Владимир Набоков - The Real Life of Sebastian Knight

My point in quoting this letter (apart from its own value as showing Sebastian in that bright boyish mood which later remained as a rainbow across the stormy gloom of his darkest tales) is to settle a rather delicate question. In a minute or two Mr Goodman will appear in flesh and blood. The reader already knows how thoroughly I disapprove of that gentleman's book. However, at the time of our first (and last) interview I knew nothing about his work (insofar as a rapid compilation may be called work). I approached Mr Goodman with an open mind; it is no longer open now, and naturally this is bound to influence my description. At the same time I do not very well see how I can discuss my visit to him without alluding even as discreetly as in the case of Sebastian's college friend, to Mr Goodman's manner if not appearance. Shall I be able to stop at that? Will not Mr Goodman's face suddenly pop out to the owner's rightful annoyance when he reads these lines? I have studied Sebastian's letter and arrived at the conclusion that what Sebastian Knight might permit himself in respect to Mr X is denied me in regard to Mr Goodman. The frankness of Sebastian's genius cannot be mine, and I should only succeed in being rude there where he might have been brilliant. So that I am treading on very thin ice and must try to step warily as I enter Mr Goodman's study.

'Pray be seated,' he said, courteously waving me into a leather armchair near his desk. He was remarkably well-dressed though decidedly with a city flavour. A black mask covered his face. 'What can I do for you?' He went on looking at me through the eyeholes and still holding my card.

I suddenly realized that my name conveyed nothing to him. Sebastian had made his mother's name his own completely.

'I am,' I answered, 'Sebastian Knight's half-brother.' There was a short silence.

'Let me see,' said Mr Goodman, 'am I to understand, that you are referring to the late Sebastian Knight, the well-known author?'

'Exactly,' said I.

Mr Goodman with finger and thumb stroked his face…. I mean the face under his mask… stroked it down, down, reflectively.'

'I beg your pardon,' he said, 'but are you quite sure that there is not some mistake?'

'None whatever,' I replied, and in as few words as possible I explained my relationship to Sebastian.

'Oh, is that so?' said Mr Goodman, growing more and more pensive. 'Really, really, it never entered my head. I was certainly quite aware that Knight was born and brought up in Russia. But I somehow missed the point about his name. Yes, now I see… Yes, it ought to be a Russian one…. His mother….'

Mr Goodman drummed the blotting-pad for a minute with his fine white fingers and then faintly sighed.

'Well, what's done is done,' he remarked. 'Too late now to add a… I mean,' he hurriedly continued, 'that I'm sorry not to have gone into the matter before. So you are his half-brother? Well, I am delighted to meet you.'

'First of all,' I said, 'I should like to settle the business question. Mr Knight's papers, at least those that refer to his literary occupations, are not in very great order and I don't quite know exactly how things stand. I haven't yet seen his publishers, but I gather that at least one of them – the firm that brought out The Funny Mountain – no longer exists. Before going further into the matter I thought I'd better have a talk with you.'

'Quite so,' said Mr Goodman. 'As a matter of fact you may not be cognizant of my having interest in two Knight books, The Funny Mountain and Lost Property. Under the circumstances the best thing would be for me to give you some details which I can send you by letter tomorrow morning as well as a copy of my contract with Mr Knight. Or should I call him Mr…' and smiling under his mask Mr Goodman tried to pronounce our simple Russian name.

'Then there is another matter,' I continued. 'I have decided to write a book on his life and work, and I sorely need certain information. Could you perhaps….'

It seemed to me that Mr Goodman stiffened Then he coughed once or twice and even went as far as to select a blackcurrant lozenge from a small box on his distinguished-looking desk.

'My dear Sir,' he said, suddenly veering together with his seat and whirling his eyeglass on his ribbon. 'Let us be perfectly outspoken. I have certainly known poor Knight better than anyone else, but… look here, have your started writing that book?'

'No,' I said

'Then don't. You must excuse my being so very blunt. An old habit – a bad habit, perhaps. You don't mind, do you? Well, what I mean is… how should I put it?… You see, Sebastian Knight was not what you might call a great writer…. Oh, yes, I know – a fine artist and all that – but with no appeal to the general public. I don't wish to say that a book could not be written about him. It could. But then it ought to be written from a special point of view which would make the subject fascinating. Otherwise it is bound to fall flat, because, you see, I really don't think that Sebastian Knight's fame is strong enough to sustain anything like the work you are contemplating.'

I was so taken aback by this outburst that I kept silent. And Mr Goodman went on:

'I trust my bluntness does not offend you. Your half-brother and I were such good pals that you quite understand how I feel about it. Better not, my dear sir, better not. Leave it to some professional fellow, to one who knows the book-market – and he will tell you that anybody trying to complete an exhaustive study of Knight's life and work, as you put it, would be wasting his and the reader's time. Why, even So-and-So's book about the late… [a famous name was mentioned] with all those photographs and facsimiles did not sell.'

I thanked Mr Goodman for his advice and reached for my hat. I felt he had proved a failure and that I had followed a false scent. Somehow or other I did not care to ask him to enlarge upon those days when he and Sebastian had been 'such pals'. I wonder now what his answer would have been had I begged him to tell me the story of his secretaryship. After shaking hands with me most cordially, he returned the black mask which I pocketed, as I supposed it might come in usefully on some other occasion. He saw me to the nearest glass door and there we parted. As I was about to go down the stairs, a vigorous-looking girl whom I had noticed steadily typing in one of the rooms ran after me and stopped me (queer – that Sebastian's Cambridge friend had also called me back).

'My name,' she said, 'is Helen Pratt. I have overheard as much of your conversation as I could stand and there is a little thing I want to ask you. Clare Bishop is a great friend of mine. There's something she wants to find out. Could I talk to you one of these days?'

I said yes, most certainly, and we fixed the time.

'I knew Mr Knight quite well,' she added, looking at me with bright round eyes.

'Oh, really,' said I, not quite knowing what else to say.

'Yes,' she went on, 'he was an amazing personality, and I don't mind telling you that I loathed Goodman's book about him.'

'What do you mean?' I asked. 'What book?'

'Oh, the one he has just written. I was going over the proofs with him this last week. Well, I must be running. Thank you so much.'

She darted away and very slowly I descended the steps. Mr Goodman's large soft pinkish face was, and is, remarkably like a cow's udder.

Mr Goodman's book The Tragedy of Sebastian Knight has enjoyed a very good Press. It has been lengthily reviewed in the leading dailies and weeklies. It has been called 'impressive and convincing'. The author has been credited with 'deep insight' into an 'essentially modem' character. Passages have been quoted to demonstrate his efficient handling of nutshells. One critic even went as far as to take his hat off to Mr Goodman – who, let it be added, had used his own merely to talk through it. In a word, Mr Goodman has been patted on the back when he ought to have been rapped on the knuckles.