Chapter 27 first quarter

There are several beautiful states in New England, and the most picturesque of them all has a wooded hill eight hundred feet high called Ettrick's Peak, on which is a little-used watchtower--people used to Call it the Observation Deck, and from the platform of this tower, those tourists who like to explore in the summer (their names are still vaguely written in pencil on the fence, Miranda or Mary, Tom or Jem) can see a vast expanse of lush forest, mainly maple, beech, poplar and pine fir.About five miles to the west, the slender spire of a white church marked the site of the small town of Unqueviedo, once famous for its clear springs.Three miles to the north, at the foot of a grassy knoll, in a clearing by the river, one can make out the pointed attic top of a splendid house (the mansion has been called the Cooke's House, or the Cooke's House by various names). The compound, or Cook Castle, or Pine Mansion—this was its original title).Along the south side of Mount Etrick there is a road that continues eastwards through the town of Onque Vieto.In the distance is a triangular area, where many dirt roads and footpaths intertwine and intertwine in the woodland; there is also a more or less crooked, cobbled country road enclosing this area. Starting from the town of Weiduo, it winds and stretches in the northeast direction until it reaches Songdi, the long road just mentioned, and a short winding river. There is an iron bridge here and there, and a wooden bridge near Cook's house.

On a sweltering summer day in 1954, Marie or Almira, or even Wolfgang von Goethe, whose name an old-fashioned joker had carved into the fence of the platform, could see A car came from a long way from the highway, and before approaching the bridge, it was trying to explore the labyrinth of roads.It fumbled forward cautiously and uncertainly, slowing down when it changed its mind, and the rear kicked up a cloud of dust like a dog kicking on its hind legs.At times, to a man less sympathetic than we imagine the onlooker to be, this indeterminately aged, well-worn, egg-shaped baby blue coupe seemed to have been built by a Idiots are driving.In fact, the driver was Professor Timofey Pnin of Wendell College.

At the beginning of that year, Pnin started to study at the Wendell driving school, but according to what he said, he "really got the hang of it" after two or three months. Just pored over with keen interest the forty-page Driver's Handbook, written by the governor and another expert, and the "Automotive" chapter of the Encyclopedia Americana, with its transmissions, carburetors, and A picture of the brakes, and a photograph of a member of the Gretton tour group driving stuck in a country dirt track in a desolate surrounding landscape around 1905.He was lying on the hospital bed, wiggling his toes, and pulling the imaginary car gear. At this time, and at this time, he surpassed the half-understand stage of initial comprehension, and finally suddenly understood.During the actual class, the rude instructor restrained his talents, yelled some technical jargon, made some unnecessary instructions, kept trying to take the steering wheel from his hands when turning, and said endlessly. Such vulgar obscenities were so distracting and irritating to a staid and intelligent cadet that Pnin could hardly bring the car he was driving in his head into complete sensual unity with the car he was driving on the road.Now the two aspects are finally coming together.If he failed his first driving test, it was mainly because he had an ill-timed debate with the invigilator: he insisted that there was no one in front of the car and behind the car, but asked people to develop a basic There is nothing in the world more humiliating to a reasonable living person than this kind of conditioned reflex, braking immediately at a red light.The second time he was more cautious and passed.Marianne Holm, a senior in his Russian course, offered him her crappy old car for as little as one hundred dollars, so irresistible that she was going to Marry the owner of a fancier car.He also spent the night in an inn on the way from Wendale to Unquevedo, walking slowly and with difficulty, but without incident.Before entering the town of Enquevedo, he stopped in front of a gas station and got out for a breath of fresh country air.There was a clover field, the sky was impossibly blank, and from a woodpile beside a shack came the showy and intermittent crowing of a rooster—the song of a dandy.The occasional tones of the slightly hoarse-throated poultry, combined with the warm wind that fluttered over Punin seeking appreciation and attention, reminded him suddenly of a vaguely vanished day in the past when he was still a child. A first-year student at Petrograd University, coming to a small gas station in a Baltic summer resort, the noise, the smell, the sadness—

"It's a bit muggy," said the oiler with hairy arms, as he began wiping the windshield. Pnin took out a letter from his wallet, opened the small mimeograph sketch attached to the letter, and asked the oiler how far it was from here to that church, because the Cook's house could be reached by turning left from the church. The resemblance was indescribable to Pnin's colleague at Wendell College, Dr. Hagen—a mere coincidence, as dull as a bad pun. "Well, there's a shortcut to get there," said False Hagen. "That boulevard is messed up by trucks, and you can't stand the twists and turns. You go right now, through town, five miles out of Onque Vieto, and keep left over the road that leads to Ecuador." The trail on Tricker Peak, before approaching the bridge, turn left when you see the first bend, there is a good gravel road there."

He circled the front of the car briskly and wiped the windshield with a rag from the other end. "Turn north, and then turn north when you see the intersection—there are many logging paths in the woods. You just need to go north, and you are guaranteed to reach Cook's house within twelve minutes. That's right." Pnin had wandered for an hour now in the fascination of the woods, and had come to the conclusion that "go north" and that "north" in itself meant nothing to him.Nor could he explain why he, a man of sense, should listen to a meddlesome fellow whom he met by chance, instead of insisting on following the advice of his friend Alexander Petrovich Kuknikov (local call him Al Cooke) sent him pedantic and clear instructions when he invited him to spend the summer at his large, comfortable country house.Our hapless motorist is now completely lost and will never get back on the road.He has little experience in driving on narrow, rutted roads with ditches or even deep valleys on both sides, so he hesitates and gropes forward. The onlookers on the watchtower may follow this strange sight with pity; There was not a soul in that forlorn and desolate height, save for a single self-sufficient ant, who, after hours of foolish and persistent effort, managed to climb to the platform and the fence (his autostrada) and below. The ridiculous toy car that was driving was almost as stuck and cornered.The wind stopped.Under the pale sky, the sea-like canopy of trees didn't seem to hide anything alive.However, it didn't take long for a sudden gunshot, and a branch fell into the sky.The forest over there was originally very quiet, but at this moment the dense treetops began to sway, trembling and trembling, and the trees swayed rhythmically one by one, and then everything returned to calm.In a short while, everything happened simultaneously: the ants found a vertical column leading to the top of the tower, and began to climb up with renewed enthusiasm; the sun came out; When we came to a gravel road, there was a rusty but shiny road sign beside the road that pointed out to passers-by: "Leading to Pine Mansion".