In VN’s novel Lolita (1955) Clare Quilty resembles Gustave Trapp, Humbert Humbert’s Swiss uncle:
Being a murderer with a sensational but incomplete and unorthodox memory, I cannot tell you, ladies and gentlemen, the exact day when I first knew with utter certainty that the red convertible was following us. I do remember, however, the first time I saw its driver quite clearly. I was proceeding slowly one afternoon through torrents of rain and kept seeing that red ghost swimming and shivering with lust in my mirror, when presently the deluge dwindled to a patter, and then was suspended altogether. With a swishing sound a sunburst swept the highway, and needing a pair of new sunglasses, I puss - led up at a filling station. What was happening was a sickness, a cancer, that could not be helped, so I simply ignored the fact that our quiet pursuer, in his converted state, stopped a little behind us at a cafe or bar bearing the idiotic sign: The Bustle: A Deceitful Seatful. Having seen to the needs of my car, I walked into the office to get those glasses and pay for the gas. As I was in the act of signing a traveler’s check and wondered about my exact whereabouts, I happened to glance through a side window, and saw a terrible thing. A broad-backed man, baldish, in an oatmeal coat and dark-brown trousers, was listening to Lo who was leaning out of the car and talking to him very rapidly, her hand with outspread fingers going up and down as it did when she was very serious and emphatic. What struck me with sickening force was - how should I put it? - the voluble familiarity of her way, as if they had known each other - oh, for weeks and weeks. I saw him scratch his cheek and nod, and turn, and walk back to his convertible, a broad and thickish man of my age, somewhat resembling Gustave Trapp, a cousin of my father’s in Switzerland - same smoothly tanned face, fuller than mine, with a small dark mustache and a rosebud degenerate mouth. Lolita was studying a road map when I got back into the car.
“What did that man ask you, Lo?”
“Man? Oh, that man. Oh yes. Oh, I don’t know. He wondered if I had a map. Lost his way, I guess.”
We drove on, and I said:
“Now listen, Lo. I do not know whether you are lying or not, and I do not know whether you are insane or not, and I do not care for the moment; but that person has been following us all day, and his car was at the motel yesterday, and I think he is a cop. You know perfectly well what will happen and where you will go if the police find out about things. Now I want to know exactly what he said to you and what you told him.”
She laughed.
“If he’s really a cop,” she said shrilly but not illogically, “the worst thing we could do, would be to show him we are scared. Ignore him, Dad. ”
“Did he ask where we were going?”
“Oh, he knows that ” (mocking me).
“Anyway,” I said, giving up, “I have seen his face now. He is not pretty. He looks exactly like a relative of mine called Trapp.”
“Perhaps he is Trapp. If I were you - Oh, look, all the nines are changing into the next thousand. When I was a little kid,” she continued unexpectedly, “I used to think they’d stop and go back to nines, if only my mother agreed to put the car in reverse.”
It was the first time, I think, she spoke spontaneously of her pre-Humbertian childhood; perhaps, the theatre had taught her that trick; and silently we traveled on, unpursued. (2.18)
On April 16, 1877, in the Restaurant Trapp near the Gare St. Lazare, a dinner was given by the group of young writers who for publicity's sake had baptized themselves “Naturalists.” Among the guests of honor were Gustave Flaubert and Émile Zola. In the second line of his poem Abbat (“The Abbé,” 1915) Mandelshtam mentions abbat Flobera i Zolya (the abbé of Flaubert and of Zola):
О, спутник вечного романа,
Аббат Флобера и Золя —
От зноя рыжая сутана
И шляпы круглые поля;
Он всё ещё проходит мимо,
В тумане полдня, вдоль межи,
Влача остаток власти Рима
Среди колосьев спелой ржи.
Храня молчанье и приличье,
Он должен с нами пить и есть
И прятать в светское обличье
Сияющей тонзуры честь.
Он Цицерона, на перине,
Читает, отходя ко сну:
Так птицы на своей латыни
Молились Богу в старину.
Я поклонился, он ответил
Кивком учтивым головы,
И, говоря со мной, заметил:
«Католиком умрёте вы!»
Потом вздохнул: «Как нынче жарко!»
И, разговором утомлён,
Направился к каштанам парка,
В тот замок, где обедал он.
In a conversation with the Poet the Abbé tells him: “you will die a Catholic!” According to Humbert, in Quebec he had turned over a Protestant’s drab atheism for an old-fashioned popish cure:
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 - to me as I am now, today, with my heart and by 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)
In Cyrano de Bergerac's L'autre Monde ou les Histoire comique des Etats de la Lune (1657) the narrator's journey to the moon begins in Quebec:
Je la cherchai longtemps, mais enfin je la trouvai au milieu de la place de Québec, comme on y mettait le feu. La douleur de rencontrer l’ouvrage de mes mains en un si grand péril me transporta tellement que je courus saisir le bras du soldat qui allumait le feu. Je lui arrachai sa mèche, et me jetai tout furieux dans ma machine pour briser l’artifice dont elle était environnée; mais j’arrivai trop tard, car à peine y eus-je les deux pieds que me voilà enlevé dans la nue.
In the mean time I was long in search of it, but found it at length in the Market-place of Kebeck (Quebec), just as they were setting Fire to it. I was so transported with Grief, to find the Work of my Hands in so great Peril, that I ran to the Souldier that was giving Fire to it, caught hold of his Arm, pluckt the Match out of his Hand, and in great rage threw my self into my Machine, that I might undo the Fire–Works that they had stuck about it; but I came too late, for hardly were both my Feet within, when whip, away went I up in a Cloud. (chapter IV)
Clair de lune ("Moonlight," 1869) is a poem by Verlaine. In Mandelshtam’s poem Starik (“The Old Man,” 1913) the old man resembles Verlaine:
Уже светло, поет сирена
В седьмом часу утра.
Старик, похожий на Верлэна,
Теперь твоя пора!
В глазах лукавый или детский
Зелёный огонёк;
На шею нацепил турецкий
Узорчатый платок.
Он богохульствует, бормочет
Несвязные слова;
Он исповедываться хочет —
Но согрешить сперва.
Разочарованный рабочий
Иль огорченный мот —
А глаз, подбитый в недрах ночи,
Как радуга цветет.
А дома — руганью крылатой,
От ярости бледна,
Встречает пьяного Сократа
Суровая жена!
In his poem Bon pauvre, ton vêtement est léger (“Good poor man, your clothing is light”) Paul Verlaine (pauvre Lélian, as the author calls himself in Les Poètes Maudits, 1884) uses the phrases Qu'il faut qu'on verse and Que Dieu t'y mène:
Et de Jésus terrible, prêt au pleur
Qu'il faut qu'on verse,
À l'affront vil qui poigne, à la douleur
Lente qui perce.
…..
Des vertus surérogatoires, la
Prudence humaine,
(L'autre, la cardinale, ah ! celle-là
Que Dieu t'y mène!)
A character in VN's novel Ada (1969), Mlle Larivière (Lucette's governess who writes fiction under the penname Guillaume de Monparnasse) wrote a novel entitled Les Enfants Maudits ("The Accursed Children"). Dr. Larivière is a character in Flaubert's Madame Bovary (1856).
Quilty abducts Lolita from the Elphinstone hospital. In Keats' ballad La Belle Dame sans Merci (1819) the lady takes the knight to her Elfin grot:
She took me to her Elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
In the last stanza of his poem Otchego dusha tak pevucha ("Why is the soul so melodious..." 1911) Mandelshtam mentions lazorevyi grot (an azure grotto):
Отчего душа — так певуча,
И так мало милых имён,
И мгновенный ритм — только случай,
Неожиданный Аквилон?
Он подымет облако пыли,
Зашумит бумажной листвой
И совсем не вернется — или
Он вернется совсем другой...
О, широкий ветер Орфея,
Ты ушел в морские края —
И, не созданный мир лелея,
Я забыл ненужное «я».
Я блуждал в игрушечной чаще
И открыл лазоревый грот...
Неужели я настоящий,
И действительно смерть придёт?
Why is the soul so lyrical
And so few are the names I love
And the ready rhythm but a miracle
Like Aquillon from above?
He will raise clouds of dust in a hurry
He will leaf through the paper stack
And he will not come back -- or maybe
As another he will come back?
Winds of Orpheus are embracing -
You will leave for the sea and sky -
And, the world not created praising,
I forgot the superfluous "I".
In a toy thicket I wandered
And into an azure grotto delved.
Am I really real, I ponder,
And death will claim my true self?
(tr. I. Shambat)
Like Abbat, Starik and Tennis, this poem was included in Mandelshtam's collection Kamen' ("Stone," 1915). Among the books that Humbert brings to Lolita when he visits her at the Elphinstone hospital is Tennis by Helen Wills:
Of the eight times I visited her, the last one alone remains sharply engraved on my mind. It had been a great feat to come for I felt all hollowed out by the infection that by then was at work on me too. None will know the strain it was to carry that bouquet, that load of love, those books that I had traveled sixty miles to buy: Browning’s Dramatic Works, The history of Dancing, Clowns and Columbines, The Russian Ballet, Flowers of the Rockies, the Theatre Guild Anthology, Tennis by Helen Wills, who had won the National Junior Girl Singles at the age of fifteen. As I was staggering up to the door of my daughter’s thirteen-dollar-a day private room, Mary Lore, the beastly young part-time nurse who had taken an unconcealed dislike to me, emerged with a finished breakfast tray, placed it with a quick crash on a chair in the corridor, and, fundament jigging, shot back into the room - probably to warn her poor little Dolores that the tyrannical old father was creeping up on crepe soles, with books and bouquet: the latter I had composed of wild flowers and beautiful leaves gathered with my own gloved hands on a mountain pass at sunrise (I hardly slept at all that fateful week). (2.22)
According to Lolita, Quilty wanted her to play tennis in a movie based on his play Golden Guts:
Well. The idea was he would take her in September to Hollywood and arrange a tryout for her, a bit part in the tennis-match scene of a movie picture based on a play of his - Golden Guts - and perhaps even have her double one of its sensational starlets on the Klieg-struck tennis court. Alas, it never came to that. (2.28)
Happy New Year!