Бледный огонь - Владимир Набоков

The curving arrows of Aeolian wars.

[410] You said that later a quartet of bores,

Two writers and two critics, would debate

The Cause of Poetry on Channel 8.

A nymph came pirouetting, under white

Rotating petals, in a vernal rite

To kneel before an altar in a wood

Where various articles of toilet stood.

I went upstairs and read a galley proof,

And heard the wind roll marbles on the roof.

«See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing»

[420] Has unmistakably the vulgar ring

Of its preposterous age. Then came your call,

My tender mockingbird, up from the hall.

I was in time to overhear brief fame

And have a cup of tea with you: my name

Was mentioned twice, as usual just behind

(one oozy footstep) Frost.

«Sure you don't mind?

I'll catch the Exton plane, because you know

If I don't come by midnight with the dough —»

And then there was a kind of travelog:

[430] A host narrator took us through the fog

Of a March night, where headlights from afar

Approached and grew like a dilating star,

To the green, indigo and tawny sea

Which we had visited in thirty-three,

Nine months before her birth. Now it was all

Pepper-and-salt, and hardly could recall

That first long ramble, the relentless light,

The flock of sails (one blue among the white

Clashed queerly with the sea, and two were red),

[440] The man in the old blazer, crumbing bread,

The crowding gulls insufferably loud,

And one dark pigeon waddling in the crowd.

«Was that the phone?» You listened at the door.

Nothing. Picked up the program from the floor.

More headlights in the fog. There was no sense

In window-rubbing; only some white fence

And the reflector poles passed by unmasked.

«Are we quite sure she's acting right?» you asked.

«It's technically a blind date, of course.

[450] Well, shall we try the preview of Remorse?»

And we allowed, in all tranquillity,

The famous film to spread its charmed marquee;

The famous face flowed in, fair and inane:

The parted lips, the swimming eyes, the grain

Of beauty on the cheek, odd gallicism,

And the soft form dissolving in the prism

Of corporate desire.

«I think,» she said,

«I'll get off here.» «It's only Lochanhead.»

«Yes, that's okay.» Gripping the stang, she peered

[460] At ghostly trees. Bus stopped. Bus disappeared.

Thunder above the Jungle. «No, not that!»

Pat Pink, our guest (antiatomic chat).

Eleven struck. You sighed. «Well, I'm afraid

There's nothing else of interest.» You played

Network roulette: the dial turned and trk'ed.

Commercials were beheaded. Faces flicked.

An open mouth in midsong was struck out.

An imbecile with sideburns was about

To use his gun, but you were much too quick.

[470] A jovial Negro raised his trumpet. Trk.

Your ruby ring made life and laid the law.

Oh, switch it off! And as life snapped we saw

A pinhead light dwindle and die in black

Infinity.

Out of his lakeside shack

A watchman, Father Time, all gray and bent,

Emerged with his uneasy dog and went

Along the reedy bank. He came too late.

You gently yawned and stacked away your plate.

We heard the wind. We heard it rush and throw

[480] Twigs at the windowpane. Phone ringing? No.

I helped you with the dishes. The tall clock

Kept on demolishing young root, old rock.

«Midnight,» you said. What's midnight to the young?

And suddenly a festive blaze was flung

Across five cedar trunks, snowpatches showed,

And a patrol car on our bumpy road

Came to a crunching stop. Retake, retake!

People have thought she tried to cross the lake

At Lochan Neck where zesty skaters crossed

[490] From Exe to Wye on days of special frost.

Others supposed she might have lost her way

By turning left from Bridgeroad; and some say

She took her poor young life. I know. You know.

It was a night of thaw, a night of blow,

With great excitement in the air. Black spring

Stood just around the corner, shivering

In the wet starlight and on the wet ground.

The lake lay in the mist, its ice half drowned.

A blurry shape stepped off the reedy bank

[500] Into a crackling, gulping swamp, and sank.

L'if, lifeless tree! Your great Maybe, Rabelais:

The grand potato.

I.P.H., a lay

Institute (I) of Preparation (P)

For the Hereafter (H), or If, as we

Called it — big if! — engaged me for one term

To speak on death («to lecture on the Worm,»

Wrote President McAber).

You and I,

And she, then a mere tot, moved from New Wye

To Yewshade, in another, higher state.

[510] I love great mountains. From the iron gate

Of the ramshackle house we rented there

One saw a snowy form, so far, so fair,