Читать книгу Petersburg - Andrei Bely - Страница 32

Tufts of cloud scudded by in a greenish swarm. The greenish swarm rose ceaselessly over the interminable remoteness of the prospects of the Neva; into the greenish swarm stretched a spire . . . from the Petersburg Side.^†

Describing a funereal arc in the sky, a dark ribbon, a ribbon of soot, rose from the chimneys; and it tailed off onto the waters.

The Neva seethed and shrieked with the high-pitched whistle of a small steamboat, it smashed steely, watery shields against the piers of the bridges, and it lapped at the granite.

And against this glooming background of hanging soot tailing above the damp stones of the embankment railing, eyes staring into the turbid germ-infested waters of the Neva, there stood, in sharp outline, the silhouette of Nikolai Apollonovich.

At the great black bridge^† he stopped.

An unpleasant smile flared on his face. He was gripped by memories of an unhappy love affair. Nikolai Apollonovich recalled a certain foggy night. That night he had leaned over the railing. He had turned around and raised his leg. He had lifted it, in shiny overshoe, over the railing. It would seem that further consequences ought to have ensued, but . . . Nikolai Apollonovich had lowered his leg.

Recalling this unsuccessful act of his now, Nikolai Apollonovich smiled in a highly unpleasant manner, cutting a rather comic figure. Wrapped up in a greatcoat, he seemed stooped and somehow armless, with the long wing of the greatcoat flapping in the wind.

“How handsome,” was heard all around Nikolai Apollonovich.

“An ancient mask . . .”

“Ah, how pale the face . . .”

“That marble profile . . .”

But had Nikolai Apollonovich burst out laughing, the ladies would have said:

“What an ugly monster . . .”

At a porch where two lions mockingly place paw on gray granite paw^† he stopped, having spied the back of a passing officer. All entangled in the skirts of his greatcoat, he tried to overtake the officer:

“Sergei Sergeyevich?”

For a moment some thought or other flickered over the officer’s face. From the expression on his trembling lips one might have supposed that the officer was hesitating: should he recognize him or not:

“Ah . . . hello. . . .”

“Where are you going?” asked Nikolai Apollonovich, so that he might walk along the Moika^† with the officer.

“Home.”

“That means we’re going the same way.”

Above the two of them, alternating with rows of windows on a yellow building, were rows of lion faces, each over a coat of arms entwined with a stone garland.

As if trying not to touch on something that was past, the two of them, interrupting each other, talked about how the disturbances of recent weeks had affected Nikolai Apollonovich’s philosophical labors.

Above the two of them, alternating with rows of windows on a yellow government building, were rows of lion faces, each over a coat of arms entwined with a garland.

There’s the Moika, and that same light-colored, three-storied, five-columned building; and the narrow strips of ornamented moulding above the third story: ring after ring; inside each ring was a Roman helmet on two crossed swords. They had already passed the building. And there’s the house. And there are the windows. . . .

“Goodbye. Are you going further?”

Nikolai Apollonovich’s heart began to pound. He was on the verge of asking something. But no, he did not ask. He stood all alone before the door that had just been slammed. He was gripped by memories of an unhappy love affair, or rather, of a sensual attraction.

That same light-colored, five-columned building with a strip of ornamental moulding: inside each ring a Roman helmet on two crossed swords.

***

Of an evening the Prospect is flooded with fiery obfuscation.^† Down the middle, at regular intervals, hang the apples of electric lights.^† While along the sides plays the changeable glitter of shop signs. Here the sudden flare of ruby lights, there the flare of emeralds. A moment later the rubies are there, and the emeralds are here.

***

Nikolai Apollonovich was not seeing the Nevsky; before his eyes was that same house; windows and shadows behind the windows; perhaps merry voices: of the yellow cuirassier, Baron Ommau-Ommergau; and her voice, her voice.