According to Humbert Humbert (the narrator and main character in VN’s novel Lolita, 1955), his very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when he was three:
I was born in 1910, in Paris. My father was a gentle, easy-going person, a salad of racial genes: a Swiss citizen, of mixed French and Austrian descent, with a dash of the Danube in his veins. I am going to pass around in a minute some lovely, glossy-blue picture-postcards. He owned a luxurious hotel on the Riviera. His father and two grandfathers had sold wine, jewels and silk, respectively. At thirty he married an English girl, daughter of Jerome Dunn, the alpinist, and granddaughter of two Dorset parsons, experts in obscure subjectspaleopedology and Aeolian harps, respectively. My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and, save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which, if you can still stand my style (I am writing under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges. (1.2)
In Chekhov’s novelette Drama na okhote (“The Shooting Party,” 1884) Olenka tells Kamyshev that her mother was killed by a storm and that people killed in storms or in war, and women who have died after a difficult labour, go to paradise:
— Вы боитесь грозы? — спросил я Оленьку.
Та прижала щеку к круглому плечу и поглядела на меня детски доверчиво.
— Боюсь, — прошептала она, немного подумав. — Гроза убила у меня мою мать... В газетах даже писали об этом... Моя мать шла по полю и плакала... Ей очень горько жилось на этом свете... Бог сжалился над ней и убил со своим небесным электричеством.
— Откуда вы знаете, что там электричество?
— Я училась... Вы знаете? Убитые грозой и на войне и умершие от тяжелых родов попадают в рай... Этого нигде не написано в книгах, но это верно. Мать моя теперь в раю. Мне кажется, что и меня убьет гроза когда-нибудь и что и я буду в раю... Вы образованный человек?
— Да...
— Стало быть, вы не будете смеяться... Мне вот как хотелось бы умереть. Одеться в самое дорогое, модное платье, какое я на днях видела на здешней богачке, помещице Шеффер, надеть на руки браслеты... Потом стать на самый верх Каменной Могилы и дать себя убить молнии так, чтобы все люди видели... Страшный гром, знаете, и конец...
— Какая дикая фантазия! — усмехнулся я, заглядывая в глаза, полные священного ужаса перед страшной, но эффектной смертью. — А в обыкновенном платье вы не хотите умирать?
— Нет... — покачала головой Оленька. — И так, чтобы все люди видели.
— Ваше теперешнее платье лучше всяких модных и дорогих платьев... Оно идет к вам. В нем вы похожи на красный цветок зеленого леса.
— Нет, это неправда! — наивно вздохнула Оленька. — Это платье дешевое, не может быть оно хорошим.
‘Are you afraid of thunderstorms?’ I asked Olenka.
She pressed her cheek to her round shoulder and looked at me with the trustfulness of a child.
‘Yes I am,’ she whispered after a moment’s thought. ‘My mother was killed by a storm. It was even in the papers… Mother was crossing an open field and she was crying. She led a really wretched life in this world. God took pity on her and killed her with his heavenly electricity.’
‘How do you know there’s electricity in heaven?’
‘I’ve learned about it. Did you know that people killed in storms or in war, and women who have died after a difficult labour, go to paradise! You won’t find that in any books, but it’s true. My mother’s in paradise now. I think that one day I’ll be killed in a storm and I too will go to paradise. Are you an educated man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you won’t laugh at me. Now, this is how I’d like to die. To put on the most fashionable, expensive dress – like the one I saw that rich, local landowner Sheffer wearing the other day – and deck my arms with bracelets… Then to stand on the very top of Stone Grave and let myself be struck by lightning, in full view of everyone. A terrifying thunderclap, you know, and then – the end!’
‘What a wild fantasy!’ I laughed, peering into those eyes that were filled with holy terror at the thought of a terrible but dramatic death. ‘So, you don’t want to die in an ordinary dress?’
‘No,’ replied Olenka, with a shake of the head. ‘To die, so that everyone can see me!’
‘The frock you’re wearing now is nicer than any fashionable and expensive dress. It suits you. It makes you look like a red flower from the green woods.’
‘No, that’s not true,’ Olenka innocently sighed. ‘It’s a cheap dress, it can’t possibly be nice.’ (chapter V)
According to John Ray, Jr. (the author of the Foreword to Humbert’s manuscript), Mrs. “Richard F. Schiller” (Lolita’s married name) died in childbed, giving birth to a stillborn girl, on Christmas Day 1952, in Gray Star, a settlement in the remotest Northwest:
For the benefit of old-fashioned readers who wish to follow the destinies of “real” people beyond the “true” story, a few details may be given as received from Mr. “Windmuller,” of “Ramsdale,” who desires his identity suppressed so that “the long shadows of this sorry and sordid business” should not reach the community to which he is proud to belong. His daughter, “Louise,” is by now a college sophomore. “Mona Dahl” is a student in Paris. “Rita” has recently married the proprietor of a hotel in Florida. Mrs. “Richard F. Schiller” died in childbed, giving birth to a stillborn girl, on Christmas Day 1952, in Gray Star, a settlement in the remotest Northwest. ‘Vivian Darkbloom’ has written a biography, ‘My Cue,’ to be published shortly, and critics who have perused the manuscript call it her best book. The caretakers of the various cemeteries involved report that no ghosts walk.
The narrator and main character in Chekhov’s Drama na okhote, Kamyshev is made to investigate his own crime (the murder of Olenka). According to Humbert, “you can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style:”
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.
She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.
Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, a certain initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns. (1.1)
According to John Ray, Jr., Humbert Humbert had died in legal captivity, of coronary thrombosis, on November 16, 1952, a few days before his trial was scheduled to start. Humbert was arrested on Sept. 25, 1952, after murdering the playwright Clare Quilty. Quilty is the author (in collaboration with Vivian Darkbloom) of The Lady who Loved Lightning. Before the breakfast in Soda, Lolita tells Humbert that she is not a lady and does not like lightning:
We spent a grim night in a very foul cabin, under a sonorous amplitude of rain, and with a kind of prehistorically loud thunder incessantly rolling above us.
“I am not a lady and do not like lightning,” said Lo, whose dread of electric storms gave me some pathetic solace. (2.18)
A character in Chekhov’s Drama na okhote, Count Karneyev (who ends up as Kamyshev’s coachman) brings to mind Colonel Maximovich, the taxi driver in Paris for whom Valeria (Humbert’s first wife) left her husband. According to Humbert, a man from Pasadena told him that Mrs. Maximovich née Zborovski had died in childbirth around 1945:
But we never were. Valechka - by now shedding torrents of tears tinged with the mess of her rainbow make-up,started to fill anyhow a trunk, and two suitcases, and a bursting carton, and visions of putting on my mountain boots and taking a running kick at her rump were of course impossible to put into execution with the cursed colonel hovering around all the time. I cannot say he behaved insolently or anything like that; on the contrary, he displayed, as a small sideshow in the theatricals I had been inveigled in, a discreet old-world civility, punctuating his movements with all sorts of mispronounced apologies (j’ai demandé pardonne - excuse me - est-ce que j’ai puis - may I - and so forth), and turning away tactfully when Valechka took down with a flourish her pink panties from the clothesline above the tub; but he seemed to be all over the place at once, le gredin , agreeing his frame with the anatomy of the flat, reading in my chair my newspaper, untying a knotted string, rolling a cigarette, counting the teaspoons, visiting the bathroom, helping his moll to wrap up the electric fan her father had given her, and carrying streetward her luggage. I sat with arms folded, one hip on the window sill, dying of hate and boredom. At last both were out of the quivering apartment - the vibration of the door I had slammed after them still rang in my every nerve, a poor substitute for the backhand slap with which I ought to have hit her across the cheekbone according to the rules of the movies. Clumsily playing my part, I stomped to the bathroom to check if they had taken my English toilet water; they had not; but I noticed with a spasm of fierce disgust that the former Counselor of the Tsar, after thoroughly easing his bladder, had not flushed the toilet. That solemn pool of alien urine with a soggy, tawny cigarette butt disintegrating in it struck me as a crowning insult, and I wildly looked around for a weapon. Actually I daresay it was nothing but middle-class Russian courtesy (with an oriental tang, perhaps) that had prompted the good colonel (Maximovich! his name suddenly taxies back to me), a very formal person as they all are, to muffle his private need in decorous silence so as not to underscore the small size of his host’s domicile with the rush of a gross cascade on top of his own hushed trickle. But this did not enter my mind at the moment, as groaning with rage I ransacked the kitchen for something better than a broom. Then, canceling my search, I dashed out of the house with the heroic decision of attacking him barefisted; despite my natural vigor, I am no pugilist, while the short but broad-shouldered Maximovich seemed made of pig iron. The void of the street, revealing nothing of my wife’s departure except a rhinestone button that she had dropped in the mud after preserving it for three unnecessary years in a broken box, may have spared me a bloody nose. But no matter. I had my little revenge in due time. A man from Pasadena told me one day that Mrs. Maximovich née Zborovski had died in childbirth around 1945; the couple had somehow got over to California and had been used there, for an excellent salary, in a year-long experiment conducted by a distinguished American ethnologist. The experiment dealt with human and racial reactions to a diet of bananas and dates in a constant position on all fours. My informant, a doctor, swore he had seen with his own eyes obese Valechka and her colonel, by then gray-haired and also quite corpulent, diligently crawling about the well-swept floors of a brightly lit set of rooms (fruit in one, water in another, mats in a third and so on) in the company of several other hired quadrupeds, selected from indigent and helpless groups. I tried to find the results of these tests in the Review of Anthropology ; but they appear not to have been published yet. These scientific products take of course some time to fructuate. I hope they will be illustrated with photographs when they do get printed, although it is not very likely that a prison library will harbor such erudite works. The one to which I am restricted these days, despite my lawyer’s favors, is a good example of the inane eclecticism governing the selection of books in prison libraries. They have the Bible, of course, and Dickens (an ancient set, N. Y., G. W. Dillingham, Publisher, MDCCCLXXXVII); and the Children’s Encyclopedia (with some nice photographs of sunshine-haired Girl Scouts in shorts), and A Murder Is Announced by Agatha Christie; but they also have such coruscating trifles as A vagabond in Italy by Percy Elphinstone, author of Venice Revisited, Boston, 1868, and a comparatively recent (1946) Who’s Who in the Limelight actors, producers, playwrights, and shots of static scenes. In looking through the latter volume, I was treated last night to one of those dazzling coincidences that logicians loathe and poets love. I transcribe most of the page:
Pym, Roland. Born in Lundy, Mass., 1922. Received stage training at Elsinore Playhouse, Derby, N. Y. Made debut in Sunburst . Among his many appearances are Two Blocks from Here, The Girl in Green, Scrambled Husbands, The Strange Mushroom, Touch and Go, John Lovely, I Was Dreaming of You.
Quilty, Clare, American dramatist. Born in Ocean City, N. J., 1911. Educated at Columbia University. Started on a commercial career but turned to playwriting. Author of The Little Nymph, The Lady Who Loved Lightning (in collaboration with Vivian Darkbloom), Dark Age, The strange Mushroom, Fatherly Love, and others. His many plays for children are notable. Little Nymph (1940) traveled 14,000 miles and played 280 performances on the road during the winter before ending in New York. Hobbies: fast cars, photography, pets.
Quine, Dolores. Born in 1882, in Dayton, Ohio. Studied for stage at American Academy. First played in Ottawa in 1900. Made New York debut in 1904 in Never Talk to Strangers. Has disappeared since in [a list of some thirty plays follows].
How the look of my dear love’s name even affixed to some old hag of an actress, still makes me rock with helpless pain! Perhaps, she might have been an actress too. Born 1935. Appeared (I notice the slip of my pen in the preceding paragraph, but please do not correct it, Clarence) in The Murdered Playwright. Quine the Swine. Guilty of killing Quilty. Oh, my Lolita, I have only words to play with! (1.8)
A White Russian for whom Valeria left her husband, Colonel Maximovich brings to mind Maksim Maksimych, the title character of the second novella in Lermontov's Geroy nashego vremeni ("A Hero of Our Time," 1840). The name of Humbert Humbert's first wife, Valeria, seems to hint at Lermontov's poem Valerik (1840).
Humbert calls Maximovich "the former Counselor of the Tsar." At the beginning of his prophetic poem Predskazanie (“Prediction,” 1832) Lermontov mentions tsarey korona (the crown of the tsars):
Настанет год, России чёрный год,
Когда царей корона упадёт;
There will come a year, Russia’s black year,
when the crown of the tsars falls to the ground.
At the end of his poem Lermontov mentions tvoy plach, tvoy ston (your wailing, your groans):
И горе для тебя! - твой плач, твой стон
Ему тогда покажется смешон
and woe unto you! To your wailing, your groans;
he will just smile.
In the Russian Lolita (1967) Gumbert Gumbert points out that in Elfinston (Quilty abducts Lolita from the Elphinstone hospital) there is ston (groan):
Двухкомнатный коттедж, вперёд задержанный нами, под знаком Серебряной Шпоры, в Эльфинстоне (не дай Бог никому услышать их стон), оказался принадлежащим к лакированной, смугло-сосновой, избяной породе, которая так нравилась Лолите в дни нашей первой беззаботной поездки. Ах, всё теперь изменилось... Я говорю не о Траппе или Траппах... В конце концов... ну, сами понимаете... В конце концов, господа, становилось достаточно ясно, что все эти идентичные детективы в призматически-меняющихся автомобилях были порождением моей мании преследования, повторными видениями, основанными на совпадениях и случайном сходстве. Soyons logiques, кукарекала и петушилась галльская часть моего рассудка, прогоняя всякую мысль, что какой-нибудь очарованный Лолитой коммивояжер или гангстер из кинокомедии и его приспешники травят меня, надувают меня и разными другими уморительными способами пользуются моим странным положением перед законом. Помнится, я что-то напевал, заглушая панику. Мне даже удалось выработать теорию, объясняющую подложный вызов из "Бурдолея"... Но если я мог не думать о Траппе, как я не думал о недавних своих конвульсиях на газоне в Чампионе, я никак не мог поладить с другой мукой: знать, что Лолита так близка и вместе с тем так горестно недостижима, и так любить её, так любить как раз накануне новой эры, когда по моим волховским исчислениям она бы должна была перестать быть нимфеткой, перестать терзать меня...
The two-room cabin we had ordered at Silver Spur Court, Elphinstone, turned out to belong to the glossily browned pine-log kind that Lolita used to be so fond of in the days of our carefree first journey; oh, how different things were now! I am not referring to Trapp or Trapps. After all - well, really… After all, gentlemen, it was becoming abundantly clear that all those identical detectives in prismatically changing cars were figments of my persecution mania, recurrent images based on coincidence and chance resemblance. Soyons logiques, crowed the cocky Gallic part of my brain - and proceeded to rout the notion of a Lolita-maddened salesman or comedy gangster, with stooges, persecuting me, and hoaxing me, and otherwise taking riotous advantage of my strange relations with the law. I remember humming my panic away. I remember evolving even an explanation of the “Birdsley” telephone call… But if I could dismiss Trapp, as I had dismissed my convulsions on the lawn at Champion, I could do nothing with the anguish of knowing Lolita to be so tantalizingly, so miserably unattainable and beloved on the very even of a new era, when my alembics told me she should stop being a nymphet, stop torturing me. (2.22)
Na serebryanye shpory… (“At the silver spurs,” 1833-34) is a poem by Lermontov:
На серебряные шпоры
Я в раздумии гляжу;
За тебя, скакун мой скорый,
За бока твои дрожу.
Наши предки их не знали
И, гарцуя средь степей,
Толстой плёткой погоняли
Недоезжаных коней.
Но с успехом просвещенья,
Вместо грубой старины,
Введены изобретенья
Чужеземной стороны;
В наше время кормят, холют,
Берегут спинную честь...
Прежде били - нынче колют!
Что же выгодней? - бог весть!
G. Ivanov’s poem Melodiya stanovitsya tsvetkom... ("The melody becomes a flower," 1951) ends in the lines I Lermontov odin vykhodit na dorogu, / Serebryanymi shporami zvenya (and Lermontov goes out on the road alone, / jingling with his silver spurs):
Мелодия становится цветком,
Он распускается и осыпается,
Он делается ветром и песком,
Летящим на огонь весенним мотыльком,
Ветвями ивы в воду опускается...
Проходит тысяча мгновенных лет
И перевоплощается мелодия
В тяжёлый взгляд, в сиянье эполет,
В рейтузы, в ментик, в "Ваше благородие"
В корнета гвардии - о, почему бы нет?..
Туман... Тамань... Пустыня внемлет Богу.
- Как далеко до завтрашнего дня!..
И Лермонтов один выходит на дорогу,
Серебряными шпорами звеня.
The allusion is, of course, to the first stanza of Lermontov’s poem Vykhozhu odin ya na dorogu (“I go out on the road alone…” 1841), in which star converses with star:
Выхожу один я на дорогу;
Сквозь туман кремнистый путь блестит;
Ночь тиха. Пустыня внемлет богу,
И звезда с звездою говорит.
Alone I set out on the road;
The flinty path is sparkling in the mist;
The night is still. The desert harks to God,
And star with star converses.
Lolita dies in Gray Star, a settlement in the remotest Northwest. At the beginning of Drugie berega (“Other Shores,” 1954), the Russian version of his autobiography Speak, Memory (1951), VN mentions seraya ot zvyozd dal’ (remote regions grey from the stars):
Сколько раз я чуть не вывихивал разума, стараясь высмотреть малейший луч личного среди безличной тьмы по оба предела жизни? Я готов был стать единоверцем последнего шамана, только бы не отказаться от внутреннего убеждения, что себя я не вижу в вечности лишь из-за земного времени, глухой стеной окружающего жизнь. Я забирался мыслью в серую от звёзд даль -- но ладонь скользила всё по той же совершенно непроницаемой глади. Кажется, кроме самоубийства, я перепробовал все выходы. Я отказывался от своего лица, чтобы проникнуть заурядным привидением в мир, существовавший до меня. Я мирился с унизительным соседством романисток, лепечущих о разных йогах и атлантидах. Я терпел даже отчёты о медиумистических переживаниях каких-то английских полковников индийской службы, довольно ясно помнящих свои прежние воплощения под ивами Лхассы. В поисках ключей и разгадок я рылся в своих самых ранних снах -- и раз уж я заговорил о снах, прошу заметить, что безоговорочно отметаю фрейдовщину и всю её тёмную средневековую подоплеку, с её маниакальной погоней за половой символикой, с её угрюмыми эмбриончиками, подглядывающими из природных засад угрюмое родительское соитие.
Over and over again, my mind has made colossal efforts to distinguish the faintest of personal glimmers in the impersonal darkness on both sides of my life. That this darkness is caused merely by the walls of time separating me and my bruised fists from the free world of timelessness is a belief I gladly share with the most gaudily painted savage. I have journeyed back in thought—with thought hopelessly tapering off as I went—to remote regions where I groped for some secret outlet only to discover that the prison of time is spherical and without exits. I have journeyed back in thought—with thought hopelessly tapering off as I went—to remote regions where I groped for some secret outlet only to discover that the prison of time is spherical and without exits. Short of suicide, I have tried everything. I have doffed my identity in order to pass for a conventional spook and steal into realms that existed before I was conceived. I have mentally endured the degrading company of Victorian lady novelists and retired colonels who remembered having, in former lives, been slave messengers on a Roman road or sages under the willows of Lhasa. I have ransacked my oldest dreams for keys and clues—and let me say at once that I reject completely the vulgar, shabby, fundamentally medieval world of Freud, with its crankish quest for sexual symbols (something like searching for Baconian acrostics in Shakespeare’s works) and its bitter little embryos spying, from their natural nooks, upon the love life of their parents. (Chapter One, 1)
Like VN’s novel Dar (“The Gift,” 1952), Drugie berega were brought out by the Chekhov Publishing House in New York.