In VN's novel Lolita (1955) Humbert Humbert is afraid that his wife Charlotte will bundle off Lolita to St. Algebra:
There was a woodlake (Hourglass Lake - not as I had thought it was spelled) a few miles from Ramsdale, and there was one week of great heat at the end of July when we drove there daily. I am now obliged to describe in some tedious detail our last swim there together, one tropical Tuesday morning.
We had left the car in a parking area not far from the road and were making our way down a path cut through the pine forest to the lake, when Charlotte remarked that Jean Farlow, in quest of rare light effects (Jean belonged to the old school of painting), had seen Leslie taking a dip “in the ebony” (as John had quipped) at five o’clock in the morning last Sunday.
“The water,” I said, “must have been quite cold.”
“That is not the point,” said the logical doomed dear. “He is subnormal, you see. And,” she continued (in that carefully phrased way of hers that was beginning to tell on my health), “I have a very definite feeling our Louise is in love with that moron.”
Feeling. “We feel Dolly is not doing as well” etc. (from an old school report).
The Humberts walked on, sandaled and robed.
“Do you know, Hum: I have one most ambitious dream,” pronounced Lady Hum, lowering her head - shy of that dream – and communing with the tawny ground. “I would love to get hold of a real trained servant maid like that German girl the Talbots spoke of; and have her live in the house.”
“No room,” I said.
“Come,” she said with her quizzical smile, “surely, chéri, you underestimate the possibilities of the Humbert home. We would put her in Lo’s room. I intended to make a guestroom of that hole anyway. It’s the coldest and meanest in the whole house.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, the skin of my cheekbones tensing up (this I take the trouble to note only because my daughter’s skin did the same when she felt that way: disbelief, disgust, irritation).
“Are you bothered by Romantic Associations?” queried my wife – in allusion to her first surrender.
“Hell no,” said I. “I just wonder where will you put your daughter when you get your guest or your maid.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Humbert, dreaming, smiling, drawing out the “Ah” simultaneously with the raise of one eyebrow and a soft exhalation of breath. “Little Lo, I’m afraid, does not enter the picture at all, at all. Little Lo goes straight from camp to a good boarding school with strict discipline and some sound religious training. And then – Beardsley College. I have it all mapped out, you need not worry.”
She went on to say that she, Mrs. Humbert, would have to overcome her habitual sloth and write to Miss Phalen’s sister who taught at St. Algebra. The dazzling lake emerged. I said I had forgotten my sunglasses in the car and would catch up with her. (1.20)
In Pushkin’s little tragedy “Mozart and Salieri" (1830) Salieri says that he cut up the music like a corpse and measured harmony by algebra (and Mozart says that genius and villainy are two things incompatible). At the end of his review O vtorom tome Istorii russkogo naroda Polevogo ("On the Second Volume of Polevoy's History of the Russian People," 1830) Pushkin says that Providence is not algebra:
История древняя кончилась богочеловеком, говорит г-н Полевой. Справедливо. Величайший духовный и политический переворот нашей планеты есть христианство. В сей-то священной стихии исчез и обновился мир. История древняя есть история Египта, Персии, Греции, Рима. История новейшая есть история христианства. Горе стране, находящейся вне европейской системы! Зачем же г-н Полевой за несколько страниц выше повторил пристрастное мнение 18-го столетия и признал концом древней истории падение Западной Римской империи — как будто самое распадение оной на Восточную и Западную не есть уже конец Рима и ветхой системы его?
Гизо объяснил одно из событий христианской истории: европейское просвещение. Он обретает его зародыш, описывает постепенное развитие и, отклоняя все отдаленное, все постороннее, случайное, доводит его до нас сквозь темные, кровавые, мятежные и, наконец, рассветающие века. Вы поняли великое достоинство французского историка. Поймите же и то, что Россия никогда ничего не имела общего с остальною Европою; что история ее требует другой мысли, другой формулы, как мысли и формулы, выведенные Гизотом из истории христианского Запада. Не говорите: иначе нельзя было быть. Коли было бы это правда, то историк был бы астроном и события жизни человечества были бы предсказаны в календарях, как и затмения солнечные. Но провидение не алгебра. Ум человеческий, по простонародному выражению, не пророк, а угадчик, он видит общий ход вещей и может выводить из оного глубокие предположения, часто оправданные временем, но невозможно ему предвидеть случая — мощного, мгновенного орудия провидения. Один из остроумнейших людей XVIII столетия предсказал Камеру французских депутатов и могущественное развитие России, но никто не предсказал ни Наполеона, ни Полиньяка. (3)
Pushkin says that human mind is not a prophet and can not foresee sluchay (chance), that "powerful, instant instrument of Providence." In the same chapter of Lolita Humbert Humbert says that no man can bring about the perfect murder; chance, however, can do it:
No man can bring about the perfect murder; chance, however, can do it. There was the famous dispatch of a Mme Lacour in Arles, southern France, at the close of last century. An unidentified bearded six-footer, who, it was later conjectured, had been the lady’s secret lover, walked up to her in a crowded street, soon after her marriage to Colonel Lacour, and mortally stabbed her in the back, three times, while the Colonel, a small bulldog of a man, hung onto the murderer’s arm. By a miraculous and beautiful coincidence, right at the moment when the operator was in the act of loosening the angry little husband’s jaws (while several onlookers were closing in upon the group), a cranky Italian in the house nearest to the scene set off by sheer accident some kind of explosive he was tinkering with, and immediately the street was turned into a pandemonium of smoke, falling bricks and running people. The explosion hurt no one (except that it knocked out game Colonel Lacour); but the lady’s vengeful lover ran when the others ranand lived happily ever after. (1.20)
At the end of his review of Polevoy's book Pushkin says that no one has predicted Napoleon and Polignac (a French statesman, 1780-1847, whose appointment as prime minister by Charles X provoked the July Revolution). Polevoy, Napoleon and Polignac bring to mind the Poling Prize that John Ray, Jr. (the author of the Foreword to Humbert's manuscript) had been awarded for his work “Do the Senses make Sense?”:
“Lolita, or the Confession of a White Widowed Male,” such were the two titles under which the writer of the present note received the strange pages it preambulates. “Humbert Humbert,” their author, had died in legal captivity, of coronary thrombosis, on November 16, 1952, a few days before his trial was scheduled to start. His lawyer, my good friend and relation, Clarence Choate Clark, Esq., now of the District of Columbia bar, in asking me to edit the manuscript, based his request on a clause in his client’s will which empowered my eminent cousin to use the discretion in all matters pertaining to the preparation of “Lolita” for print. Mr. Clark’s decision may have been influenced by the fact that the editor of his choice had just been awarded the Poling Prize for a modest work (“Do the Senses make Sense?”) wherein certain morbid states and perversions had been discussed.
The title of John Ray's modest work brings to mind a pseudo-Shakespearean quote at the end of one of Lolita's chapters:
At this solitary stop for refreshments between Coalmont and Ramsdale (between innocent Dolly Schiller and jovial Uncle Ivor), I reviewed my case. With the utmost simplicity and clarity I now saw myself and my love. Previous attempts seemed out of focus in comparison. A couple of years before, under the guidance of an intelligent French-speaking confessor, to whom, in a moment of metaphysical curiosity, I had turned over a Protestant’s drab atheism for an old-fashioned popish cure, I had hoped to deduce from my sense of sin the existence of a Supreme Being. On those frosty mornings in rime-laced Quebec, the good priest worked on me with the finest tenderness and understanding. I am infinitely obliged to him and the great Institution he represented. Alas, I was unable to transcend the simple human fact that whatever spiritual solace I might find, whatever lithophanic eternities might be provided for me, nothing could make my Lolita forget the foul lust I had inflicted upon her. Unless it can be proven to me as I am now, today, with my heart and my beard, and my putrefaction that in the infinite run it does not matter a jot that a North American girl-child named Dolores Haze had been deprived of her childhood by a maniac, unless this can be proven (and if it can, then life is a joke), I see nothing for the treatment of my misery but the melancholy and very local palliative of articulate art. To quote an old poet:
The moral sense in mortals is the duty
We have to pay on mortal sense of beauty. (2.31)
Shakespeare is the author of history plays. According to Pushkin, in his poem Graf Nulin ("Count Null," 1825) he wanted to parody both history and Shakespeare (the author of The Rape of Lucrece). In a letter of the beginning of February, 1826, to Delvig Pushkin speaks of the Decembrist uprising and says "let's look at the tragedy with the eyes of a Shakespeare:"
Насилу ты мне написал и то без толку, душа моя. Вообрази, что я в глуши ровно ничего но знаю, переписка моя отовсюду прекратилась, а ты пишешь мне, как будто вчера мы целый день были вместе и наговорились досыта Конечно, я ни в чем не замешан, и если правительству досуг подумать обо мне, то оно в том легко удостоверится. Но просить мне как-то совестно, особенно ныне; образ мыслей моих известен. Гонимый шесть лет сряду, замаранный по службе выключкою, сосланный в глухую деревню за две строчки перехваченного письма, я, конечно, не мог доброжелательствовать покойному царю, хотя и отдавал полную справедливость истинным его достоинствам, но никогда я не проповедовал ни возмущений, ни революции — напротив. Класс писателей, как заметил Alfieri, более склонен к умозрению, нежели к деятельности, и если 14 декабря доказало у нас иное, то на то есть особая причина. Как бы то ни было, я желал бы вполне и искренно помириться с правительством, и, конечно, это ни от кого, кроме его, не зависит. В этом желании более благоразумия, нежели гордости с моей стороны.
С нетерпением ожидаю решения участи несчастных и обнародование заговора. Твердо надеюсь на великодушие молодого нашего царя. Не будем ни суеверны, ни односторонни — как французские трагики: но взглянем на трагедию взглядом Шекспира. Прощай, душа моя.
Providenie (Providence) mentioned by Pushkin in his review of Polevoy's book brings to mind "a hygienic evening in Providence" spent by Professor W. (the father of Gaston Godin's catamite):
On the whole she seemed to me better adapted to her surroundings than I had hoped she would be when considering my spoiled slave-child and the bangles of demeanor she navely affected the winter before in california. Although I could never get used to the constant state of anxiety in which the guilty, the great, the tenderhearted live, I felt I was doing my best in the way of mimicry. As I lay on my narrow studio bed a fter asession of adoration and despair in Lolita’s cold bedroom, I used to review the concluded day by checking my own image as it prowled rather than passed before the mind’s red eye. I watched dark-and-handsome, not un-Celtic, probably high-church, possibly very high-church, Dr. Humbert see his daughter off to school I watched him greet with his slow smile and pleasantly arched thick black ad-eyebrows good Mrs. Holigan, who smelled of the plague (and would head, I knew, for master’s gin at the first opportunity). With Mr. West, retired executioner or writer of religious tractswho cared?I saw neighbor what’s his name, I think they are French or Swiss, meditate in his frank-windowed study over a typewriter, rather gaunt-profiled, an almost Hitlerian cowlick on his pale brow. Weekends, wearing a well-tailored overcoat and brown gloves, Professor H. might be seen with his daughter strolling to Walton Inn (famous for its violet-ribboned china bunnies and chocolate boxes among which you sit and wait for a “table for two” still filthy with your predecessor’s crumbs). Seen on weekdays, around one p. m. , saluting with dignity Argus-eyed East while maneuvering the car out of the garage and around the damned evergreens, and down onto the slippery road. Raising a cold eye from book to clock in the positively sultry Beardsley College library, among bulky young women caught and petrified in the overflow of human knowledge. Walking across the campus with the college clergyman, the Rev. Rigger (who also taught Bible in Beardsley School). “Somebody told me her mother was a celebrated actress killed in an airplane accident. Oh? My mistake, I presume. Is that so? I see. How sad.” (Sublimating her mother, eh?) Slowly pushing my little pram through the labyrinth of the supermarket, in the wake of Professor W., also a slow-moving and gentle widower with the eyes of a goat. Shoveling the snow in my shirt-sleeves, a voluminous black and white muffler around my neck. Following with no show of rapacious haste (even taking time to wipe my feet on the mat) my school-girl daughter into the house. Taking Dolly to the dentistpretty nurse beaming at herold magazines - ne montrez pas vos zhambes . At dinner with Dolly in town, Mr. Edgar H. Humbert was seen eating his steak in the continental knife-and-fork manner. Enjoying, in duplicate, a concert: two marble-faced, becalmed Frenchmen sitting side by side, with Monsieur H. H.’s musical little girl on her father’s right, and the musical little boy of Professor W. (father spending a hygienic evening in Providence) on Monsieur G. G.’s left. Opening the garage, a square of light that engulfs the car and is extinguished. Brightly pajamaed, jerking down the window shade in Dolly’s bedroom. Saturday morning, unseen, solemnly weighing the winter-bleached lassie in the bathroom. Seen and heard Sunday morning, no chruchgoer after all, saying don’t be too late, to Dolly who is bound for the covered court. Letting in a queerly observant schoolmate of Dolly’s: “First time I’ve seen a man wearing a smoking jacket, sirexcept in movies, of course.” (2.8)
In the Russian Lolita (1967) Gumbert Gumbert explains that Providence (the capital and most populous city of the U.S. state of Rhode Island) is famous for its brothels:
Приятели (почти двойники) наслаждаются концертом: два мраморноликих, умиротворённых француза сидящих рядком — мосье Гумберт с музыкальной дочуркой и мосье Годэн с не менее одарённым сыночком профессора В. (который проводит гигиенический вечер в городе Провиденс, славном борделями).
According to Humbert, Gaston Godin got involved in a sale histoire, in Napes of all places:
I am loath to dwell so long on the poor fellow (sadly enough, a year later, during a voyage to Europe, from which he did not return, he got involved in a sale histoire, in Napes of all places!). I would have hardly alluded to him at all had not his Beardsley existence had such a queer bearing on my case. I need him for my defense. There he was devoid of any talent whatsoever, a mediocre teacher, a worthless scholar, a glum repulsive fat old invert, highly contemptuous of the American way of life, triumphantly ignorant of the English language - there he was in priggish New England, crooned over by the old and caressed by the young - oh, having a grand time and fooling everybody; and here was I. (2.6)
Napoleon made his brother Joseph King of Naples, and then King of Spain. In 1808-15 Napoleon's marshal Joachim Murat was King of Naples. Trying to seduce Humbert with his collection of erotica, Quilty mentions the in folio de-luxe Bagration Island by the explorer and psychoanalyst Melanie Weiss and the Bard (Shakespeare):
“Now look here, Mac,” he said. “You are drunk and I am a sick man. Let us postpone the matter. I need quiet. I have to nurse my impotence. Friends are coming in the afternoon to take me to a game. This pistol-packing face is becoming a frightful nuisance. We are men of the world, in everythingsex, free verse, marksmanship. If you bear me a grudge, I am ready to make unusual amends. Even an old-fashioned rencontre , sword or pistol, in Rio or elsewhereis not excluded. My memory and my eloquence are not at their best today, but really, my dear Mr. Humbert, you were not an ideal stepfather, and I did not force your little protg to join me. It was she made me remove her to a happier home. This house is not as modern as that ranch we shared with dear friends. But it is roomy, cool in summer and winter, and in a word comfortable, so, since I intend retiring to England or Florence forever, I suggest you move in. It is yours, gratis. Under the condition you stop pointing at me that [he swore disgustingly] gun. By the way, I do not know if you care for the bizarre, but if you do, I can offer you, also gratis, as house pet, a rather exciting little freak, a young lady with three breasts, one a dandy, this is a rare and delightful marvel of nature. Now, soyons raisonnables. You will only wound me hideously and then rot in jail while I recuperate in a tropical setting. I promise you, Brewster, you will be happy here, with a magnificent cellar, and all the royalties from my next play - I have not much at the bank right now but I propose to borrow - you know, as the Bard said, with that cold in his head, to borrow and to borrow and to borrow. There are other advantages. We have here a most reliable and bribable charwoman, a Mrs. Vibrissacurious namewho comes from the village twice a week, alas not today, she has daughters, granddaughters, a thing or two I know about the chief of police makes him my slave. I am a playwright. I have been called the American Maeterlinck. Maeterlinck-Schmetterling, says I. Come on! All this is very humiliating, and I am not sure I am doing the right thing. Never use herculanita with rum. Now drop that pistol like a good fellow. I knew your dear wife slightly. You may use my wardrobe. Oh, another thing - you are going to like this. I have an absolutely unique collection of erotica upstairs. Just to mention one item: the in folio de-luxe Bagration Island by the explorer and psychoanalyst Melanie Weiss, a remarkable lady, a remarkable work - drop that gun - with photographs of eight hundred and something male organs she examined and measured in 1932 on Bagration, in the Barda Sea, very illuminating graphs, plotted with love under pleasant skiesdrop that gunand moreover I can arrange for you to attend executions, not everybody knows that the chair is painted yellow” (2.35)
General Bagration was felled in the battle of Borodino.
Today is the forty-fifth anniversary of VN's death. Here is a little poem commemorating this sad event:
Бедность не порок, а вдвое хуже.
Ум не пророк, а капля в луже.
Сорок пять лет не срок, а скорбь о муже.
Разлуки невыученный урок.