According to Humbert Humbert (the narrator and main character in VN's novel Lolita, 1955), as a boy he wanted to be a famous spy:
Annabel was, like the writer, of mixed parentage: half-English, half-Dutch, in her case. I remember her features far less distinctly today than I did a few years ago, before I knew Lolita. There are two kinds of visual memory: one when you skillfully recreate an image in the laboratory of your mind, with your eyes open (and then I see Annabel in such general terms as: “honey-colored skin,” “think arms,” “brown bobbed hair,” “long lashes,” “big bright mouth”); and the other when you instantly evoke, with shut eyes, on the dark inner side of your eyelids, the objective, absolutely optical replica of a beloved face, a little ghost in natural colors (and this is how I see Lolita).
Let me therefore primly limit myself, in describing Annabel, to saying she was a lovely child a few months my junior. Her parents were old friends of my aunt’s, and as stuffy as she. They had rented a villa not far from Hotel Mirana. Bald brown Mr. Leigh and fat, powdered Mrs. Leigh (born Vanessa van Ness). How I loathed them! At first, Annabel and I talked of peripheral affairs. She kept lifting handfuls of fine sand and letting it pour through her fingers. Our brains were turned the way those of intelligent European preadolescents were in our day and set, and I doubt if much individual genius should be assigned to our interest in the plurality of inhabited worlds, competitive tennis, infinity, solipsism and so on. The softness and fragility of baby animals caused us the same intense pain. She wanted to be a nurse in some famished Asiatic country; I wanted to be a famous spy. (1.3)
Humbert's first love, Annabel Leigh was half-Dutch. A famous spy, Mata Hari (Margaretha Geertruida MacLeod, née Zelle, 1876-1917) was a Dutch exotic dancer and courtesan. Convicted of being a spy for Germany during World War I, she was executed by firing squad in France. According to Humbert, spies are generally shot:
Nonetheless it was a very close shave, speaking quite objectively. And now comes the point of my perfect-crime parable.
We sat down on our towels in the thirsty sun. She looked around, loosened her bra, and turned over on her stomach to give her back a chance to be feasted upon. She said she loved me. She sighed deeply. She extended one arm and groped in the pocket of her robe for her cigarettes. She sat up and smoked. She examined her right shoulder. She kissed me heavily with open smoky mouth. Suddenly, down the sand bank behind us, from under the bushes and pines, a stone rolled, then another.
“Those disgusting prying kids,” said Charlotte, holding up her big bra to her breast and turning prone again. “I shall have to speak about that to Peter Krestovski.”
From the debouchment of the trail came a rustle, a footfall, and Jean Farlow marched down with her easel and things.
“You scared us,” said Charlotte.
Jean said she had been up there, in a place of green concealment, spying on nature (spies are generally shot), trying to finish a lakescape, but it was no good, she had no talent whatever (which was quite true) - "And have you ever tried painting, Humbert?” Charlotte, who was a little jealous of Jean, wanted to know if John was coming.
He was. He was coming home for lunch today. He had dropped her on the way to Parkington and should be picking her up any time now. It was a grand morning. She always felt a traitor to Cavall and Melampus for leaving them roped on such gorgeous days. She sat down on the white sand between Charlotte and me. She wore shorts. Her long brown legs were about as attractive to me as those of a chestnut mare. She showed her gums when she smiled.
“I almost put both of you into my lake,” she said. “I even noticed something you overlooked. You [addressing Humbert] had your wrist watch on in, yes, sir, you had.”
“Waterproof,” said Charlotte softly, making a fish mouth.
Jean took my wrist upon her knee and examined Charlotte’s gift, then put back Humbert’s hand on the sand, palm up.
“You could see anything that way,” remarked Charlotte coquettishly.
Jean sighed. “I once saw,” she said, “two children, male and female, at sunset, right here, making love. Their shadows were giants. And I told you about Mr. Tomson at daybreak. Next time I expect to see fat old Ivor in the ivory. He is really a freak, that man. Last time he told me a completely indecent story about his nephew. It appears”
“Hullo there,” said John’s voice. (1.20)
One of Jean Farlow's dogs, Cavall brings to mind Edith Cavell (1865-1915), a British nurse and member of La Dame Blanche (the codename for an underground intelligence network which operated in German-occupied Belgium during World War I). She was arrested and executed by the Germans on October 12, 1915.
Edith Cavell in a garden in Brussels with her two dogs before the outbreak of war.
Describing his childhood, Humbert mentions friendly dogs and compares his father's Hotel Mirana to a kind of private universe:
I grew, a happy, healthy child in a bright world of illustrated books, clean sand, orange trees, friendly dogs, sea vistas and smiling faces. Around me the splendid Hotel Mirana revolved as a kind of private universe, a whitewashed cosmos within the blue greater one that blazed outside. From the aproned pot-scrubber to the flanneled potentate, everybody liked me, everybody petted me. Elderly American ladies leaning on their canes listed towards me like towers of Pisa. Ruined Russian princesses who could not pay my father, bought me expensive bonbons. He, mon cher petit papa, took me out boating and biking, taught me to swim and dive and water-ski, read to me Don Quixote and Les Miserables, and I adored and respected him and felt glad for him whenever I overheard the servants discuss his various lady-friends, beautiful and kind beings who made much of me and cooed and shed precious tears over my cheerful motherlessness. (1.2)
In Canto Four of his poem John Shade (the poet in VN's novel Pale Fire, 1962) mentions his private universe:
Gently the day has passed in a sustained
Low hum of harmony. The brain is drained
And a brown ament, and the noun I meant
To use but did not, dry on the cement.
Maybe my sensual love for the consonne
D'appui, Echo's fey child, is based upon
A feeling of fantastically planned,
Richly rhymed life. I feel I understand
Existence, or at least a minute part
Of my existence, only through my art,
In terms of combinational delight;
And if my private universe scans right,
So does the verse of galaxies divine
Which I suspect is an iambic line. (ll. 963-976)
In Canto Three of his poem Shade mentions Hurricane Lolita, the planet Mars and gloomy Russian spies:
It was a year of Tempests: Hurricane
Lolita swept from Florida to Maine.
Mars glowed. Shahs married. Gloomy Russians spied.
Lang made your portrait. And one night I died. (ll. 679-682)
At the end of his poem Shade mentions the sun and a dark Vanessa butterfly:
But it's not bedtime yet. The sun attains
Old Dr. Sutton's last two windowpanes.
The man must be - what? Eighty? Eighty-two?
Was twice my age the year I married you.
Where are you? In the garden. I can see
Part of your shadow near the shagbark tree.
Somewhere horseshoes are being tossed. Click, Clunk.
(Leaning against its lamppost like a drunk.)
A dark Vanessa with crimson band
Wheels in the low sun, settles on the sand
And shows its ink-blue wingtips flecked with white.
And through the flowing shade and ebbing light
A man, unheedful of the butterfly -
Some neighbor's gardener, I guess - goes by
Trundling an empty barrow up the lane. (ll. 985-999)
The maiden name of Annabel Leigh's mother was Vanessa van Ness. The stage name Mata Hari means sun, literally "eye of the day", from Malay mata (eye) + hari (day, dawn). The number 342 that reappears in Lolita three times (342 Lawn Street is the address of the Haze house in Ramsdale; 342 is Humbert's and Lolita's room number in The Enchanted Hunters; according to HH, between July 5 and November 18, 1949, he registered, if not actually stayed, at 342 hotels, motels and tourist homes) seems to hint at Earth, Mars and Venus (the third, the fourth and the second planet of the Solar System). In the geocentric model of the universe, the number 342 suggests Venus, Sun and Mercury (3 + 4 + 2 = 9, the Primum Mobile, the outermost moving sphere in the geocentric model of the universe). Discovered in 1930, Pluto was long considered our Solar System's ninth planet. The god Pluto (Hades) was the ruler of the Greek underworld.
The splendid Hotel Mirana revolved around little Humbert as a kind of private universe. In Natural History (Book IV, 8) Pliny the Elder (the Roman historian, AD 23/24 – AD 79) desribes Greece and mentions Mount Parnassus, the Castalian Spring and Mirana, the district also called Daulis:
Next to the Aetolians are the Locrians, surnamed Ozolae, who are exempt from tribute. Here are the town of Oeanthe, the harbour of Apollo Phaestius and the Chrisaean Gulf; and inland the towns of Argyna, Eupalia, Phaestum and Calamisus. Beyond are the Cirrhaean Plains of Phocis, the town of Cirrha and the port of Chalaeon, seven miles inland from which is Delphi, a free town at the foot of Mount Parnassus and the seat of the oracle of Apollo, the most famous in the world. Here are the Castalian Spring and the river Cephisus flowing past Delphi; it rises at the city of Lilaea. There was also formerly the town of Crisa, and together with the people of Bulis there are Anticyra, Naulochus, Pyrrha, the tax-free town of Amphissa, Tithrone, Tithorea, Ambrysus and Mirana, the district also called Daulis. Then right up the bay is the sea-board corner of Boeotia with the towns of Siphae and Thebes surnamed the Corsian, near Mount Helicon. The third town of Boeotia up from this sea is Pagae, from which projects the neck of the Peloponnese.
Humbert's first love, Annabel Leigh died in Corfu (a Greek island in the Ionian Sea). According to VN's grandmother (born Baroness von Korff), the island Corfu was named after her ancestor:
Восемнадцати лет покинув Петербург, я (вот пример галлицизма) был слишком молод в России, чтобы проявить какое-либо любопытство к моей родословной; теперь я жалею об этом-из соображений технических: при отчетливости личной памяти неотчетливость семейной отражается на равновесии слов. Уже в эмиграции кое-какими занятными сведениями снабдил меня двоюродный мой дядюшка Владимир Викторович Голубцов, большой любитель таких изысканий. У него получалось, что старый дворянский род Набоковых произошел не от каких-то псковичей, живших как-то там в сторонке, на обочье, и не от кривобокого, набокого, как хотелось бы, а от обрусевшего шестьсот лет тому назад татарского князька по имени Набок. Бабка же моя, мать отца, рожденная баронесса Корф, была из Древнего немецкого (вестфальского) рода и находила простую прелесть в том, что в честь предка-крестоносца был будто бы назван остров Корфу. Корфы эти обрусели еще в восемнадцатом веке, и среди них энциклопедии отмечают много видных людей. По отцовской линии мы состоим в разнообразном родстве или свойстве с Аксаковыми, Шишковыми, Пущиными, Данзасами. Думаю, что было уже почти темно, когда по скрипучему снегу внесли раненого в гек-кернскую карету. Среди моих предков много служилых людей; есть усыпанные бриллиантовыми знаками участники славных войн; есть сибирский золотопромышленник и миллионщик (Василий Рукавишников, дед моей матери Елены Ивановны); есть ученый президент медико-хирургической академии (Николай Козлов, другой ее дед); есть герой Фридляндского, Бородинского, Лейпцигского и многих других сражений, генерал от инфантерии Иван Набоков (брат моего прадеда), он же директор Чесменской богадельни и комендант С.-Петербургской крепости - той, в которой сидел супостат Достоевский (рапорты доброго Ивана Александровича царю напечатаны - кажется, в "Красном Архиве"); есть министр юстиции Дмитрий Николаевич Набоков (мой дед); и есть, наконец, известный общественный деятель Владимир Дмитриевич (мой отец). (Drugie berega, 3.1)