Chapter 25 Section VIII

It stands to reason that the easiest way to get from Clanton to Wendale is to take a taxi to Framingham, take an express train to Albany, and then take a local train heading northwest, after a short distance. A short distance away; but in truth, the easiest way is the least practical.Whether the two railroads had some serious feud with each other, or whether they combined to give the other means of transport a fair chance, is unknown, but there is always a situation where no matter what you do with the timetable, you Albany had to wait at least three hours to change trains. There was a bus from Albany at eleven o'clock in the morning, and it arrived in Wendale about three o'clock in the afternoon, but it had to take the train from Framingham at six thirty-one o'clock in the morning; Victor Feeling that he might not be able to get up on time, he took a rather slow train later and caught the last bus from Albany to Wendale, which would arrive safely at eight-thirty in the evening.

It rained all the way.The rain was still pouring down when he reached Wendale terminus.Victor was naturally a little delirious and absent-minded, so he always stood at the end of any line.He has long been used to this shortcoming of himself, just as people gradually get used to their poor eyesight or lameness.He stooped because of his height, and unhurriedly followed the other passengers out of the car and onto the gleaming asphalt road; among them were two bloated old women in translucent raincoats, like cellophane-wrapped Potatoes; a seven or eight-year-old child with a crew-shaven head and a sunken and delicate nape; an old cripple with a polygonal body, who does not want anyone to support him, slowly getting out of the car part by part. down; three Wendale schoolgirls, in shorts, with red knees; the child's mother, exhausted; some other travelers; two magazines.

In the arcade of the bus station, a brown-skinned man with a thoroughly bald head, wearing sunglasses and carrying a black briefcase, is leaning over to inquire about the skinny-necked child. What about him? , shaking his head, pointing to his mother, who was waiting for her luggage to be lifted from the belly of the Greyhound.Victor shyly and cheerfully interrupts this mistaken identity.The bald brown-headed gentleman took off his sunglasses, straightened up slowly, looked up, up, up, and looked at tall, tall, tall Victor with his blue eyes and rosy brown eyes s hair.Pnin's well-growthed bumps on his cheekbones rounded out his tanned face; his brow, nose, and even his large, handsome ears were thrown into the smile.Overall, it was a very satisfying meeting.

Pnin suggested that the luggage be temporarily stored at the station, and the two of them go for a walk first—if Victor is not afraid of the rain (at this moment, the rain is pouring down, and the asphalt road looks like a small mountain lake under the rattling trees. , shining in the dark).Pnin thought that he would be delighted to invite the child to a small restaurant for supper. "How was the trip? Didn't you encounter any unpleasant things?" "No, sir." "Very hungry?" "No, sir. Not particularly hungry." "My name is Timofey," said Pnin, when they were seated at a table by the window in a poor old restaurant. "The second syllable is pronounced like 'Mover', with the strong (stress) on the final syllable, and the vowel here is pronounced like 'Puri', but a little longer." Timofey Pavlowe Chi Pnin', which means 'Paul's son Timofey'. The strong (heavy) sound of the name derived from the father's name is placed on the first syllable, and it can be passed by later, which becomes Timofey Barr Strange. I struggled with my thoughts for a long time - let's wipe the knives and forks - and finally decided that you should just call me Mr. Tim, or shorter, like some of my best colleagues, just call me Tim. Yes. Of course it is - what would you like to eat? Veal schnitzel? Well, I eat veal schnitzel too - which of course is a great concession to my new home country, the wonderful America that surprises me sometimes , but always respectable. At first, I was terribly embarrassed—”

At first, Pnin was embarrassed by the ease with which Americans play with their given names: go to a party, start with a glass of whiskey with ice cubes, end with many whiskeys and water, and then you're supposed to deal with a geek Your stranger is called "Jem," and he'll always call you "Tim."It would be a great insult (to him) if you forgot about it the next morning and called him Professor Everett (his real name to you).Timofey Balch, recalling his Russian friends in Europe and America, could easily count at least sixty good men, all of whom had known him well since, well, 1920, But he never changed their names at all, but kept calling them Vadem Vademich, Ivan Khristoforovitch, Samuil Izrajlevich Wait; they met him with the same enthusiasm, shaking hands warmly, addressing him by his Christian and paternal names: "Ah, Timofey Balch! Nu kak? (How are you?) A vi, baten 'ka zdorovo postareli (Oh ​​my brother, you're really not getting any younger)!"

Pnin went on and on.His talk did not surprise Victor, who had heard many Russians speak English, nor did Pnin pronounce the first syllable of the English word "family" like the French word for "woman." Tell him to take offense. "I speak French more fluently than English," said Pnin, "but you—vous comprenez le francais? Bien? Assez bien? Un peu?" "Tres un peu." Victor said. "It's a pity, but there's nothing you can do. Let me now talk to you about sports. The first description of boxing in Russian literature we find in a poem by Mikhail Lermontov. He was born in 1814, killed in 1841—easy to remember. As for tennis, it first appears in Tolstoy's novel, in 1875. When I was young, one day in that Russian village on the same latitude as Labrador, I was given a beat to play tennis with the orientalist Gotovchev family, maybe you have heard He. I remember it was a good summer, and we played and played and played until all twelve tennis balls were gone. When you're old, you'll miss it forever."

"There's another sport," continued Pnin, dosing sugar in his cup of coffee, "croquet, of course. I'm a champion of croquet, to tell you the truth. Well, the most fashionable pastime in the country." The so-called 'gorodki' means 'small town'. You remember a place in the garden and the youthful vibe: I was stout and wore russian embroidered shirts, no one plays that healthy sport now myself." He finished his schnitzel and resumed the subject: "You're on the ground," said Pnin, "and you draw a pretty big square and put rows of logs in it, you know, and throw a thick hockey stick at them from a distance, hard, like A dart with a long crank—sorry—well, luckily it's sugar, not salt."

"I can still hear it now," said Pnin, picking up the sugar bowl, shaking his head triumphantly at his prodigious memory, "I can still hear that click! You hit that row of columns , the sound they make when they fly together into the air. Haven't you finished that plate of meat? Don't you like it?" "It's delicious," Victor said, "but I'm not very hungry." "Oh, you eat more. If you want to be a football player, eat more." "I'm afraid I don't like football very much. To be honest, I hate football. I'm really not good at any sport."

"Aren't you a football fan?" Pnin said, a look of frustration creeping into his large, expressive face.He pursed his lips.He opened his mouth—but said nothing.He ate his vanilla ice cream in silence, which had no vanilla in it, nor was it made of cream. "Let's get your luggage now and call a taxi," Pnin said. As soon as they arrived at Sheppard's house, Pnin ushered Victor into the living room and hurriedly introduced him to his landlord, old Bill Shepard (who was totally deaf and had one wearing what looked like a white button) and his brother, Bob Sheppard, who had recently come from Buffalo to live with his brother on account of the death of his sister-in-law.Pnin asked Victor to stay with them for a while, and hurried upstairs by himself.The structure of the house was weak, and everything in the downstairs room vibrated with the vigorous footsteps upstairs and the sudden creaking of the window in the guest room.

"Look at that picture," said the deaf Mr. Sheppard, pointing with a pointing finger at a large grungy watercolor on the wall, "recreating the place where my brother and I used to spend our summer holidays fifty years ago." That manor. It was drawn by my mother's classmate Grace Wells, whose son Charlie Wells owned the hotel in Wendale - I'm sure Dr. Ning met him - a very, very nice Man. My late wife was a painter too. I'll show you her pictures later. Well, that tree behind the barn--you can only make it out--" Suddenly there was a terrible thump on the other side of the stairs: Pnin went down and lost his foot.

"In the spring of 1905," Mr. Shepard said, wagging his middle finger at the picture, "under that cottonwood tree—" When he turned his face, he saw that his brother and Victor had both rushed out of the house and went to the stairs.Poor Pnin slipped down the last few stairs.He lay on his back for a while, rolling his eyes.He was helped up.Fortunately, no bones were broken. Pnin smiled and said, "It's like that great Tolstoy story - you'll have to read it someday, Victor - Ivan Ilyich Golovin fell down and got cancer in his kidney .Victor come upstairs with me now." Victor followed him with his handbag.There was a reproduction of Van Gogh's "Lullaby" on the landing, and Victor gave it a grim nod as he passed, recognizing it.From the open window of the guest room, it was dark outside, and the sound of rain pattering on the fragrant branches filled the room.On the table was a wrapped book and a ten-dollar bill.Victor smiled and nodded his thanks to his blunt but friendly master. "Open it up," Pnin said. Victor complied with polite eagerness.Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, a lock of smooth, soft, blond-brown hair hanging over his right temple, his striped tie hanging over his gray jacket, his thick legs in gray flannel trousers splayed, He opened the book with interest.He wanted to praise it first because it was a gift, and because he believed it was a book translated from Pnin's native tongue.He remembered that the Institute of Psychiatry once had a doctor, Dr. Yekov London, from Russia.Unfortunately, Victor happens to turn to an episode about Salineska, the daughter of a Yukon Indian chief, and happily mistakes her for a Russian girl. "Her big, dark eyes stared at her fellow-clan with fear and challenge. She was so nervous that she forgot to breathe..." "I think I'm going to like this book," said the polite Victor. "Last summer, I read Crime and—," his ever-smiling mouth opened slowly into a young man's yawn.Pnin was affectionate, approving, and somewhat saddened to see Lisa attending those long and joyous parties of the Albenins or the Bolyanskys in Paris fifteen, twenty, twenty-five years ago. A yawn after a party. "Stop reading today," said Pnin. "I know it's an exciting book, but you can read it again tomorrow. Good night. The toilet is just over the stairs." He shook hands with Victor and went to his room.