Читать книгу Petersburg - Andrei Bely - Страница 34

Apollon Apollonovich Ableukhov, in a gray coat and a tall black top hat, with a stony face resembling a paperweight, ran rapidly out of the carriage, and ran up the steps of the entryway, removing a glove as he ran.

He entered the vestibule. The top hat was handed to the lackey.

“Would you be so kind: does a young man often come here?”

“Young people do visit, Your Excellency.”

“Yes, but . . . with a small mustache?”

“With a small mustache, sir?”

“Well, yes, and . . . wearing a coat . . . with a turned-up collar?”^†

Suddenly something dawned on the doorman:

“One such-like did come once, sir . . . he dropped in to see the young master.”

“With a small mustache?”

“That’s right, sir!”

Apollon Apollonovich paused for a moment. And suddenly, Apollon Apollonovich moved on.

The staircases were covered by a gray velvet carpet. This gray carpet also covered the walls. On the walls glittered a display of antique weapons: a Lithuanian helmet glittered beneath a rusty green shield; the hilt of a knight’s sword sparkled; here were rusting swords, there halberds fixed at an angle; and a pistol and a battle mace hung at a tilt.

The top of the staircase gave onto a balustrade. Here from a matte-white pedestal a Niobe,^† forever frozen, raised her alabaster eyes heavenward.

Resting his bony hand on the faceted knob, Apollon Apollonovich briskly flung open the door.