Humbert Humbert's friend and chess partner at Beardsley, Gaston Godin (a character in VN's novel Lolita, 1955) eventually gets involved in a sale histoire, in Naples of all places:
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 phenomentally 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 studiohe 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.)
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.
Sometimes, from where we sat in my cold study I could hear Lo’s bare feet practicing dance techniques in the living room downstairs; but Gaston’s outgoing senses were comfortably dulled, and he remained unaware of those naked rhythms - and-one, and-two, and-one, and-two, weight transferred on a straight right leg, leg up and out to the side, and-one, and-two, and only when she started jumping, opening her legs at the height of the jump, and flexing one leg, and extending the other, and flying, and landing on her toes - only then did my pale, pompous, morose opponent rub his head or cheek as if confusing those distant thuds with the awful stabs of my formidable Queen.
Sometimes Lola would slouch in while we pondered the board - and it was every time a treat to see Gaston, his elephant eye still fixed on his pieces, ceremoniously rise to shake hands with her, and forthwith release her limp fingers, and without looking once at her, descend again into his chair to topple into the trap I had laid for him. One day around Christmas, after I had not seen him for a fortnight or so, he asked me “Et toutes vos fillettes, elles vont bien?” from which it became evident to me that he had multiplied my unique Lolita by the number of sartorial categories his downcast moody eye had glimpsed during a whole series of her appearances: blue jeans, a skirt, shorts, a quilted robe.
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 Naples 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)
Une Sale Histoire is the French title of Dostoevski's story Skvernyi anekdot ("An Unpleasant Predicament," 1862). As he imagines his future life with Charlotte (Lolita's mother), Humbert feels a Dostoevskian grin on his lips:
After a while I destroyed the letter and went to my room, and ruminated, and rumpled my hair, and modeled my purple robe, and moaned through clenched teeth and suddenly - Suddenly, gentlemen of the jury, I felt a Dostoevskian grin dawning (through the very grimace that twisted my lips) like a distant and terrible sun. I imagined (under conditions of new and perfect visibility) all the casual caresses her mother's husband would be able to lavish on his Lolita. I would hold her against me three times a day, every day. All my troubles would be expelled, I would be a healthy man. "To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee and print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss . . ." Well-read Humbert! (1.17)
Dostoevski is the author of Dnevnik pisatelya ("A Writer's Diary"). "Exhibit number two" is Humbert's pocket diary (after reading it Charlotte runs out of the house and perishes under the wheels of a truck). A sale histoire may also hint at "Voilà M-me Yermolof la sale" (a pun, the daughter of a French general, le Comte Lassale, Josephine-Charlotte Lassale married Mikhail Aleksandrovich Yermolov, a hero of the Patriotic War of 1812, writer and translator), N. N.'s words quoted by Pushkin in his diary (the entry of Dec. 5, 1834):
В тот же день бал у Салтыкова. N. N. сказала: — Voilà M-me Yermolof la sale (Lassale). Ермолова и Курваль (дочь ген. Моро) всех хуже одеваются.
"In Naples of all places" brings to mind volkan Neapolya (Naples' volcano) mentioned by Pushkin in Chapter Ten [IX: 2] of Eugene Onegin:
Тряслися грозно Пиренеи,
Волкан Неаполя пылал,
Безрукий князь друзьям Мореи
Из Кишинева уж мигал.
The Pyrenees shook ominously;
Naples' volcano was aflame.
the one-armed prince to the friends of Morea
from Kishinev already winked.
The one-armed Prince (Alexander Ypsilanti, 1792-1828, a Phanariot who served in the Russian army and lost his right arm in the Battle of Dresden, 1813) makes one think of discreet Bill, the one-armed neighbor of Lolita and her husband in Coalmont:
Arctic blue eyes, black hair, ruddy cheeks, unshaven chin. We shook hands. Discreet Bill, who evidently took pride in working wonders with one hand, brought in the beer cans he had opened. Wanted to withdraw. The exquisite courtesy of simple folks. Was made to stay. A beer ad. In point of fact, I preferred it that way, and so did the Schillers. I switched to the jittery rocker. Avidly munching, Dolly plied me with marshmallows and potato chips. The men looked at her fragile, frileux, diminutive, old-world, youngish but sickly, father in velvet coat and beige vest, maybe a viscount. (2.29)
D'Anthès' second in Pushkin's fatal duel, Olivier d'Archiac was a viscount. In his diary (the entry of Jan. 26, 1834) Pushkin mentions his future murderer:
Барон д'Антес и маркиз де Пина, два шуана, будут приняты в гвардию прямо офицерами. Гвардия ропщет.
Three years later, day for day (on Jan. 26, 1837), Pushkin sent an offensive letter to Baron van Heeckeren (d'Anthès' adoptive father). On the same day van Heeckeren replied that cette rencontre (Pushkin's duel with d'Anthès) ne souffre aucun délai (should take place without delay):
Monsieur
Ne connaissant ni votre écriture ni votre signature, j’ai recours à Monsieur le Vicomte d’Archiac, qui vous remettra la présente pour constater que la lettre à laquelle je réponds, vient de vous. Son contenu est tellement hors de toutes les bornes du possible que je me refuse à répondre à tous les détails de cet épître. Vous paraissez avoir oublié Monsieur, que c’est vous qui vous êtes dedit de la provocation, que vous aviez fait adresser au Baron Georges de Heeckeren et qui avait été acceptée par lui. La preuve de ce que j’avance ici existe, écrite de votre main, et est restée entre les mains des seconds. Il ne me reste qu’à vous prévenir que Monsieur le Vicomte d’Archiac se rend chez vous pour convenir avec vous du lieu où vous vous rencontrerez avec le Baron Georges de Heeckeren et à vous prévenir que cette rencontre ne souffre aucun délai.
Je saurai plus tard, Monsieur, vous faire apprécier le respect du au Caractère dont je suis révêtu et qu’aucune démarche de votre part ne saurait atteindre.
Je suis
Monsieur
Votre très humble serviteur
B. de Heeckeren.
In an attempt to save his life, Clare Quilty (the playwright and pornographer who abducted Lolita from the Elphinstone hospital and whom Humbert finally tracked down in his house near Parkington) offers Humbert an old-fashioned rencontre, sword or pistol, in Rio or elsewhere:
“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 protégé 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)