Humbert's chess partner at Beardsley, Gaston Godin (a character in VN's novel Lolita, 1955) is a namesake of Gaston Leroux (1868-1927), a French writer of detective novels, the author of Le Fantôme de l'Opéra ("The Phantom of the Opera," 1909). Among the people with whose photographs Gaston Godin had decorated the sloping wall of his studio is Tchaikovski, a Russian composer (1840-93):
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. ” (2.6)
Tchaikovski is the author of Pikovaya dama ("The Queen of Spades," 1887), an opera based on Pushkin's story (1833) of the same title. In his story Pushkin describes the bedroom of the old Countess and mentions dining-room clocks from the workshop of the celebrated Leroy:
Германн вошёл в спальню. Перед кивотом, наполненным старинными образами, теплилась золотая лампада. Полинялые штофные кресла и диваны с пуховыми подушками, с сошедшей позолотою, стояли в печальной симметрии около стен, обитых китайскими обоями. На стене висели два портрета, писанные в Париже m-me Lebrun. Один из них изображал мужчину лет сорока, румяного и полного, в светло-зеленом мундире и со звездою; другой — молодую красавицу с орлиным носом, с зачесанными висками и с розою в пудреных волосах. По всем углам торчали фарфоровые пастушки, столовые часы работы славного Leroy, коробочки, рулетки, веера и разные дамские игрушки, изобретенные в конце минувшего столетия вместе с Монгольфьеровым шаром и Месмеровым магнетизмом. Германн пошел за ширмы. За ними стояла маленькая железная кровать; справа находилась дверь, ведущая в кабинет; слева, другая — в коридор. Германн ее отворил, увидел узкую, витую лестницу, которая вела в комнату бедной воспитанницы... Но он воротился и вошёл в тёмный кабинет.
Hermann reached the Countess's bedroom. Before a shrine, which was full of old images, a golden lamp was burning. Faded stuffed chairs and divans with soft cushions stood in melancholy symmetry around the room, the walls of which were hung with China silk. On one side of the room hung two portraits painted in Paris by Madame Lebrun. One of these represented a stout, red-faced man of about forty years of age in a bright-green uniform and with a star upon his breast; the other—a beautiful young woman, with an aquiline nose, forehead curls and a rose in her powdered hair. In the corners stood porcelain shepherds and shepherdesses, dining-room clocks from the workshop of the celebrated Leroy, bandboxes, roulettes, fans and the various playthings for the amusement of ladies that were in vogue at the end of the last century, when Montgolfier's balloons and Mesmer's magnetism were the rage. Hermann stepped behind the screen. At the back of it stood a little iron bedstead; on the right was the door which led to the cabinet; on the left—the other which led to the corridor. He opened the latter, and saw the little winding staircase which led to the room of the poor companion... But he retraced his steps and entered the dark cabinet. (Chapter IV)
In VN’s story Poseshchenie Muzeya (“The Visit to the Museum,” 1938) a friend of the hero wants to acquire the portrait of his grandfather by Leroy:
Несколько лет тому назад один мой парижский приятель, человек со странностями, чтобы не сказать более, узнав, что я собираюсь провести два-три дня вблизи Монтизера, попросил меня зайти в тамошний музей, где, по его сведениям, должен был находиться портрет его деда кисти Леруа. Улыбаясь и разводя руками, он мне поведал довольно дымчатую историю, которую я, признаться, выслушал без внимания, отчасти из-за того, что не люблю чужих навязчивых дел, но главное потому, что всегда сомневался в способности моего друга оставаться по сю сторону фантазии. Выходило приблизительно так, что после смерти деда, скончавшегося в свое время в петербургском доме во время японской войны, обстановка его парижской квартиры была предана с торгов, причем после неясных странствий портрет был приобретен музеем города, где художник Леруа родился. Моему приятелю хотелось узнать, там ли действительно портрет, и, если там, можно ли его выкупить, и, если можно, то за какую цену. На мой вопрос, почему же ему с музеем не списаться, он отвечал, что писал туда несколько раз, но не добился ответа.
Several years ago a friend of mine in Paris—a person with oddities, to put it mildly—learning that I was going to spend two or three days at Montisert, asked me to drop in at the local museum where there hung, he was told, a portrait of his grandfather by Leroy. Smiling and spreading out his hands, he related a rather vague story to which I confess I paid little attention, partly because I do not like other people's obtrusive affairs, but chiefly because I had always had doubts about my friend's capacity to remain this side of fantasy. It went more or less as follows: after the grandfather died in their St. Petersburg house back at the time of the Russo-Japanese War, the contents of his apartment in Paris were sold at auction. The portrait, after some obscure peregrinations, was acquired by the museum of Leroy's native town. My friend wished to know if the portrait was really there; if there, if it could be ransomed; and if it could, for what price. When I asked why he did not get in touch with the museum, he replied that he had written several times, but had never received an answer.
In VN's story the narrator visits the Montisert museum and is surprised to find out that the Portrait of a Russian Nobleman, by Gustave Leroy, exists. Describing a game of chess with Gaston Godin, Humbert calls his friend and chess partner "Gustave" (after Gustave Flaubert, the author of Madame Bovary):
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. He finished his brandy and presently lumbered away, quite satisfied with this result (mon pauvre ami, je ne vous ai jamais revu et quoiqu’il y ait bien peu de chance que vous voyiez mon livre, permiettez-moi de vous dire que je vous serre la main bien cordialement, et que toutes mes fillettes vous saluent ). I found Dolores Haze at the kitchen table, consuming a wedge of pie, with her eyes fixed on her script. They rose to meet mine with a kind of celestial vapidity. She remained singularly unruffled when confronted with my discovery, and said d’un petit air faussement contrit that she knew she was a very wicked kid, but simply had not been able to resist the enchantment, and had used up those music hours - O Reader, My Reader! - in a nearby public park rehearsing the magic forest scene with Mona. I said “fine”and stalked to the telephone. Mona’s mother answered: “Oh yes, she’s in” and retreated with a mother’s neutral laugh of polite pleasure to shout off stage “Roy calling!” and the very next moment Mona rustled up, and forthwith, in a low monotonous not untender voice started berating Roy for something he had said or done and I interrupted her, and presently Mona was saying in her humblest, sexiest contralto, “yes, sir,” “surely, sir” “I am alone to blame, sir, in this unfortunate business,” (what elocution! what poise!) “honest, I feel very bad about it” - and so on and so forth as those little harlots say. (2.14)
The characters in The Visit to the Museum include M. Godard, the museum’s director who resembles a Russian wolfhound:
Мне, прямо скажу, понравилось, что портрет есть. Весело присутствовать при воплощении мечты, хотя бы и не своей. Я решил немедленно закончить дело, а когда я вхожу во вкус, то остановить меня невозможно. Скорым и звонким шагом выйдя из музея, я увидел, что дождь перестал, по небу распространилась синева, женщина в забрызганных чулках катила на серебряном велосипеде, и только на окрестных горах еще дымились тучи. Собор снова заиграл со мною в прятки, но я перехитрил его. Едва не попав под бешеные шины красного автокара, набитого поющими молодыми людьми, я пересёк асфальтовый большак и через минуту звонил у калитки мосье Годара. Он оказался худеньким пожилым человеком в высоком воротничке, в пластроне, с жемчужиной в узле галстука, лицом очень похожим на белую борзую,-- мало того, он совсем по-собачьи облизнулся, наклеивая марку на конверт, когда я вошел в его небольшую, но богато обставленную комнату, с малахитовой чернильницей на письменном столе и странно знакомой китайской вазой на камине. Две фехтовальные шпаги были скрещены над зеркалом, в котором отражался его узкий, седой затылок, и несколько фотографий военного корабля приятно прерывали голубую флору обоев.
Frankly, I enjoyed the thought that the portrait existed. It is fun to be present at the coming true of a dream, even if it is not one's own. I decided to settle the matter without delay. When I get in the spirit, no one can hold me back. I left the museum with a brisk, resonant step, and found that the rain had stopped, blueness had spread across the sky, a woman in besplattered stockings was spinning along on a silver-shining bicycle, and only over the surrounding hills did clouds still hang. Once again the cathedral began playing hide-and-seek with me, but I outwitted it. Barely escaping the onrushing tires of a furious red bus packed with singing youths, I crossed the asphalt thoroughfare and a minute later was ringing at the garden gate of M. Godard. He turned out to be a thin, middle-aged gentleman in high collar and dickey, with a pearl in the knot of his tie, and a face very much resembling a Russian wolfhound; as if that were not enough, he was licking his chops in a most doglike manner, while sticking a stamp on an envelope, when I entered his small but lavishly furnished room with its malachite inkstand on the desk and a strangely familiar Chinese vase on the mantel. A pair of fencing foils hung crossed over the mirror, which reflected the narrow gray back of his head. Here and there photo graphs of a warship pleasantly broke up the blue flora of the wallpaper.
Describing Gaston Godin's manners, Humbert mentions a slow old-dog woof that had a gargling sound at the back of it which made Gaston's jowls wabble:
For obvious reasons, I preferred my house to his for the games of chess we had two or three times weekly. He looked like some old battered idol as he sat with his pudgy hands in his lap and stared at the board as if it were a corpse. Wheezing he would mediate for ten minutes - then make a losing move. Or the good man, after even more thought, might utter: Au roi! With a slow old-dog woof that had a gargling sound at the back of it which made his jowls wabble; and then he would lift his circumflex eyebrows with a deep sigh as I pointed out to him that he was in check himself. (2.6)
In the surnames Godin and Godard there is God. In Russian, god means 'year' ('God' is Bog). In his poem Brozhu li ya vdol’ ulits shumnykh… (“Whether I wander along noisy streets,” 1829) Pushkin uses the word’s archaic form, godina:
День каждый, каждую годину
Привык я думой провождать,
Грядущей смерти годовщину
Меж их стараясь угадать.
Each day each year
I have come to usher out in fancy,
Of my approaching death the anniversary
Intent to guess among them.
The first line of the preceding stanza, Mladentsa l' milogo laskayu (When I caress a dear young child), brings to mind the perversions of both Humbert Humbert and Gaston Godin. Zhukovski's Russian version of Goethe's Erlkönig (a ballad whose opening lines are a leitmotif in Canto Three of Shade's poem in VN's novel Pale Fire, 1962), Lesnoy tsar' ("The Forest King"), ends in the line V rukakh ego myortvyi mladenets lezhal (the little child in his arms was dead). In his poem Borodinskaya godovshchina ("The Borodino Anniversary," 1839) Zhukovski calls 1812 godina russkoy slavy ("the year of Russian glory") and mentions general Bagration (who was felled in the battle of Borodino). In an attempt to save his life Clare Quilty tries to seduce Humbert with his collection of erotica and mentions the in folio de-luxe Bagration Island:
“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 farce is becoming a frightful nuisance. We are men of the world, in everything - sex, 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 elsewhere - is 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 protégée 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. Vibrissa - curious name - who 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 skies - drop that gun - and moreover I can arrange for you to attend executions, not everybody knows that the chair is painted yellow -” (2.35)
Le mystère de la chambre jaune (The Mystery of the Yellow Room, 1908) is a mystery novel (one of the first locked-room mystery novels) by Gaston Leroux. The surname Leroux means "the red-haired one." The Red-Headed League is one of the 56 Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It takes Humbert fifty-six days to write Lolita. The son of Shirley Holmes (the headmistress of Camp Q), Charlie Holmes (Lolita's first lover) is a green-shorted redheaded impish lad:
I reached my destination around half past two; parked my car in a pine grove where a green-shirted, redheaded impish lad stood throwing horseshoes in sullen solitude; was laconically directed by him to an office in a stucco cottage; in a dying state, had to endure for several minutes the inquisitive commiseration of the camp mistress, a sluttish worn out female with rusty hair. Dolly she said was all packed and ready to go. She knew her mother was sick but not critically. Would Mr. Haze, I mean, Mr. Humbert, care to meet the camp counselors? Or look at the cabins where the girls live? Each dedicated to a Disney creature? Or visit the Lodge? Or should Charlie be sent over to fetch her? The girls were just finishing fixing the Dining Room for a dance. (And perhaps afterwards she would say to somebody or other: “The poor guy looked like his own ghost.”) (1.27)
Describing the murder of Quilty (who resembles Gustave Trapp, the Swiss cousin of Humbert's father), Humbert compares his victim to old, gray, mad Nijinski (a Russian ballet dancer of Polish descent, 1889-1950):
Feu. This time I hit something hard. I hit the back of a black rocking chair, not unlike Dolly Schiller’s - my bullet hit the inside surface of its back whereupon it immediately went into a rocking act, so fast and with such zest that any one coming into the room might have been flabbergasted by the double miracle: that chair rocking in a panic all by itself, and the armchair, where my purple target had just been, now void of all life content. Wiggling his fingers in the air, with a rapid heave of his rump, he flashed into the music room and the next second we were tugging and gasping on both sides of the door which had a key I had overlooked. I won again, and with another abrupt movement Clare the Impredictable sat down before the piano and played several atrociously vigorous, fundamentally hysterical, plangent chords, his jowls quivering, his spread hands tensely plunging, and his nostrils emitting the soundtrack snorts which had been absent from our fight. Still singing those impossible sonorities, he made a futile attempt to open with his foot a kind of seaman’s chest near the piano. My next bullet caught him somewhere in the side, and he rose from his chair higher and higher, like old, gray, mad Nijinski, like Old Faithful, like some old nightmare of mine, to a phenomenal altitude, or so it seemed - as he rent the air - still shaking with the rich black music - head thrown back in a howl, hand pressed to his brow, and with his other hand clutching his armpit as if stung by a hornet, down he came on his heels and, again a normal robed man, scurried out into the hall.
I see myself following him through the hall, with a kind of double, triple, kangaroo jump, remaining quite straight on straight legs while bouncing up twice in his wake, and then bouncing between him and the front door in a ballet-like stiff bounce, with the purpose of heading him off, since the door was not properly closed. (ibid.)
There is a photograph of Nijinsky (all thighs and fig leaves) in Gaston Godin's studio. In The Queen of Spades Pushkin mentions Montgolfier's balloons and Mesmer's magnetism. At the end of his manuscript Humbert says that among the pseudonyms he toyed with were "Otto Otto" and "Mesmer Mesmer:"
This then is my story. I have reread it. It has bits of marrow sticking to it, and blood, and beautiful bright-green flies. At this or that twist of it I feel my slippery self eluding me, gliding into deeper and darker waters than I care to probe. I have camouflaged what I could so as not to hurt people. And I have toyed with many pseudonyms for myself before I hit on a particularly apt one. There are in my notes “Otto Otto” and “Mesmer Mesmer” and “Lambert Lambert,” but for some reason I think my choice expresses the nastiness best. (2.36)
"Otto Otto" brings to mind Frau Ott (Frau Monde in the English version), the devil's name in VN's story Skazka ("A Nursery Tale," 1925). The surname Ott hints at Gott (German for "God"). On the other hand, otto is "eight" in Italian. 8 × 8 = 64. On a chessboard there are sixty-four squares.