In his foreword to Humbert Humbert's manuscript, John Ray, Jr. (a character in VN's novel Lolita, 1955) mentions Humbert Humbert's singing violin:
This commentator may be excused for repeating what he has stressed in his own books and lectures, namely that “offensive” is frequently but a synonym for “unusual;” and a great work of art is of course always original, and thus by its very nature should come as a more or less shocking surprise. I have no intention to glorify “H. H.” No doubt, he is horrible, is is abject, he is a shining example of moral leprosy, a mixture of ferocity and jocularity that betrays supreme misery perhaps, but is not conducive to attractiveness. He is ponderously capricious. Many of his casual opinions on the people and scenery of this country are ludicrous. A desperate honesty that throbs through his confession does not absolve him from sins of diabolical cunning. He is abnormal. He is not a gentleman. But how magically his singing violin can conjure up a tendresse, a compassion for Lolita that makes us entranced with the book while abhorring its author!
Humbert Humbert was born in 1910, in Paris. A playwright and pornographer whom Humbert Humbert murders for abducting Lolita from the Elphinstone hospital, Clare Quilty was born in 1911, in Ocean City. In the last lines of his 1911 poem Dvenadtsatyi god ("The Year Twelve"), Nikolay Gumilyov (a Russian poet, 1886-1921, who on on the night of August 25, 1921, was executed by a Petrograd Cheka firing squad) mentions skripka Mutsiya (the violin of Muzio) and Pesn' torzhestvuyushchey lyubvi (The song of triumphant love):
Как будто год наш роковой
двунадесятый возвращается.
Гр. Е. Растопчина
Он близок, слышит лес и степь его;
Какой теперь он кроет ков,
Год Золотой Орды, Отрепьева,
Двунадесяти языков?
Вслед за его крылатым гением,
Всегда играющим вничью,
С военной музыкой и пением
Войдут войска в столицу… чью?
И сосчитают ли потопленных
Во время трудных переправ
Забытых на полях потоптанных,
Но громких в летописях слав?
Кто смелый?.. Но к чему допрашивать!
Туманно небо, воет пёс,
В душе темно, — пора докашивать
Перестоявшийся покос.
Чума, война иль революция,
В пожарах сёла, луг в крови!
Но только б спела скрипка Муция
Песнь Торжествующей Любви.
Pesn' torzhestvuyushchey lyubvi ("The Song of Triumphant Love," 1881) is a story by Ivan Turgenev (a Russian writer, 1818-1883) dedicated to the memory of Gustave Flaubert (a French writer, 1821-1880). Clare Quilty resembles Gustave Trapp, Humbert Humbert's Swiss uncle. A character in Turgenev's story (set in Ferrara in the 15th century), Valeria (a beautiful young girl with whom Fabio and Muzio are in love) brings to mind Humbert Humbert's first wife Valeria (the daughter of a Polish doctor, Humbert Humbert's chess partner in Paris). Miss Lester's partner, Miss Fabian (Humbert Humbert's neighbors at Beardsley) makes one think of Fabio (Muzio's childhood friend who marries Valeria). An opera singer (a dramatic mezzo-soprano) with whom Turgenev was in love, Pauline Viardot-García (1821-1910) was a Lesbian (according to Alexandre Dumas-fils). In Flaubert’s novel Madame Bovary (1857), Mlle L'Empereur (Félicie L'Empereur) is a piano teacher in Rouen from whom Emma Bovary ostensibly takes music lessons. At Beardsley, Lolita takes piano lessons with a Miss Emperor:
Because it supposedly tied up with her interest in dance and dramatics, I had permitted Lo to take piano lessons with a Miss Emperor (as we French scholars may conveniently call her) to whose blue-shuttered little white house a mile or so beyond Beardsley Lo would spin off twice a week. One Friday night toward the end of May (and a week or so after the very special rehearsal Lo had not had me attend) the telephone in my study, where I was in the act of mopping up Gustave’s - I mean Gaston’s - king’s side, rang and Miss Emperor asked if Lo was coming next Tuesday because she had missed last Tuesday’s and today’s lessons. I said she would by all means - and went on with the game. As the reader may well imagine, my faculties were now impaired, and a move or two later, with Gaston to play, I noticed through the film of my general distress that he could collect my queen; he noticed it too, but thinking it might be a trap on the part of his tricky opponent, he demurred for quite a minute, and puffed and wheezed, and shook his jowls, and even shot furtive glances at me, and made hesitating half-thrusts with his pudgily bunched fingers - dying to take that juicy queen and not daring - and all of a sudden he swooped down upon it (who knows if it did not teach him certain later audacities?), and I spent a dreary hour in achieving a draw. (2.14)
Revisiting Ramsdale on Wednesday, 24 September 1952, Humbert Humbert hears a torrent of Italian music come from an open window, as in a Turgenev story:
Ramsdale revisited. I approached it from the side of the lake. The sunny noon was all eyes. As I rode by in my mud-flecked car, I could distinguish scintillas of diamond water between the far pines. I turned into the cemetery and walked among the long and short stone monuments. Bonzhur, Charlotte. On some of the graves there were pale, transparent little national flags slumped in the windless air under the evergreens. Gee, Ed, that was bad luck - referring to G. Edward Grammar, a thirty-five-year-old New York office manager who had just been arrayed on a charge of murdering his thirty-three-year-old wife, Dorothy. Bidding for the perfect crime, Ed had bludgeoned his wife and put her into a car. The case came to light when two county policemen on patrol saw Mrs. Grammar’s new big blue Chrysler, an anniversary present from her husband, speeding crazily down a hill, just inside their jurisdiction (God bless our good cops!). The car sideswiped a pole, ran up an embankment covered with beard grass, wild strawberry and cinquefoil, and overturned. The wheels were still gently spinning in the mellow sunlight when the officers removed Mrs. G’s body. It appeared to be routine highway accident at first. Alas, the woman’s battered body did not match up with only minor damage suffered by the car. I did better.
I rolled on. It was funny to see again the slender white church and the enormous elms. Forgetting that in an American suburban street a lone pedestrian is more conspicuous than a lone motorist, I left the car in the avenue to walk unobtrusively past 342 Lawn Street. Before the great bloodshed, I was entitled to a little relief, to a cathartic spasm of mental regurgitation. Closed were the white shutters of the Junk mansion, and somebody had attached a found black velvet hair ribbon to the white FOR SALE sign which was leaning toward the sidewalk. No dog barked. No gardener telephoned. No Miss Opposite sat on the vined porchwhere to the lone pedestrian’s annoyance two pony-tailed young women in identical polka-dotted pinafores stopped doing whatever they were doing to stare at him: she was long dead, no doubt, these might be her twin nieces from Philadelphia.
Should I enter my old house? As in a Turgenev story, a torrent of Italian music came from an open window - that of the living room: what romantic soul was playing the piano where no piano had plunged and plashed on that bewitched Sunday with the sun on her beloved legs? All at once I noticed that from the lawn I had mown a golden-skinned, brown-haired nymphet of nine or ten, in white shorts, was looking at me with wild fascination in her large blue-black eyes. I said something pleasant to her, meaning no harm, an old-world compliment, what nice eyes you have, but she retreated in haste and the music stopped abruptly, and a violent-looking dark man, glistening with sweat, came out and glared at me. I was on the point of identifying myself when, with a pang of dream-embarrassment, I became aware of my mud-caked dungarees, my filthy and torn sweater, my bristly chin, my bum’s bloodshot eyes. Without saying a word, I turned and plodded back the way I had come. An aster-like anemic flower grew out of a remembered chink in the sidewalk. Quietly resurrected, Miss Opposite was being wheeled out by her nieces, onto her porch, as if it were a stage and I the star performer. Praying she would not call to me, I hurried to my car. What a steep little street. What a profound avenue. A red ticket showed between wiper and windshield; I carefully tore it into two, four, eight pieces. (2.33)
As he walks past the grave of his wife Charlotte (Lolita's mother) at the Ramsdale cemetery, Humbert Humbert says: "Bonzhur, Charlotte." In Chekhov's story Skripka Rotshil'da ("Rothschild's Violin," 1894), the doctor's assistant at the hospital tells Yakov (the old coffinmaker, nicknamed Bronze, whose wife Martha fell ill): "Now then, good-bye! Bonjour!":
Дождавшись утра, он взял у соседа лошадь и повез Марфу в больницу. Тут больных было немного и потому пришлось ему ждать недолго, часа три. К его великому удовольствию, в этот раз принимал больных не доктор, который сам был болен, а фельдшер Максим Николаич, старик, про которого все в городе говорили, что хотя он и пьющий и дерется, но понимает больше, чем доктор.
— Здравия желаем, — сказал Яков, вводя старуху в приемную. — Извините, всё беспокоим вас, Максим Николаич, своими пустяшными делами. Вот, изволите видеть, захворал мой предмет. Подруга жизни, как это говорится, извините за выражение...
Нахмурив седые брови и поглаживая бакены, фельдшер стал оглядывать старуху, а она сидела на табурете сгорбившись и, тощая, остроносая, с открытым ртом, походила в профиль на птицу, которой хочется пить.
— М-да... Так... — медленно проговорил фельдшер и вздохнул. — Инфлуэнца, а может и горячка. Теперь по городу тиф ходит. Что ж? Старушка пожила, слава богу... Сколько ей?
— Да без года семьдесят, Максим Николаич.
— Что ж? Пожила старушка. Пора и честь знать.— Оно, конечно, справедливо изволили заметить, Максим Николаич, — сказал Яков, улыбаясь из вежливости, — и чувствительно вас благодарим за вашу приятность, но позвольте вам выразиться, всякому насекомому жить хочется.
— Мало ли чего! — сказал фельдшер таким тоном, как будто от него зависело жить старухе или умереть. — Ну, так вот, любезный, будешь прикладывать ей на голову холодный компресс и давай вот эти порошки по два в день. А за сим досвиданция, бонжур.
As soon as it was light he borrowed a horse from a neighbor and took Martha to the hospital. As there were not many patients, he had not to wait very long--only about three hours. To his great satisfaction it was not the doctor who was receiving the sick that day, but his assistant, Maxim Nikolaich, an old man of whom it was said that although he quarreled and drank, he knew more than the doctor did.
"Good morning, Your Honor," said Yakov leading his old woman into the office. "Excuse us for intruding upon you with our trifling affairs. As you see, this subject has fallen ill. My life's friend, if you will allow me to use the expression----"
Knitting his gray eyebrows and stroking his whiskers, the doctor's assistant fixed his eyes on the old woman. She was sitting all in a heap on a low stool, and with her thin, long-nosed face and her open mouth, she looked like a thirsty bird.
"Well, well-yes--" said the doctor slowly, heaving a sigh. "This is a case of influenza and possibly fever; there is typhoid in town. What's to be done? The old woman has lived her span of years, thank God. How old is she?"
"She lacks one year of being seventy, Your Honor."
"Well, well, she has lived long. There must come an end to everything."
"You are certainly right, Your Honor," said Yakov, smiling out of politeness. "And we thank you sincerely for your kindness, but allow me to suggest to you that even an insect dislikes to die!"
"Never mind if it does!" answered the doctor, as if the life or death of the old woman lay in his hands. "I'll tell you what you must do, my good man. Put a cold bandage around her head, and give her two of these powders a day. Now then, good-bye! Bonjour!"
Lolita's paino teacher, a Miss Emperor, brings to mind Imperatritsa (the Empress) mentioned by Gumilyov in his poem Zabludivshiysya tramvay ("The Lost Streetcar") composed on December 29-30, 1919, and included in Gumilyov's collection Ognennyi stolp ("The Pillar of Fire," 1921):
Шел я по улице незнакомой
И вдруг услышал вороний грай,
И звоны лютни, и дальние громы,
Передо мною летел трамвай.
Как я вскочил на его подножку,
Было загадкою для меня,
В воздухе огненную дорожку
Он оставлял и при свете дня.
Мчался он бурей темной, крылатой,
Он заблудился в бездне времен…
Остановите, вагоновожатый,
Остановите сейчас вагон.
Поздно. Уж мы обогнули стену,
Мы проскочили сквозь рощу пальм,
Через Неву, через Нил и Сену
Мы прогремели по трем мостам.
И, промелькнув у оконной рамы,
Бросил нам вслед пытливый взгляд
Нищий старик, — конечно тот самый,
Что умер в Бейруте год назад.
Где я? Так томно и так тревожно
Сердце мое стучит в ответ:
Видишь вокзал, на котором можно
В Индию Духа купить билет?
Вывеска… кровью налитые буквы
Гласят — зеленная, — знаю, тут
Вместо капусты и вместо брюквы
Мертвые головы продают.
В красной рубашке, с лицом, как вымя,
Голову срезал палач и мне,
Она лежала вместе с другими
Здесь, в ящике скользком, на самом дне.
А в переулке забор дощатый,
Дом в три окна и серый газон…
Остановите, вагоновожатый,
Остановите сейчас вагон!
Машенька, ты здесь жила и пела,
Мне, жениху, ковер ткала,
Где же теперь твой голос и тело,
Может ли быть, что ты умерла!
Как ты стонала в своей светлице,
Я же с напудренною косой
Шел представляться Императрице
И не увиделся вновь с тобой.
Понял теперь я: наша свобода
Только оттуда бьющий свет,
Люди и тени стоят у входа
В зоологический сад планет.
И сразу ветер знакомый и сладкий,
И за мостом летит на меня
Всадника длань в железной перчатке
И два копыта его коня.
Верной твердынею православья
Врезан Исакий в вышине,
Там отслужу молебен о здравьи
Машеньки и панихиду по мне.
И всё ж навеки сердце угрюмо,
И трудно дышать, и больно жить…
Машенька, я никогда не думал,
Что можно так любить и грустить.
I was walking along the street as a stranger
And suddenly heard the cawing of crows.
The playing of lutes and distant thunder...
Before me a rushing streetcar arose.
How I managed to jump on the step as it passed me
Has remained a riddle to this day,
For it left a path in the air that was flaming
Even in daylight as it went its way.
It rushed like a storm that was dark and wingéd,
Lost in the depths of time somehow.
Stop the streetcar! Stop, stop, driver!
Stop the streetcar! Stop right now!
Too late. We had passed the wall already,
Slipped through the grove where the palm trees toss.
The Neva, the Nile, the Seine beneath us.
Three bridges we thundered across.
The face of an old beggar flashed past the window.
And his glance studied us, following us from the rear...
The same man, of course, the very same beggar,
Who died in Beirut sometime last year.
Where am I? My heart beats in replying
(Filled with a languor and care past control).
Do you see a station in which one can purchase
A ticket to the India of the soul?
Signboard... And the vegetable shop letters
Are painted with blood. I know here instead
Of cabbages, instead of rutabagas,
They sell only heads that are dead.
A man in a red shirt, face like an udder.
Cuts my head off too on the blocks.
It is lying together with the others
On the very bottom in a slippery box.
And there is a board fence in the alley,
A house with three windows and a lawn grown gray.
Stop the streetcar! Stop, stop, driver!
Stop the streetcar right away!
Now, Mashenka, you lived and sang here.
Wove carpets for me, the man you would wed.
Where now then is your voice and body?
Is it conceivable you are dead?
How you cried in your room so tiny!
And I in a powdered wig at the door
Was going to be presented to the Empress.
And I never saw you anymore.
I understand it now: Our freedom
Is only a light striking us from out-there.
People and spirits stand at the entrance
To a zoological garden of planets somewhere.
The sweet and familiar wind comes swiftly —
And across the bridge toward me full force
Flies the iron-gloved hand of the rider
— And two hoofs of his rearing horse.
The faithful fortress of orthodoxy,
Saint Isaac’s, rises heavenly.
There I’ll say a prayer for the health of
Mashenka and a simple ‘Rest in peace’ for me.
To breathe is hard; to live is painful...
My desolate heart is forever sad.
Mashenka, I never thought it possible
To love one so much and to feel so bad.
(tr. Vladimir Markov and Merrill Sparks)
The epigraph to Turgenev's story The Song of Triumphant Love is from Friedrich Schiller's poem Thekla: Eine Geisterstimme ("Thekla: A Spirit Voice," 1802):
«Wage Du zu irren und zu träumen!»
"Dare to err and to dream!"
Schiller's poem (see below its full text) was set to music by Franz Schubert (an Austrian composer, 1797-1828). Mrs. Richard F. Schiller is Lolita's married name.
Wo ich sei, und wo mich hingewendet,
Als mein flüchtger Schatte dir entschwebt?
Hab ich nicht beschlossen und geendet,
Hab ich nicht geliebet und gelebt?
Willst du nach den Nachtigallen fragen,
Die mit seelenvoller Melodie
Dich entzückten in des Lenzes Tagen?
Nur solang sie liebten, waren sie.
Ob ich den Verlorenen gefunden?
Glaube mir, ich bin mit ihm vereint,
Wo sich nicht mehr trennt, was sich verbunden,
Dort, wo keine Träne wird geweint.
Dorten wirst auch du uns wiederfinden,
Wenn dein Lieben unserm Lieben gleicht;
Dort ist auch der Vater, frei von Sünden,
Den der blutge Mord nicht mehr erreicht.
Und er fühlt, daß ihn kein Wahn betrogen,
Als er aufwärts zu den Sternen sah;
Denn wie jeder wägt, wird ihm gewogen,
Wer es glaubt, dem ist das Heilge nah.
Wort gehalten wird in jenen Räumen
Jedem schönen gläubigen Gefühl;
Wage du, zu irren und zu träumen:
Hoher Sinn liegt oft in kindschem Spiel.
Whither was it that my spirit wended
When from thee my fleeting shadow moved?
Is not now each earthly conflict ended?
Say,--have I not lived,--have I not loved?
Art thou for the nightingales inquiring
Who entranced thee in the early year
With their melody so joy-inspiring?
Only whilst they loved they lingered here.
Is the lost one lost to me forever?
Trust me, with him joyfully I stray
There, where naught united souls can sever,
And where every tear is wiped away.
And thou, too, wilt find us in yon heaven,
When thy love with our love can compare;
There my father dwells, his sins forgiven,--
Murder foul can never reach him there.
And he feels that him no vision cheated
When he gazed upon the stars on high;
For as each one metes, to him 'tis meted;
Who believes it, hath the Holy nigh.
Faith is kept in those blest regions yonder
With the feelings true that ne'er decay.
Venture thou to dream, then, and to wander
Noblest thoughts oft lie in childlike play.
Thecla is a genus of butterflies, described by Johan Christian Fabricius (a Danish zoologist, 1745-1808) in 1807, belonging to the family Lycaenidae:
Thecla hemon