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Caroilyn Kunin ranslation of the German Lolita -- page 2 of 4
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translation of the German Lolita -- page 2 of 4 (corrected)
----- Original Message -----
From: Carolyn Kunin
To: Vladimir Nabokov Forum
Sent: Thursday, April 22, 2004 7:18 PM
Subject: translation of the German Lolita -- page 2 of 4 (corrected)
Several weeks passed, and again I was passing by the tavern late at night, even later than the last time. From behind the shutters I heard a desolate cry and then such an extremity of cursing and filth that I was frightened out of my skin. There could be no doubt, the shouts and quarrelling voices that came from within the old tavern were not those of the two weak old men that I knew -- these voices were deep, young and bellowing with rage.. There must have been two strong young men, who had come to loggerheads. The shouts became even louder until they reached a pitch of frenzy punctuated by the blows of a fist crashing on a table.
Then I heard the silvery bright laugh of a woman's voice, and immediately the enraged voices swelled into an insane bawling.
I stood frozen in my tracks and it never occured to me to open the door and see what was going on.
The woman's voice screamed, just a cry, but so frightened, in such fearful anguish, that I have never been able to forget it. Then everything was still.
The next day when I went into the tavern, Anton placed my glass of wine on the table with his usual friendly grin, and everything was so unchanged that I began to wonder if the whole episode hadn't been a dream, and I was too ashamed to ask.
One afternoon towards the end of Winter I had to tell the brothers that I wouldn't be coming anymore as I was setting out for Spain on the following day.
This news had a strange effect on Anton and Aloys, and their hard weathered faces blanched for a moment and two pairs of eyes sought the floor. They went out and I could hear them whispering together.
After a while Anton returned and asked me in some excitement if by chance I would be going to Alicante and when I said yes, he turned and ran lightheartedly back to his brother.
Later they both returned, behaving as if nothing had happened.
While I was packing I forgot about the brothers, but during the night I had a confused and complicated dream in which a crooked little salmon colored house in a derelict street in the harbor of Alicante played some part.
On my way to the train station the next day, I was surprised to see that in bright daylight Anton and Aloys had their shutters closed up tight.
During the trip I soon forgot all about my studies and little adventures in southern Germany. Travelling makes it easy to forget.
I spent several days in Paris to visit a few friends and see the Louvre. One evening I returned tired from a cabaret in the Latin Quarter, where I went to hear a remarkable poet, who one of my friends had heard of. He turned out to be an ancient blind bard who sang beautifully with a simple, sorrowful voice. He was accompanied skilfully on the violin by his charming daughter.
Later she played a solo piece, and I immediately recognized the melody as the one that I had heard coming from the Walzer brothers' house. I later determined it was a gavotte by Lully, from the time of Louis XIV.
Some days later I traveled on toward Lisbon and in early February I came through Madrid on my way to Alicante.
I have always had a weak spot in my heart for the South in general, and for Spain first and foremost. There you live in a surreality, all experiences are heightened. Life is hot and unfettered. The people too, like their wine, are strong, fiery and sweet, but excitable and dangerous when aroused. Then, too, I always thought that the Southerners had a little of Don Quixote in their blood.
Actually, I didn't have anything in particular to do in Alicante, but I passed several of those inexpressibly sweet nights there, when the moon rises over the castle of Santa Barbara and throws the harbor into an uncanny chiaroscura. On such nights the German heart beats with a lyrical romanticism.
----- Original Message -----
From: Carolyn Kunin
To: Vladimir Nabokov Forum
Sent: Thursday, April 22, 2004 7:18 PM
Subject: translation of the German Lolita -- page 2 of 4 (corrected)
Several weeks passed, and again I was passing by the tavern late at night, even later than the last time. From behind the shutters I heard a desolate cry and then such an extremity of cursing and filth that I was frightened out of my skin. There could be no doubt, the shouts and quarrelling voices that came from within the old tavern were not those of the two weak old men that I knew -- these voices were deep, young and bellowing with rage.. There must have been two strong young men, who had come to loggerheads. The shouts became even louder until they reached a pitch of frenzy punctuated by the blows of a fist crashing on a table.
Then I heard the silvery bright laugh of a woman's voice, and immediately the enraged voices swelled into an insane bawling.
I stood frozen in my tracks and it never occured to me to open the door and see what was going on.
The woman's voice screamed, just a cry, but so frightened, in such fearful anguish, that I have never been able to forget it. Then everything was still.
The next day when I went into the tavern, Anton placed my glass of wine on the table with his usual friendly grin, and everything was so unchanged that I began to wonder if the whole episode hadn't been a dream, and I was too ashamed to ask.
One afternoon towards the end of Winter I had to tell the brothers that I wouldn't be coming anymore as I was setting out for Spain on the following day.
This news had a strange effect on Anton and Aloys, and their hard weathered faces blanched for a moment and two pairs of eyes sought the floor. They went out and I could hear them whispering together.
After a while Anton returned and asked me in some excitement if by chance I would be going to Alicante and when I said yes, he turned and ran lightheartedly back to his brother.
Later they both returned, behaving as if nothing had happened.
While I was packing I forgot about the brothers, but during the night I had a confused and complicated dream in which a crooked little salmon colored house in a derelict street in the harbor of Alicante played some part.
On my way to the train station the next day, I was surprised to see that in bright daylight Anton and Aloys had their shutters closed up tight.
During the trip I soon forgot all about my studies and little adventures in southern Germany. Travelling makes it easy to forget.
I spent several days in Paris to visit a few friends and see the Louvre. One evening I returned tired from a cabaret in the Latin Quarter, where I went to hear a remarkable poet, who one of my friends had heard of. He turned out to be an ancient blind bard who sang beautifully with a simple, sorrowful voice. He was accompanied skilfully on the violin by his charming daughter.
Later she played a solo piece, and I immediately recognized the melody as the one that I had heard coming from the Walzer brothers' house. I later determined it was a gavotte by Lully, from the time of Louis XIV.
Some days later I traveled on toward Lisbon and in early February I came through Madrid on my way to Alicante.
I have always had a weak spot in my heart for the South in general, and for Spain first and foremost. There you live in a surreality, all experiences are heightened. Life is hot and unfettered. The people too, like their wine, are strong, fiery and sweet, but excitable and dangerous when aroused. Then, too, I always thought that the Southerners had a little of Don Quixote in their blood.
Actually, I didn't have anything in particular to do in Alicante, but I passed several of those inexpressibly sweet nights there, when the moon rises over the castle of Santa Barbara and throws the harbor into an uncanny chiaroscura. On such nights the German heart beats with a lyrical romanticism.