The Eye by Vladimir Nabokov Page A

Khrushchovs’, Smurov was particularly quiet and humble. Now, however, when one knew what bliss had smitten him—yes, smitten (for there is bliss so strong that, with its blast, with its hurricane howl, it resembles a cataclysm)—now a certain palpitation could be discerned in his quietude, and the carnation of joy showed through his enigmatic pallor. And dear God, how he gazed at Vanya! She would lower her lashes, her nostrils would quiver, she would even bite her lips a little, hiding from all her exquisite feelings. That night it seemed that something must be resolved.
    Poor Mukhin was not there: he had gone for a few days to London. Khrushchov was also absent. In compensation, however, Roman Bogdanovich (who was gathering material for the diary which with old-maidish precision heweekly sent to a friend in Tallin) was more than ever his sonorous and importunate self. The sisters sat on the sofa as always. Smurov stood leaning one elbow on the piano, ardently gazing at the smooth parting in Vanya’s hair, at her dusky-red cheeks … Evgenia several times jumped up and thrust her head out of the window—Uncle Pasha was coming to say goodbye and she wanted to be sure and be on hand to unlock the elevator for him. “I adore him,” she said, laughing. “He is such a character. I bet he won’t let us accompany him to the station.”
    “Do you play?” Roman Bogdanovich politely asked Smurov, with a meaningful look at the piano. “I used to play once,” Smurov calmly replied. He opened the lid, glanced dreamily at the bared teeth of the keyboard, and brought the lid back down. “I love music,” Roman Bogdanovich observed confidentially. “I recall, in my student days——”
    “Music,” said Smurov in a louder tone, “good music at least, expresses that which is inexpressible in words. Therein lie the meaning and the mystery of music.”
    “There he is,” shouted Evgenia and left the room.
    “And you, Varvara?” asked Roman Bogdanovichin his coarse, thick voice. “You—‘with fingers lighter than a dream’—eh? Come on, anything … Some little ritornello.” Vanya shook her head and seemed about to frown but instead giggled and lowered her face. No doubt, what excited her mirth was this thickhead’s inviting her to sit down at the piano when her soul was ringing and flowing with its own melody. At this moment one could have noted in Smurov’s face a most violent desire that the elevator carrying Evgenia and Uncle Pasha get stuck forever, that Roman Bogdanovich tumble right into the jaws of the blue Persian lion depicted on the rug, and, most important, that I—the cold, insistent, tireless eye—disappear.
    Meanwhile Uncle Pasha was already blowing his nose and chuckling in the hall; now he came in and paused on the threshold, smiling foolishly and rubbing his hands. “Evgenia,” he said, “I’m afraid I don’t know anybody here. Come, make the introductions.”
    “Oh, my goodness!” said Evgenia. “It’s your own niece!”
    “So it is, so it is,” said Uncle Pasha and added something outrageous about cheeks and peaches.
    “He probably won’t recognize the otherseither,” sighed Evgenia and began introducing us in a loud voice.
    “Smurov!” exclaimed Uncle Pasha, and his eyebrows bristled. “Oh, Smurov and I are old friends. Happy, happy man,” he went on mischievously, palpating Smurov’s arms and shoulders. “And you think we don’t know … We know all about it … I’ll say one thing—take good care of her! She is a gift from heaven. May you be happy, my children …”
    He turned to Vanya but she, pressing a crumpled handkerchief to her mouth, ran out of the room. Evgenia, emitting an odd sound, hurried off after her. Yet Uncle Pasha did not notice that his careless babbling, intolerable to a sensitive being, had driven Vanya to tears. Eyes bulging, Roman Bogdanovich peered with great curiosity at Smurov, who—whatever his feelings—maintained an impeccable