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‘The woods were gradually thinning. I was tormented by strange hallucinations. I gazed at the weird tree trunks, around some of which were coiled thick, flesh-coloured snakes; suddenly I thought I saw, between the trunks, as though through my fingers, the mirror of a half-open wardrobe …’

About the Author

VLADIMIR NABOKOV

Born 22 April 1899, Saint Petersburg, Russia

Died 2 July 1977, Montreux, Switzerland

‘Terra Incognita’ [Russian, 1931] first published in English in book form in A Russian Beauty and Other Stories (1973). ‘Spring in Fialta’ [Russian, 1938] first published in English in book form in Nine Stories (1947). ‘The Doorbell’ [Russian, 1930] first published in English in book form in Details of a Sunset and Other Stories (1976).

ALSO PUBLISHED BY PENGUIN BOOKS

Laughter in the Dark • The Real Life of Sebastian Knight • Nikolai Gogol • Bend Sinister • Lolita • Pnin • Invitation to a Beheading • Pale Fire • The Gift • The Luzhin Defense • Despair • The Eye • Speak, Memory • King, Queen, Knave • Ada or Ardor • Mary • Glory • Transparent Things • Strong Opinions • Look at the Harlequins! • The Enchanter • The Collected Stories • The Original of Laura • The Collected Poems • Letters to Vera

VLADIMIR NABOKOV

Terra Incognita

PENGUIN BOOKS

Terra Incognita

The sound of the waterfall grew more and more muffled, until it finally dissolved altogether, and we moved on through the wildwood of a hitherto unexplored region. We walked, and had been walking, for a long time already – in front, Gregson and I; our eight native porters behind, one after the other; last of all, whining and protesting at every step, came Cook. I knew that Gregson had recruited him on the advice of a local hunter. Cook had insisted that he was ready to do anything to get out of Zonraki, where they pass half the year brewing their von-gho and the other half drinking it. It remained unclear, however – or else I was already beginning to forget many things, as we walked on and on – exactly who this Cook was (a runaway sailor, perhaps?).

Gregson strode on beside me, sinewy, lanky, with bare, bony knees. He held a long-handled green butterfly net like a banner. The porters, big, glossy-brown Badonians with thick manes of hair and cobalt arabesques between their eyes, whom we had also engaged in Zonraki, walked with a strong, even step. Behind them straggled Cook, bloated, red-haired, with a drooping underlip, hands in pockets and carrying nothing. I recalled vaguely that at the outset of the expedition he had chattered a lot and made obscure jokes, in a manner he had, a mixture of insolence and servility, reminiscent of a Shakespearean clown; but soon his spirits fell and he grew glum and began to neglect his duties, which included interpreting, since Gregson’s understanding of the Badonian dialect was still poor.