In VN's novel Lolita (1955) Clare Quilty (a fashionable playwright and pornographer whom Humbert Humbert murders for kidnapping Lolita) tells Humbert that he has been called the American Maeterlinck:
“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 face 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)
The characters in Maurice Maeterlinck's play The Blue Bird (1908) include Sugar, a tall white figure made of sweets and with fingers of lollipops. In his essay on Maeterlinck's play, Dusha sakhara ("The Soul of Sugar," 1909), Dmitri Merezhkovski says that the soul of sugar, one of the play's secondary characters, is really the soul of Maeterlinck himself:
Это одно изъ дѣйствующихъ лицъ метерлинковой Синей Птицы — высокая бѣлая фигура, вышедшая изъ сахарной головы, одѣтая въ балахонъ цвѣта темно-синей сахарной бумаги, съ ледянцами вмѣсто пальцевъ, которые она отламываетъ и предлагаетъ дѣтямъ пососать. Какъ будто второстепенное, а на самомъ дѣлѣ, главное лицо — душа пьесы, душа самого Метерлинка. Когда-то была у него душа трагедіи — горькой полыни, а теперь — душа сахара.
In Maeterlinck's play, Sugar wears a silk gown, cut like that of a eunuch in a seraglio, half blue and half white to suggest the wrapper of a sugar loaf, along with a eunuch's headdress. But Merezhkovski (who saw a stage performance of Sinyaya ptitsa in the Moscow Art Theater) makes him wear balakhon (a hoody), the color of dark-blue sugar-wrapping paper. As suggested by Gerard de Vries, after her death Lolita is turned by her maker into a blue bird. According to John Ray, Jr. (the author of the Foreword to Humbert Humbert's manuscript), Mrs. “Richard F. Schiller” (Lolita's married name) died in childbed, giving birth to a stillborn girl, on Christmas Day 1952, in Gray Star, a settlement in the remotest Northwest. But it seems that Lolita actually dies of ague in the Elphinstone hospital on July 4, 1949, and the rest (Lolita's escape from the hospital with Quilty, Humbert's affair with Rita, Lolita's marriage and pregnancy, and the murder of Quilty) was invented by Humbert Humbert (whose "real" name is John Ray, Jr.). Describing Lolita's illness and hospitalization, Humbert mentions Dr. Blue:
Dr. Blue, whose learning, no doubt, was infinitely inferior to his reputation, assured me it was a virus infection, and when I alluded to her comparatively recent flu, curtly said this was another bug, he had forty such cases on his hands; all of which sounded like the “ague” of the ancients. (2.22)
In his book Iz matrosskikh dosugov ("From a Sailor's Past-Time," 1843) Vladimir Dahl (who was a doctor and who was at Pushkin's deathbed on Feb. 10, 1837) mentions Counter Admiral Elphinstone, a British senior naval officer who in the battle of Chesma (July 5-7, 1770) commanded the Russian rear guard:
После разных похождений, при которых некоторые корабли отстали, другие зашли в иностранные порты, один транспорт разбился в Категате, а один корабль и вовсе покинут был в Англии, флот наш собрался к зиме в Средиземном море. Придан был еще контр-адмирал Эльфинстон, с тремя кораблями, двумя фрегатами и несколькими транспортами, а главное начальство на море и на суше принял граф Алексей Григорьевич Орлов. Всю зиму флот занят был блокированием или занятием турецких городов и крепостей, то высадкой, то сбором туг и там войска, в подкрепление грекам; но по бестолочи их, своевольству, непривычке к порядку и послушанию все попытки их, даже при нашей помощи, были довольно неудачны. Весной 1770 года турецкий флот вышел из Цареградского пролива и через Дарданеллы; тогда флот наш всеми силами пустился на поиск за ним.
Контр-адмирал Эльфинстон, с тремя кораблями и фрегатом, первый открыл, в половине мая, неприятеля за мысом Св. Ангела, на самой южной оконечности турецкого полуострова Морей. Адмирал спустился на турецкий флот, несмотря на слабость свою, и завязал было сражение; но турки уклонились и при затиши успели уйти буксиром в залив Навплию. ("The Battle of Chesma")
Lolita's best friend and confident at Beardsley, Mona Dahl had had an affair with a marine at the seaside:
Her girlfriends, whom I looked forward to meet, proved on the whole disappointing. There was Opal Something, and Linda Hall, and Avis Chapman, and Eva Rosen, and Mona Dahl (save one, all these names are approximations, of course). Opal was a bashful, formless, bespectacled, bepimpled creature who doted on Dolly who bullied her. With Linda Hall the school tennis champion, Dolly played singles at least twice a week: I suspect Linda was a true nymphet, but for some unknown reason she did not comewas perhaps not allowed to cometo our house; so I recall her only as a flash of natural sunshine on an indoor court. Of the rest, none had any claims to nymphetry except Eva Rosen. Avis ws a plump lateral child with hairy legs, while Mona, though handsome in a coarse sensual way and only a year older than my aging mistress, had obviously long ceased to be a nymphet, if she ever had been one. Eva Rosen, a displaced little person from France, was on the other hand a good example of a not strikingly beautiful child revealing to the perspicacious amateur some of the basic elements of nymphet charm, such as a perfect pubescent figure and lingering eyes and high cheekbones. Her glossy copper hair had Lolita’s silkiness, and the features of her delicate milky-white face with pink lips and silverfish eyelashes were less foxy than those of her likes - the great clan of intra-racial redheads; nor did she sport their green uniform but wore, as I remember her, a lot of black or cherry darka very smart black pullover, for instance, and high-heeled black shoes, and garnet-red fingernail polish. I spoke French to her (much to Lo’s disgust). The child’s tonalities were still admirably pure, but for school words and play words she resorted to current American and then a slight Brooklyn accent would crop up in her speech, which was amusing in a little Parisian who went to a select New England school with phoney British aspirations. Unfortunately, despite “that French kid’s uncle” being “a millionaire,” Lo dropped Eva for some reason before I had had time to enjoy in my modest way her fragrant presence in the Humbert open house. The reader knows what importance I attached to having a bevy of page girls, consolation prize nymphets, around my Lolita. For a while, I endeavored to interest my senses in Mona Dahl who was a good deal around, especially during the spring term when Lo and she got so enthusiastic about dramatics. I have often wondered what secrets outrageously treacherous Dolores Haze had imparted to Mona while blurting out to me by urgent and well-paid request various really incredible details concerning an affair that Mona had had with a marine at the seaside. It was characteristic of Lo that she chose for her closest chum that elegant, cold, lascivious, experienced young female whom I once heard (misheard, Lo swore) cheerfully say in the hallway to Lo - who had remarked that her (Lo’s) sweater was of virgin wool: “The only thing about you that is, kiddo…” She had a curiously husky voice, artificially waved dull dark hair, earrings, amber-brown prominent eyes and luscious lips. Lo said teachers had remonstrated with her on her loading herself with so much costume jewelry. Her hands trembled. She was burdened with a 150 I. Q. And I also knew she had a tremendous chocolate-brown mole on he womanish back which I inspected the night Lo and she had worn low-cut pastel-colored, vaporous dresses for a dance at the Butler Academy. (2.9)
Humbert compares a little old woman whom Mrs. Hays (who runs the Silver Spur Court in Elphinstone) had lent him, to a portable witch, perhaps Erlkönig's daughter. J. G. Herder's ballad Erlkönigs Tochter (1779) is a translation and adaption (included in Herder's collection Volkslieder) of the Danish ballad Elveskud ("Elf-shot"). A Russian lexicographer, the author of the four-volume Explanatory Dictionary of the Living Great Russian Language, Vladimir Dahl (1801-1872) had a Danish ancestor.
Quilty tells Humbert that he can arrange for him to attend executions. In The Soul of Sugar Merezhkovski mentions the executions of revolutionaries in Russian prisons:
Одинъ изъ вчерашнихъ зрителей, бывшій революціонеръ, получилъ письмо, съ описаніемъ ужасовъ, которые сейчасъ творятся въ русскихъ тюрьмахъ надъ приговоренными къ смертной казни. Называютъ ихъ смертниками — новое слово, вошедшее въ русскій языкъ и сразу сдѣлавшееся обиходнымъ: употребляется уже безъ кавычекъ; — смертниковъ, связанныхъ по рукамъ и ногамъ, кладутъ въ рядъ на тюремномъ дворѣ и тутъ же, одного за другимъ, вѣшаютъ; живые видятъ судороги, слышатъ стоны умирающихъ и ждутъ очереди.
At the end of Lolita Humbert says that he is opposed to capital punishment:
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.
When I started, fifty-six days ago, to write Lolita, first in the psychopathic ward for observation, and then in this well-heated, albeit tombal, seclusion, I thought I would use these notes in toto at my trial, to save not my head, of course, but my soul. In mind-composition, however, I realized that I could not parade living Lolita. I still may use parts of this memoir in hermetic sessions, but publication is to be deferred.
For reasons that may appear more obvious than they really are, I am opposed to capital punishment; this attitude will be, I trust, shared by the sentencing judge. Had I come before myself, I would have given Humbert at least thirty-five years for rape, and dismissed the rest of the charges. But even so, Dolly Schiller will probably survive me by many years. The following decision I make with all the legal impact and support of a signed testament: I wish this memoir to be published only when Lolita is no longer alive.
Thus, neither of us is alive when the reader opens this book. But while the blood still throbs through my writing hand, you are still as much part of blessed matter as I am, and I can still talk to you from here to Alaska. Be true to your Dick. Do not let other fellows touch you. Do not talk to strangers. I hope you will love your baby. I hope it will be a boy. That husband of yours, I hope, will always treat you well, because otherwise my specter shall come at him, like black smoke, like a demented giant, and pull him apart nerve by nerve. And do not pity C. Q. One had to choose between him and H. H., and one wanted H. H. to exist at least a couple of months longer, so as to have him make you live in the minds of later generations. I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita. (2.36)
Beautiful bright-green flies bring to mind mukhi (the flies) and mushinaya smert' (the flypaper called in Russian "the flies' death") mentioned by Merezhkovski in The Soul of Sugar:
И въ этой теплой ваннѣ — всѣ вмѣстѣ — революціонеры и черносотенцы, максималисты и октябристы, соціалъ-демократы и кадеты, семиты и антисемиты, вѣрующіе и безбожники — всѣ вмѣстѣ въ этой бездонной сладости, бездонной мягкости, какъ маленькія дѣти въ одной колыбелькѣ. Или, какъ мухи на одной липкой и сладкой, ядовитой бумажкѣ, которая называется мушиная смерть.
Не дохлыя мухи, а здоровые люди, все равно, греки, римляне, варвары или даже русскіе мужики, не вынесли бы, стошнило бы ихъ. А вотъ намъ ничего — посасываемъ да похваливаемъ.
Humbert thought he would use his notes in toto at his trial, to save not his head, but his soul. Golova being Russian for "head," one is reminded of sakharnaya golova (a sugarloaf) mentioned by Merezhkovski at the beginning of The Soul of Sugar. Sugarloaf Mountain is the mountain in Rio de Janeiro. In an attempt to save his life, Quilty offers Humbert an old-fashioned recontre, sword or pistol, in Rio or elsewhere.
The title of Merezhkovski's essay on Maeterlinck, The Soul of Sugar, brings to mind "my sin, my soul," as at the beginning of his manuscript Humbert calls Lolita:
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. (1.1)
Chto est' grekh ("What is Sin?" 1902) and Grekh ("Sin," 1938) are poems by Zinaida Hippius (Dmitri Merezhkovski's wife, 1869-1945). Zinaida Hippius's cousin Vladimir (1876-1941) was VN's teacher of literature at the Tenishev School.
Merezhkovski's Dusha sakhara brings to mind Sakhar Medovich (Sugar, son of Honey), as in a letter of the first half of Jan. - Feb. 14, 1825, to Katenin Griboedov calls Molchalin, a character in his play in verse Gore ot uma (“Woe from Wit,” 1824):
Кто-то со злости выдумал об нём, что он сумасшедший, никто не поверил и все повторяют, голос общего недоброхотства и до него доходит, притом и нелюбовь к нему той девушки, для которой единственно он явился в Москву, ему совершенно объясняется, он ей и всем наплевал в глаза и был таков. Ферзь тоже разочарована насчёт своего сахара медовича.
Griboedov calls Sofia (Famusov's daughter with whom Chatski is in love) ferz’ (the chess queen). In a game of chess that Humbert plays with Gaston Godin (a Professor of French in Beardsley College) Humbert hangs his queen:
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. (2.14)
The author of several waltzes, Griboedov loved to play piano. An old pederast, Gaston Godin feeds small boys with fancy chocolates, with real liqueurs inside (cf. Sugar's fingers of lollipops):
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)