In VN's novel Lolita (1955) above Humbert’s bed in the Haze house in Ramsdale there is a reproduction of René Prinet’s “Kreutzer Sonata:”
But there was no question of my settling there. I could not be happy in that type of household with bedraggled magazines on every chair and a kind of horrible hybridization between the comedy of so-called “functional modern furniture” and the tragedy of decrepit rockers and rickety lamp tables with dead lamps. I was led upstairs, and to the left - into “my” room. I inspected it through the mist of my utter rejection of it; but I did discern above “my” bed René Prinet’s “Kreutzer Sonata.” And she called that servant maid’s room a “semi-studio”! Let’s get out of here at once, I firmly said to myself as I pretended to deliberate over the absurdly, and ominously, low price that my wistful hostess was asking for board and bed. (1.10)
“The Kreutzer Sonata” is the Violin Sonata No. 9, Op. 47 in A major (1803) by Ludwig van Beethoven. According to Leonid Sabaneyev (a music critic and memoirist, 1881-1968), Tchaikovsky once told Taneyev in his presence that he was afraid of Beethoven’s music as one is afraid of the big and terrible dog:
Из разговоров с Танеевым и из бесед между Танеевым и Чайковским я был очень хорошо осведомлен о музыкальных вкусах Петра Ильича. Эти вкусы и симпатии плохо вязались с моими, правда еще детскими – но уже определенными. Я в те времена был фанатическим «бетховенцем»: Бетховен был для меня – Бог. И на почтительном расстоянии за ним следовали остальные «великие» композиторы. Следуя авторитету моего кумира, я оперную и вокальную музыку считал вообще музыкой второго, низшего ранга. Таким образом Чайковский, да и вся русская музыка попадали для меня в сферу второстепенную, а симфонии Чайковского (их тогда было пять) я считал хуже бетховенских и не совсем похожими на симфонии (в чем, пожалуй, был даже и прав). А Петр Ильич как-то при мне сказал Танееву:
– Я боюсь музыки Бетховена, как боятся большой и страшной собаки.
Lolita’s mother Charlotte dies under the wheels of a truck because of a neighbor’s hysterical dog. On the other hand, “the big and terrible dog” makes one think of The Hound of the Baskervilles (1902), a novel by Conan Doyle featuring Sherlock Holmes. The characters in Lolita include Shirley Holmes (the headmistress of Camp Q) and her son Charlie (Lolita’s first lover). When Humbert revisits Ramsdale in 1952, Mrs. Chatfield tells him that Charlie Holmes has just been killed in Korea:
Feeling I was losing my time, I drove energetically to the downtown hotel where I had arrived with a new bag more than five years before. I took a room, made two appointments by telephone, shaved, bathed, put on black clothes and went down for a drink in the bar. Nothing had changed. The barroom was suffused with the same dim, impossible garnet-red light that in Europe years ago went with low haunts, but here meant a bit of atmosphere in a family hotel. I sat at the same little table where at the very start of my stay, immediately after becoming Charlotte’s lodger, I had thought fit to celebrate the occasion by suavely sharing with her half a bottle of champagne, which had fatally conquered her poor brimming heart. As then, a moon-faced waiter was arranging with stellar care fifty sherries on a round tray for a wedding party. Murphy-Fantasia, this time. It was eight minutes to three. As I walked though the lobby, I had to skirt a group of ladies who with mille grâces were taking leave of each other after a luncheon party. With a harsh cry of recognition, one pounced upon me. She was a stout, short woman in pearl-gray, with a long, gray, slim plume to her small hat. It was Mrs. Chatfield. She attacked me with a fake smile, all aglow with evil curiosity. (Had I done to Dolly, perhaps, what Frank Laselle, a fifty-year-old mechanic, had done o eleven-year-old Sally Horner in 1948?) Very soon I had that avid glee well under control. She thought I was in California. How was - ? With exquisite pleasure I informed her that my stepdaughter had just married a brilliant young mining engineer with a hush-hush job in the Northwest. She said she disapproved of such early marriages, she would never let her Phillys, who was now eighteen -
“Oh yes, of course,” I said quietly. “I remember Phyllis. Phyllis and Camp Q. Yes, of course. By the way, did she ever tell you how Charlie Holmes debauched there his mother’s little charges?”
Mrs. Chatfield’s already broken smile now disintegrated completely.
“For shame,” she cried, “for shame, Mr. Humbert! The poor boy has just been killed in Korea.”
I said didn’t she think “vient de,” with the infinitive, expressed recent events so much more neatly than the English “just,” with the past? But I had to be trotting off, I said. (2.33)
Humbert thinks of the French phrase vient de mourir. In his autobiography Speak, Memory (1951) VN describes his first erotic experience and quotes the words of his father, "Tolstoy vient de mourir:"
High-principled but rather simple Lenski, who was abroad for the first time, had some trouble keeping the delights of sightseeing in harmony with his pedagogical duties. We took advantage of this and guided him toward places where our parents might not have allowed us to go. He could not resist the Wintergarten, for instance, and so, one night, we found ourselves there, drinking ice-chocolate in an orchestra box. The show developed on the usual lines: a juggler in evening clothes; then a woman, with flashes of rhinestones on her bosom, trilling a concert aria in alternating effusions of green and red light; then a comic on roller skates. Between him and a bicycle act (of which more later) there was an item on the program called “The Gala Girls,” and with something of the shattering and ignominious physical shock I had experienced when coming that cropper on the rink, I recognized my American ladies in the garland of linked, shrill-voiced, shameless “girls,” all rippling from left to right, and then from right to left, with a rhythmic rising of ten identical legs that shot up from ten corollas of flounces. I located my Louise’s face—and knew at once that it was all over, that I had lost her, that I would never forgive her for singing so loudly, for smiling so redly, for disguising herself in that ridiculous way so unlike the charm of either “proud Creoles” or “questionable señoritas.” I could not stop thinking of her altogether, of course, but the shock seems to have liberated in me a certain inductive process, for I soon noticed that any evocation of the feminine form would be accompanied by the puzzling discomfort already familiar to me. I asked my parents about it (they had come to Berlin to see how we were getting along) and my father ruffled the German newspaper he had just opened and replied in English (with the parody of a possible quotation—a manner of speech he often adopted in order to get going): “That, my boy, is just another of nature’s absurd combinations, like shame and blushes, or grief and red eyes.” “Tolstoy vient de mourir,” he suddenly added, in another, stunned voice, turning to my mother.
“Da chto tï [something like “good gracious”]!” she exclaimed in distress, clasping her hands in her lap. “Pora domoy [Time to go home],” she concluded, as if Tolstoy’s death had been the portent of apocalyptic disasters. (Chapter Ten, 3)
In his memoir essay Tolstoy v muzykal'nom mire ("Tolstoy in the Musical World," 1939) Sabaneyev mentions Beethoven's sonata Quasi una fantasia (also know as "The Moonlight Sonata"):
В очень категорической форме это двойственное отношение проявилось, когда Толстой, после исполнения Гольденвейзером сонаты Бетховена (Quasi una fantasia, именуемой обычно почему-то «Лунной») — исполнения, к слову сказать, суховатого и весьма среднего, прослезился и сказал недовольно: «Как я испорчен! На меня эта музыка все-таки действует!»
The author of Kreytserova sonata (“The Kreutzer Sonata,” 1889), Tolstoy died on Nov. 7, 1910. Humbert Humbert was born in 1910, in Paris. In a letter of Nov. 7, 1888, to Suvorin Chekhov mentions Tchaikovsky’s opera “Eugene Onegin:”
В скверности наших театров виновата не публика. Публика всегда и везде одинакова: умна и глупа, сердечна и безжалостна — смотря по настроению. Она всегда была стадом, которое нуждается в хороших пастухах и собаках, и она всегда шла туда, куда вели ее пастухи и собаки. Вас возмущает, что она хохочет плоским остротам и аплодирует звонким фразам; но ведь она же, эта самая глупая публика, дает полные сборы на «Отелло» и, слушая оперу «Евгений Онегин», плачет, когда Татьяна пишет свое письмо.
It is not the public that is to blame for our theatres being so wretched. The public is always and everywhere the same: intelligent and stupid, sympathetic and pitiless according to mood. It has always been a flock which needs good shepherds and dogs, and it has always gone in the direction in which the shepherds and the dogs drove it. You are indignant that it laughs at flat witticisms and applauds sounding phrases; but then the very same stupid public fills the house to hear “Othello,” and, listening to the opera “Eugene Onegin,” weeps when Tatiana writes her letter.
In Gaston Godin's studio at Beardsley there is a large photograph of Tchaikovsky:
A word about Gaston Godin. The main reason why I enjoyed - or at least tolerated with relief - his company was the spell of absolute security that his ample person cast on my secret. Not that he knew it; I had no special reason to confide in him, and he was much too self-centered and abstract to notice or suspect anything that might lead to a frank question on his part and a frank answer on mine. He spoke well of me to Beardsleyans, he was my good herald. Had he discovered mes goûts and Lolita’s status, it would have interested him only insofar as throwing some light on the simplicity of my attitude towards him, which attitude was as free of polite strain as it was of ribald allusions; for despite his colorless mind and dim memory, he was perhaps aware that I knew more about him than the burghers of Beardsley did. He was a flabby, dough-faced, melancholy bachelor tapering upward to a pair of narrow, not quite level shoulders and a conical pear-head which had sleek black hair on one side and only a few plastered wisps on the other. But the lower part of his body was enormous, and he ambulated with a curious elephantine stealth by means of phenomenally stout legs. He always wore black, even his tie was black; he seldom bathed; his English was a burlesque. And, nonetheless, everybody considered him to be a supremely lovable, lovably freakish fellow! Neighbors pampered him; he knew by name all the small boys in our vicinity (he lived a few blocks away from me)and had some of them clean his sidewalk and burn leaves in his back yard, and bring wood from his shed, and even perform simple chores about the house, and he would feed them fancy chocolates, with real liqueurs inside - in the privacy of an orientally furnished den in his basement, with amusing daggers and pistols arrayed on the moldy, rug-adorned walls among the camouflaged hot-water pipes. Upstairs he had a studio - he painted a little, the old fraud. He had decorated its sloping wall (it was really not more than a garret) with large photographs of pensive André Gide, Tchaikovsky, Norman Douglas, two other well-known English writers, Nijinsky (all thighs and fig leaves), Harold D. Doublename (a misty-eyed left-wing professor at a Midwestern university) and Marcel Proust. All these poor people seemed about to fall on you from their inclined plane. He had also an album with snapshots of all the Jackies and Dickies of the neighborhood, and when I happened to thumb through it and make some casual remark, Gaston would purse his fat lips and murmur with a wistful pout “Oui, ils sont gentils.” His brown eyes would roam around the various sentimental and artistic bric-a-brac present, and his own banal toiles (the conventionally primitive eyes, sliced guitars, blue nipples and geometrical designs of the day), and with a vague gesture toward a painted wooden bowl or veined vase, he would say “Prenez donc une de ces poires. La bonne dame d’en face m’en offre plus que je n’en peux savourer. ” Or: “Mississe Taille Lore vient de me donner ces dahlias, belles fleurs que j’exècre .” (Somber, sad, full of world-weariness.) (2.6)
Describing in Speak, Memory his years at Cambridge, VN points out that Lenin admired Pushkin on the strength of Chaykovski's vile librettos, wept at the Italian opera, and was allured by any painting that told a story:
It is probably true, as some have argued, that sympathy for Leninism on the part of English and American liberal opinion in the twenties was swung by consideration of home politics. But it was also due to simple misinformation. My friend knew little of Russia's past and this little had come to him through polluted Communist channels. When challenged to justify the bestial terror that had been sanctioned by Lenin--the torture-house, the blood-bespattered wall--Nesbit would tap the ashes out of his pipe against the fender knob, recross sinistrally his huge, heavily shod, dextrally crossed legs, and murmur something about the "Allied Blockade." He lumped together as "Czarist elements" Russian émigrés of all hues, from peasant Socialist to White general--much as today Soviet writers wield the term "Fascist." He never realized that had he and other foreign idealists been Russians in Russia, he and they would have been destroyed by Lenin's regime as naturally as rabbits are by ferrets and farmers. He maintained that the reason for what he demurely called "less variety of opinion" under the Bolsheviks than in the darkest Tsarist days was "the want of any tradition of free speech in Russia," a statement he got, I believe, from the sort of fatuous "Dawn in Russia" stuff that eloquent English and American Leninists wrote in those years. But the thing that irritated me perhaps most was Nesbit's attitude toward Lenin himself. All cultured and discriminating Russians knew that this astute politician had about as much taste and interest in aesthetic matters as an ordinary Russian bourgeois of the Flaubertian épicier sort (the type that admired Pushkin on the strength of Chaykovski's vile librettos, wept at the Italian opera, and was allured by any painting that told a story); but Nesbit and his highbrow friends saw in him a kind of sensitive, poetic-minded patron and promoter of the newest trends in art and would smile a superior smile when I tried to explain that the connection between advanced politics and advanced art was a purely verbal one (gleefully exploited by Soviet propaganda), and that the more radical a Russian was in politics, the more conservative he was on the artistic side. (Chapter Thirteen, 3)
According to Sabaneyev (whose father, a zoologist and friend of the tsar Alexander III, founded a popular magazine “Nature and Hunting”), Lenin felt sympathy for him because he was a son of “Nature and Hunting:”
Когда мой отец после своего первого неудачного брака соединил свою жизнь с моей матерью и решил начать «оседлую», а не путешественническую жизнь — он решил начать именно жизнь общественника: сначала он начал издавать «Сборник природы», который скоро переменил название на «Природа и охота». Под этим титром он снискал громадный успех во всей России: вся провинция и все многочисленные русские столицы зачитывались этим журналом вплоть до трех русских императоров (Александра II, Александра III и Николая II) и... до Ленина, который питал ко мне непонятную симпатию именно потому, что я оказался «сыном "Природы и охоты"». Одновременно мой отец решил создать «Охотничий клуб» для объединения русских охотников. Это начинание вызвало новую бурю восторгов: новый клуб сразу стал популярным. Отцу пришлось расширять свои издания: и он просил проф. Мензбира (зоолога) рекомендовать ему студента-зоолога, которой мог бы ему помогать в расширяющемся его издательстве. Таковой нашелся в лице некоего Ник. Вас. Туркина, по происхождению донского казака, который сразу всем понравился и с тех пор прочно водворился в нашем гостеприимном и даже шумном доме...
Humbert and Lolita make love for the first time in “The Enchanted Hunters,” a hotel in Briceland. The dogs are prohibited there:
A curious urge to relive my stay there with Lolita had got hold of me. I was entering a phase of existence where I had given up all hope of tracing her kidnapper and her. I now attempted to fall back on old settings in order to save what still could be saved in the way of souvenir, souvenir que me veux-tu? Autumn was ringing in the air. To a post card requesting twin beds Professor Hamburg got a prompt expression of regret in reply. They were full up. They had one bathless basement room with four beds which they thought I would not want. Their note paper was headed:
The Enchanted Hunters
Near Churches
No Dogs
All legal beverages
I wondered if the last statement was true. All? Did they have for instance sidewalk grenadine? I also wondered if a hunter, enchanted or otherwise, would not need a pointer more than a pew, and with a spasm of pain I recalled a scene worthy of a great artist: petite nymphe accroupie; but that silky cocker spaniel had perhaps been a baptized one. No – I felt I could not endure the throes of revisiting that lobby. There was a much better possibility of retrievable time elsewhere in soft, rich-colored, autumnal Briceland. Leaving Rita in a bar, I made for the town library. A twittering spinster was only too glad to help me disinter mid-August 1947 from the bound Briceland Gazette , and presently, in a secluded nook under a naked light, I was turning the enormous and fragile pages of a coffin-black volume almost as big as Lolita. (2.26)
In a letter to Lolita Mona Dahl (Lolita’s schoolmate and best friend at Beardsley) describes the performance of The Enchanted Hunters (a play by Clare Quilty and Vivian Darkbloom) and says that all three hounds lay quiet:
“Dolly-Lo: Well, the play was a grand success. All three hounds lay quiet having been slightly drugged by Cutler, I suspect, and Linda knew all your lines. She was fine, she had alertness and control, but lacked somehow the responsiveness, the relaxed vitality, the charm of my and the author’sDiana; but there was no author to applaud us as last time, and the terrific electric storm outside interfered with our own modest offstage thunder. Oh dear, life does fly. Now that everything is over, school, play, the Roy mess, mother’s confinement (our baby, alas, did not live!), it all seems such a long time ago, though practically I still bear traces of the paint.
“We are going to New York after tomorrow, and I guess I can’t manage to wriggle out of accompanying my parents to Europe. I have even worse news for you. Dolly-Lo! I may not be back at Beardsley if and when you return. With one thing and another, one being you know who, and the other not being who you think you know, Dad wants me to go to school in Paris for one year while he and Fullbright are around.
“As expected, poor Poet stumbled in Scene III when arriving at the bit of French nonsense. Remember? Ne manque pas de dire ton amant, Chimne, comme le lac est beau car il faut qu’il t’y mne. Lucky beau! Qu’il t’y What a tongue-twister! Well, be good, Lollikins. Best love from your Poet, and best regards to the Governor. Your Mona. P. S. Because of one thing and another, my correspondence happens to be rigidly controlled. So better wait till I write you from Europe.” (She never did as far as I know. The letter contained an element of mysterious nastiness that I am too tired today to analyze. I found it later preserved in one of the Tour Books, and give it here titre documentaire . I read it twice.) (2.19)
There are three hounds, one more terrible than the other, in Hans Andersen's fairy tale The Tinderbox (1835). In his frivolous poem Tsar Nikita and his Forty Daughters (1822) Pushkin calls female genitalia (lacked by the tsar's daughters) lyubovnoe ognivo (amorous tinderbox):
Я люблю в Венере грудь,
Губки, ножку особливо,
Но любовное огниво,
Цель желанья моего…
Что такое?.. Ничего!..
Ничего иль очень мало…
И того-то не бывало
У царевен молодых,
Шаловливых и живых.
One of Quilty's addresses in the hotel books looked up by Humbert is “Dr. Kitzler, Eryx, Miss:”
An ordinary encyclopedia informed me who the peculiar looking “Phineas Quimby, Lebanon, NH” was; and any good Freudian, with a German name and some interest in religious prostitution, should recognize at a glance the implication of “Dr. Kitzler, Eryx, Miss.” (2.23)
Kitzler is German for "clitoris." Eryx is a small wood lake near Camp Q:
Barbara Burke, a sturdy blond, two years older than Lo and by far the camp’s best swimmer, had a very special canoe which she shared with Lo “because I was the only other girl who could make Willow Island” (some swimming test, I imagine). Through July, every morningmark, reader, every blessed morning - Barbara and Lo would be helped to carry the boat to Onyx or Eryx (two small lakes in the wood) by Charlie Holmes, the camp mistress’ son, aged thirteen - and the only human male for a couple of miles around (excepting an old meek stone-deaf handyman, and a farmer in an old Ford who sometimes sold the campers eggs as farmers will); every morning, oh my reader, the three children would take a short cut through the beautiful innocent forest brimming with all the emblems of youth, dew, birdsongs, and at one point, among the luxuriant undergrowth, Lo would be left as sentinel, while Barbara and the boy copulated behind a bush.
At first, Lo had refused “to try what it was like,” but curiosity and camaraderie prevailed, and soon she and Barbara were doing it by turns with the silent, coarse and surly but indefatigable Charlie, who had as much sex appeal as a raw carrot but sported a fascinating collection of contraceptives which he used to fish out of a third nearby lake, a considerably larger and more populous one, called Lake Climax, after the booming young factory town of that name. Although conceding it was “sort of fun” and “fine for the complexion,” Lolita, I am glad to say, held Charlie’s mind and manners in the greatest contempt. Nor had her temperament been roused by that filthy fiend. In fact, I think he had rather stunned it, despite the “fun.” (1.32)
Btw., in VN's novel Dar ("The Gift," 1937) the writer Shirin is blind like Milton, deaf like Beethoven and stupid like beton (concrete). In Shirin's novel Sedina ("The Hoary Abyss") there is a polar explorer Eriksen. According to Humbert, in the 1940s he participated in an expedition into arctic Canada.
Fyodor's landlord in "The Gift," Shchyogolev tells Fyodor that, if he were a writer, he would have written a novel about a man who falls in love with a little girl and marries her mother. Shchyogolev was a public persecutor in Russia. In 1850-59 Tchaikovsky was a boarding student at the School of Jurisprudence. VN's father was also a jurist. Humbert writes Lolita in confinement and constantly addresses ladies and jentlemen of the jury.
See also the updated version of my previous post, “Onegin & Princess X in Russian Lolita.”