted.
    “In the first place there is his shyness,” shesaid swiftly. “Yes, yes, a great deal of shyness. I had a cousin, a very gentle, pleasant young man, but whenever he had to confront a crowd of strangers in a fashionable drawing room, he would come in whistling to give himself an independent air—casual and tough at the same time.”
    “Yes, go on?”
    “Let me see, what else is there … Sensitivity, I would say, great sensitivity, and, of course, youth; and lack of experience with people …”
    There was nothing more to be wheedled out of her, and the resulting eidolon was rather pale and not very attractive. It was Vanya’s version of Smurov, however, that interested me most of all. I thought about this constantly. I remember how, one evening, chance seemed about to favor me with an answer. I had climbed up from my gloomy room to their sixth-floor apartment only to find both sisters with Khrushchov and Mukhin on the point of leaving for the theater. Having nothing better to do, I went out to accompany them to the taxi stand. Suddenly I noticed that I had forgotten my downstairs key.
    “Oh, don’t worry, we have two sets,” said Evgenia, “you’re lucky we live in the samehouse. Here, you can give them back tomorrow. Good night.”
    I walked homeward and on the way had a wonderful idea. I imagined a sleek movie villain reading a document he has found on someone else’s desk. True, my plan was very sketchy. Smurov had once brought Vanya a yellow, dark-dappled orchid somewhat resembling a frog; now I could ascertain if perhaps Vanya had preserved the cherished remains of the flower in some secret drawer. Once he had brought her a little volume of Gumilyov, the poet of fortitude; it might be worth while checking if the pages had been cut and if the book were lying perhaps on her night table. There was also a photograph, taken with a magnesium flash, in which Smurov had come out magnificently—in semiprofile, very pale, one eyebrow raised—and beside him stood Vanya, while Mukhin skulked in the rear. And, generally speaking, there were many things to discover. Having decided that if I ran into the maid (a very pretty girl, by the way), I would explain that I had come to return the keys, I cautiously unlocked the