by Michael Maar
75 See Ada, p. 488. ‘For the big picnic on Ada’s twelfth birthday … the child was permitted to wear her lolita (thus dubbed after the little Andalusian gipsy of that name in Osberg’s novel and pronounced, incidentally, with a Spanish “t”, not a thick English one …)’ (p. 77). The film in which Ada plays the young Dolores plagiarizes details from Osberg’s short story ‘La Gitanella’ – according to Boyd the title of Lolita in Antiterra (See Boyd, Ada Online: http://www.libraries.psu.edu/nabokov/ada/index.htm). Van’s father introduces a side-motif into this thematic complex, consorting with ever younger ‘Spanish nymphets’ in his old age, until he ends with a ten-year-old.
76 Ada, pp. 594, 344.
77 In Ada’s family there are two Walter D. Veens. Brian Boyd, whose commentary on Ada produces other, more direct allusions to The Waltz Invention, misses this reference back to the play in which ‘Walter Walzer’ makes his first entrance. In a subtle, if also – as often in Ada – barely intelligible balancing act, the original ‘Walzer’ is turned back into Spanish. Ada explains that her circular marblings would be called ‘waltzes’ in California ‘(“because the señorita will dance all night”)’: Ada, p. 105.
78 Those who are sceptical about any connection with Lichberg may regard this as a malicious invention; but it is no more and no less than an orchid bloom of coincidence that ‘Os’ can stand for ‘Light’. For Osmium is the name of the chemical element used in the filaments of a light bulb. To complete Lichberg as ‘Lichtberg’ is an almost automatic slip. The chair of the American Philological Association herself has become a ready victim of it. See Elaine Fantham, ‘On Lolita and the Problems of Plagiarism’, p. 1.
79 Look at the Harlequins!, Vintage Books, New York, 1974 p. 143.
80 Ibid., p. 139. The real name of the girl, with whom Dolly is mixed up, is Talbot, but a baby-sitter gives out the name on the telephone as ‘Tallbird or Dalberg’. The mix-up serves only to throw the latter name into the equation.
81 These possibilities should be pointed out only because the legend is widespread that for fifteen years in Berlin Nabokov had no contact wih Germans. For Véra especially the couple’s separation from the outside world in Berlin, not completely hermetic even for Vladimir, was highly porous – she worked, as The Gift has immortalized it, in a German office, took speeches by Nazi Ministers down in shorthand, mingled at dances with ‘the German elite and numerous members of the diplomatic corps’; rode in the Tiergarten, learnt to shoot, took flying lessons and wanted at one time to become a pilot … (see Schiff, Véra, pp. 4, 32, 67). If fate had been so minded, it would have had a range of options here to bring her into contact with Herr von Eschwege-Lichberg. The latter could equally have written a piece on the Russian cabaret in Berlin, or a presentation by Sirin at the English–French club; have played at the tennis club in Dahlem of which Nabokov was a member; have frequented one of the aristocrats, Von Dallwitz or Von Bardeleben, of whom the Nabokovs were at one time or another subtenants. Véra and Vladimir, whose tale Time and Ebb ends with an apotheosis of the early aeroplanes, could have taken an interest in the Zeppelin’s journey round the world (which was covered in detail by Rul’, the Russian-language daily in Berlin that was Nabokov’s main literary outlet). Further possibilities for research are in no way exhausted, though no doubt without the help of coincidence we shall never find out whether the haystack really does contain a needle. That Lichberg knew the name Sirin we may moreover assume; as a journalist he would have read the competition, and it would not have escaped him that the Vossische Zeitung serialized two works by Nabokov–Sirin: in July 1928 Mary, and in March 1930 King, Queen, Knave. Both novels were published in German by Ullstein Verlag.
APPENDIX I
TWO STORIES BY HEINZ VON LICHBERG
LOLITA
Someone threw the name of E.T.A. Hoffmann into the conversation. Musical Tales.
The young hostess Beate put the orange that she was about to peel back on her plate and said to the young poet: ‘Do you think it possible that these stories, which I really read very seldom, keep me awake for nights on end? Common sense tells me that it is all fantasy, and yet …’.
‘Precisely because it is no fantasy, my dear lady.’
The legation councillor smiled good-humouredly. ‘But you don’t mean to say that Hoffmann experienced those fearful things?’
‘That is exactly what I mean,’ rejoined the poet. ‘He experienced them! Naturally not with his hands and eyes, but because he was a poet, he experienced what he wrote – or rather, he wrote only of what he experienced in his mind. In fact one could distinguish poets and writers by this criterion. In a poet’s mind, this is where fantasy transposes thought into reality!’
It had grown quite silent in the beautiful Countess Beate’s little Empire dining-room.
‘You are absolutely right,’ said the boyish, sensitive-looking professor. ‘I would like to tell you about something I have carried around with me for many years now, and I still don’t know whether it is experience or fantasy. But it will take a moment or two.’
‘Please go ahead,’ said his hostess.
And so the scholar began his story:
‘Towards the end of the last century I was a student in a very old, fairly large town in South Germany. This must have been some twenty years ago. I lived, since it appealed to me, in a narrow street lined with very old houses. Near my lodgings there was a small tavern that must be one of the strangest I have ever seen. I often went there in the late autumn afternoons, when I would take a break from my work before the last of the daylight had gone.
‘It consisted of just a single dilapidated room with a low ceiling gathering shadows. By the windows on to the street stood two immaculately scrubbed tables with hard wooden chairs. At the back, in a dark corner by the tiled stove, stood a third little table flanked by two strange armchairs covered in brightly coloured chintz. A black silk headscarf of the sort Spanish girls wear on days of celebration was draped over the armchair next to the stove. I never saw another patron in there besides myself, and even today I cannot rid myself of the idea that it wasn’t a public tavern at all. The front door, in any event, was locked, and the shutters on the windows closed every evening on the stroke of seven. I never asked about this, as I soon began to take an unaccountably keen interest in the owners of this curious establishment.
They were called Aloys and Anton Walzer, and appeared very old. Both were incredibly tall and thin, without a hair on their heads but with long, tousled, full grey beards that were streaked with red. I never saw them dressed in anything except yellowish trousers and long baggy black jackets. They were so alike that they must have been twins, and it was only the fact of Anton’s having a slightly deeper voice that finally allowed me to tell them apart. When I arrived they would, without asking or saying anything, always bring a glass of wonderful, sweet Spanish wine and set it down for me on the table by the stove with a friendly smile. Aloys unfailingly sat in the armchair next to me, while, as a rule, Anton would stand, leaning his back against the window. Both smoked a highly aromatic tobacco in the sort of pipes you often see in Flemish engravings. They always seemed to be waiting for something.
‘If I said that the two old men made a grotesque impression on me, that would be misleading, since the word grotesque implies a certain absurdity. No, the impression that the Walzers produced was of something unspeakably weary, fearful, and all but tragic.
‘There did not appear to be a female presence living in the house – at least, I never noticed any sign of one.
‘A visit to the smoke-filled parlour soon became an essential part of every day’s routine, especially when winter set in, with its early dusks and long evenings. I became increasingly familiar to the owners, and from time to time they would engage me in brief conversation. But they seemed to have lost all sense of the present, only ever speaking of times long gone in voices that sounded curiously parched and grating. I told them about my travels, and each time the conversation turned to souther
n lands, a wary, unsettled glint stole into their eyes, occasionally overlaid with a hint of wistful expectation. Then they would seem to be living in a memory. I could never leave the tavern without the vague feeling that something awful was about to happen after I’d gone – and naturally, time and again I’d then smile at such notion.
‘One evening I passed their establishment quite late and heard, behind the shuttered windows, a violin softly playing an exquisite melody that so captivated me that I remained standing outside in the street for a long time. The next day, when I asked the old men what it was, they just smiled and shook their heads.
‘Several weeks went by and then, one night, I passed their windows again – perhaps at an even later hour this time. I heard such wild shouting coming from behind the shutters, such indescribable cursing and swearing, that I froze, appalled. The voices were definitely coming from the tavern, there was no doubt about that, but it couldn’t have been the two old men locked in violent argument, because, however furious, their voices could never have sounded so deep or youthful or loud. Two young, strong people must have been at each other’s throats in there.
‘The shouts grew ever louder, rising to a pitch of uncontrollable exasperation as every now and then a fist slammed down on to a table with a crash.
‘All of sudden a silvery, feminine laugh rang out, and then the infuriated voices swelled to an insane roar.
‘I stood there rooted to the spot, not even thinking for a moment to open the door and look to see what was happening.
‘Then the woman’s voice gave a scream – a little scream, but one of such fright, of such awful dread, that I still have not forgotten it today. Then everything became quiet.
‘When I walked in the next day, Anton brought a glass of wine to my table with his customary friendly smile, and everything was so unchanged that I began to think it had all been a dream, and I was ashamed to ask the old men.
‘It was towards the end of winter that I was obliged to explain to the brothers one afternoon that I wouldn’t be able to come any more, because I was setting off for Spain the following day.
‘My announcement appeared to have a strange effect on Anton and Aloys, for their hard, picturesquely ugly faces turned pale, and they looked down at the ground. They left the room and I heard them whispering to one another outside. After a while Anton came back in and asked me agitatedly whether I would be going to Alicante as well, and when I replied that I would, he scurried out to his brother with comical haste. After a further while, they came back in and acted as if nothing had happened.
‘I forgot about the old men as I finished my preparations for the trip, but that night I had a vague, confused dream in which a small, crooked, salmon-coloured house in one of the disreputable streets leading down to Alicante’s harbour played a part.
‘When I went to the station the next day, I noticed that Anton and Aloys’ shutters were firmly shut in broad daylight.
‘But once I was under way, immersed in my work, I soon forgot about these insignificant events in South Germany. One forgets so easily when one travels.
‘I stayed in Paris for a few days to visit some friends and poke around the Louvre. One evening, tired from looking, I went to a cabaret in the Quartier Latin to hear one of those curious chansonniers who an acquaintance of mine had promised me was a true artist. I found a very old, blind man with a grave, mournful voice, who, it was true, sang quite beautifully and was expertly accompanied by his pretty daughter on the violin.
‘After a while she took to the stage alone, and suddenly I recognized the exquisite melody that had amazed me weeks before when I had heard it coming from the Walzers’ tavern in the middle of the night. I asked what it was, and was told that it was a gavotte by Giovanni Lully from the reign of Louis XIV.
‘A few days later I set off for Lisbon, and at the beginning of February I travelled to Alicante by way of Madrid.
‘I have always had a weakness for the South – and for Spain above all. One is raised to a higher power there, if I may so put it: everything is experienced in its most intense form, and all of life becomes sultry and unrestrained under the glare of the sun. The people are like their wine, which is strong, fiery and sweet, but quick to effervesce and dangerously choleric when it ferments. Then, too, I have always had the feeling that every southerner has a little of Don Quixote’s blood in his veins.
‘I had nothing special to do in Alicante, in fact. But I love those ineffably sweet nights on the harbour when the moon hangs over the Castle of Santa Barbara and throws everything into stark, ghostly contrast. In every German there lies a streak of lyrical sentimentality just waiting for such occasions. The moment I entered the town on muleback, the memory of the Walzer brothers and their curious establishment returned to me with absurd vividness. Of course this may be fancy, or rewriting after the event, but I seemed to steer my mule almost involuntarily past the Algorfa palace and down to the harbour. There, in one of the old streets where the sailors live, I found the lodgings I was looking for.
‘Severo Ancosta’s pension was a small, crooked building with large balconies squeezed in between identical neighbours. The friendly, talkative landlord gave me a room with a wonderful view of the sea, and nothing stood in the way of my enjoying a week of undisturbed beauty.
‘Until, on the second day, I saw Lolita, Severo’s daughter.
‘By our northern standards she was terribly young, with veiled southern eyes and hair of an unusual reddish gold. Her body was boyishly slim and supple, and her voice full and dark. But there was something more than her beauty that attracted me – there was a strange mystery about her that often troubled me on those moonlit nights.
‘When she tidied up in my room, she would sometimes stop in the middle of her work, press her red, laughing lips into two narrow lines, and stare fearfully at the sun. Then she had the air of an Iphigenia played by a great tragedienne. At such moments I always felt an overpowering need to take the child in my arms and shield her from some unknown danger.
‘There were days when Lolita’s big shy eyes regarded me with an unspoken question, and there were evenings when I saw her burst into sudden uncontrollable sobs.
‘I had ceased to think of travelling on. I was entranced by the South – and Lolita. Golden hot days and silvery melancholy nights.
‘And then came the evening of unforgettable reality and dreamlike magic as Lolita sat on my balcony and sang softly, as she often did. But this time she came to me with halting steps on the landing, the guitar discarded precipitously on the floor. And while her eyes sought out the image of the flickering moon in the water, like a pleading child she flung her trembling little arms around my neck, leant her head on my chest, and began sobbing. There were tears in her eyes, but her sweet mouth was laughing. The miracle had happened. “You are so strong,” she whispered.
‘Days and nights came and went; the mystery of beauty held them entwined in an unchanging, singing serenity.
‘Then the days became weeks, and I began to realize that I must travel on. Not because any duty called me, but because Lolita’s outsized, dangerous love filled me with fear. When I told her, she regarded me with an indescribable expression and nodded mutely. Then suddenly she seized my hand and bit it with all the strength of her little mouth. These scars of love have remained indelible even twenty-five years later.
‘Before I could say anything, Lolita had disappeared into the house. I saw her only once more. …
‘That evening, on the bench by the front door, I had a serious conversation with Severo about his daughter.
‘ “Come, sir,” he said. “I want to show you something and tell you the whole story.” He led me upstairs to a room, which was separated from mine only by a door. I stopped in amazement.
‘The boxy, low room had no other furniture than a small table and three armchairs. But these chairs were the same, or almost the same, as the armchairs in the Walzer brothers’ tavern. And at that moment I knew that it was Severo Ancosta
’s house that I had seen in my dreams the night before I left Germany!
‘On the wall hung a drawing of Lolita that was so true to life that I went over to examine it up close.
‘ “You think that’s Lolita,” smiled Severo, “but it’s Lola, the grandmother of Lolita’s great-grandmother, who was strangled by her lovers after a quarrel a hundred years ago!”
‘We sat down and in his friendly way, Severo told me the story. He spoke of Lola, who was the most beautiful woman of her day in the town – so beautiful that the men who loved her were doomed to die. Shortly after the birth of her daughter she was murdered by two of her lovers, whom she had tormented to the point of insanity.
‘Ever since then the family had been under a sort of curse. The women only ever had one daughter, and always went insane a number of weeks after the birth of their child. But they were all beautiful – as beautiful as Lolita!
‘ “That is how my wife died,” he said in a grave whisper, “and that is how my daughter will die!”
‘I could hardly find words to comfort him, for anxiety for my little Lolita flooded over me.
‘When I went to my room that evening, I found a small flower I didn’t recognize on the pillow on my bed. Lolita’s farewell gift, I thought to myself, and took it in my hand. Then I saw that it was really white, and red only with Lolita’s blood.
‘That was the way she loved.
‘I couldn’t sleep that night. A thousand dreams pursued me, and suddenly – it was probably around midnight – a terrible thing happened. The door of the adjoining room flew open, and I saw three people sitting in the chairs around the table in the middle of the room. Two young, strong, blond lads on either side, and Lolita in the middle. But it was Lola, not Lolita – or was it Lolita, after all?
‘Glasses of dark-red wine stood before them on the table. The girl was laughing loudly and playfully, but there was a hard, scornful line about her mouth. Then the two men took up their violins and played. And I felt the blood pulse faster in my veins as the violins sang out the familiar melody, the old gavotte from the time of the Sun King.