The Original of Laura, Page 2
Vladimir Nabokov
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manuscript. Oh no, it was not a work of fiction which one dashes off, you know, to make money; it was a mad neurologist’s testament, a kind of Poisonous Opus as in that film. It had cost him, and would still cost him, years of toil, but the thing was of course, an absolute secret. If she mentioned it at all, she added, it was because she was drunk. She wished to be taken home or preferably to some cool quiet place with a clean bed and room service. She wore a strapless gown
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and slippers of black velvet. Her bare insteps were as white as her young shoulders. The party seemed to have degenerated into a lot of sober eyes staring at her with nasty compassion from every corner, every cushion and ashtray, and even from the hills of the spring night framed in the open french window. Mrs. Carr, her hostess, repeated what a pity it was that Philip could not come or rather that Flora could not have induced
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him to come! I’ll drug him next time said Flora, rummaging all around her seat for her small formless vanity bag, a blind black puppy. Here it is, cried an anonymous girl, squatting quickly.
Mrs Carr’s nephew, Anthony Carr, and his wife Winny, were one of those easygoing, over-generous couples that positively crave to lend their flat to a friend, any friend, when they and their dog do not happen
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to need it. Flora spotted at once the alien creams in the bathroom and the open can of Fido’s Feast next to the naked cheese in the cluttered fridge. A brief set of instructions (pertaining to the superintend[e]nt and the charwoman) ended on: “Ring up my aunt Emily Carr,” which evidently had be[en] already done to lamentation in Heaven and laughter in Hell. The double bed was made but was unfresh inside. With comic fastidiousness Flora spread
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her fur coat over it before undressing and lying down.
Where was the damned valise that had been brought up earlier? In the vestibule closet. Had everything to be shaken out before the pair of morocco slippers could be located foetally folded in their zippered pouch? Hiding under the shaving kit. All the towels in the bathroom, whether pink or green, were of a thick, soggy-looking, spongy-like texture.
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Let us choose the smallest. On the way back the distal edge of the right slipper lost its grip and had to be pried at the grateful heel with a finger for shoeing-horn.
Oh hurry up, she said softly[.]
That first surrender of hers was a little sudden, if not downright unnerving. A pause for some light caresses, concealed embarrassment, feigned amusement, prefactory contemplation[.] She was
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an extravagantly slender girl. Her ribs showed. The conspicuous knobs of her hipbones framed a hollowed abdomen, so flat as to belie the notion of “belly”. Her exquisite bone structure immediately slipped into a novel—became in fact the secret structure of that novel, besides supporting a number of poems. The cup-sized breasts of that twenty-four year old impatient beauty seemed a dozen years younger than she, with those pale squinty nipples and firm form.
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Her painted eyelids were closed. A tear of no particular meaning gemmed the hard top of her cheek. Nobody could tell what went on in that little head[.] Waves of desire rippled there, a recent lover fell back in a swoon, hygienic doubts were raised and dismissed, contempt for everyone but herself advertised with a flush of warmth its constant presence, here it is, cried what’s her name squatting quickly. My darling, dushka moya (eyebrows
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went up, eyes opened and closed again, she didnt meet Russians often, this should be pondered.)
Masking her face, coating her side, pinaforing her stomack with kisses—all very acceptable while they remained dry.
Her frail, docile frame when turned over by hand revealed new marvels—the mobile omoplates of a child being tubbed, the incurvation of a ballerina’s spine, narrow nates
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of an ambiguous irresistable charm (nature’s beastliest bluff, said Paul de G watching a dour old don watching boys bathing)
Only by identifying her with an unwritten, half-written, rewritten difficult book could one hope to render at last what
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contemporary descriptions of intercourse so seldom convey, because newborn and thus generalized, in the sense of primitive organisms of art as opposed to the personal achievement of great English poets dealing with an evening in the country, a bit of sky in a river, the nostalgia of remote sounds—things utterly beyond the reach of Homer or Horace. Readers are directed to that book—on a very high shelf, in a very bad light—but
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already existing, as magic exists, and death, and as shall exist, from now on, the mouth she made automatically while using that towel to wipe her thighs after the promised withdrawal.
A copy of Glist’s dreadful “Glandscape” (receding ovals) adorned the wall. Vital and serene, according to philistine Flora. Auroral rumbles and bangs had begun jolting the cold misty city[.]
She consulted the onyx eye on her wrist. It was too tiny and not
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costly enough for its size to go right, she said (translating from Russian) and it was the first time in her stormy life that she knew anyone take of[f] his watch to make love. “But I’m sure it is sufficiently late to ring up another fellow (stretching her swift cruel arm toward the bedside telephone).”
She who mislaid everything dialled fluently a long number
“You were asleep? I’ve shattered your sleep? That’s what you
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deserve. Now listen carefully.” And with tigerish zest, monstrously magnifying a trivial tiff she had had with him whose pyjamas (the idiot subject of the tiff) were changing the while, in the spectrum of his surprise and distress, from heliotrope to a sickly gray, she dismissed the poor oaf for ever.
“That’s done,[”] she said, resolutely replacing the receiver. Was I game now for another round, she wanted to know.
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No? Not even a quickie? Well, tant pis. Try to find me some liquor in their kitchen, and then take me home.
The position of her head, its trustful poximity, its gratefully shouldered weight, the tickle of her hair, endured all through the drive; yet she was not asleep and with the greatest exactitude had the taxi stop to let her out at the corner of Heine street, not too far from, nor too close to, her
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house. This was an old villa backed by tall trees. In the shadows of a side alley a young man with a mackintosh over his white pyjamas was wringing his hands. The street lights were going out in alternate order, the odd numbers first. Along the pavement in front of the villa her obese husband, in a rumpled black suit and tartan booties with clasps, was walking a striped cat on an overlong leash. She made for the front door.
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Her husband followed, now carrying the cat. The scene might be called somewhat incongr[u]ous. The animal seemed naively fascinated by the snake trailing behind on the ground.
Not wi
shing to harness herself to futurity, she declined to discuss another rendez-vous. To prod her slightly, a messenger called at her domicile three days later[.] He brought from the favorite florist of fashionable girls a banal bevy
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of bird-of-paradise flowers. Cora, the mulatto chambermaid, who let him in, surveyed the shabby courier, his comic cap, his wan countenance with it[s] three days growth of blond beard, and was about to raise her chin and embrace his rustling load but he said “No, I’ve been ordered to give this to Madame herself”. “You French?”, asked scornful Cora (the whole scene was pretty artificial in a fishy theatrical way). He shook his head—and here
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Madame appeared from the breakfast room. First of all she dismissed Cora with the strelitzias (hateful blooms, regalized bananas, really).
“Look,” she said to the beaming bum, “if you ever repeat this idiotic performance, I will never see you again. I swear I won’t! In fact, I have a great mind—” He flattened her against the wall between his outstretched arms; Flora ducked, and freed herself, and showed him the door; but the telephone was already ringing ecstatically when he reached his lodgings.
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Her grandfather, the painter Lev Linde, emigrated in 1920 from Moscow to New York with his wife Eva and his son Adam. He also brought over a large collection of his landscapes, either unsold or loaned to him by kind friends and ignorant institutions—pictures that were said to be the glory of Russia, the pride of the people. How many times art albums had reproduced those meticulous masterpieces—clearings in pine woods, with a bear cub or two, and brown brooks between thawing snow-banks, and the vastness of purple heaths!
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Native “decadents” had been calling them “calendar tripe” for the last three decades; yet Linde had always had an army of stout admirers; mighty few of them turned up at his exhibitions in America. Very soon a number of unconsolable oils found themselves being shipped back to Moscow, while another batch moped in rented flats before trouping up to the attic or creeping down to the marketstall.
What can be sadder than a discouraged
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artist dying not from his own commonplace maladies, but from the cancer of oblivion invading his once famous pictures such as “April in Yalta” or “The Old Bridge[”]? Let us not dwell on the choice of the wrong place of exile. Let us not linger at that pityful bedside.
His son Adam Lind (he dropped the last letter on the tacite advice of a misprint in a catalogue) was more successful. By the age of thirty he had become a fashionable photographer. He married the ballerina Lanskaya,
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a delightful dancer, though with something fragile and gauche about her that kept her teetering on a narrow ledge between benevolent recognition and the rave reviews of nonentities. Her first lovers belonged mostly to the Union of Property Movers, simple fellows of Polish extraction; but Flora was probably Adam’s daughter. Three years after her birth Adam discovered that the boy he loved had strangled another, unattainable, boy
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whom he loved even more. Adam Lind had always had an inclination for trick photography and this time, before shooting himself in a Montecarlo hotel (on the night, sad to relate, of his wife’s very real success in Piker’s “Narcisse et Narcette”), he geared and focussed his camera in a corner of the drawing room so as to record the event from different angles. These automatic pictures of his last moments and of a table’s lion-paws did not come out to[o] well; but his widow
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easily sold them for the price of a flat in Paris to the local magazine Pitch which specialized in soccer and diabolical faits-divers.
With her little daughter, an English governess, a Russian nanny, and a cosmopolitan lover, she settled in Paris, then moved to Florence, sojourned in London and returned to France. Her art was not strong enough to survive the loss of good looks as well as a certain worsening flaw in her pretty but too prominent right omoplate, and by the
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age of forty or so we find her reduced to giving dancing lessons at a not quite first-rate school in Paris.
Her glamorous lovers were now replaced by an elderly but still vigorous Englishm[a]n who sought abroad a refuge from taxes and a convenient place to conduct his not quite legal transactions in the traffic of wines. He was what used to be termed a charmeur. His name, no doubt assumed, was Hubert H. Hubert.
Flora, a lovely child, as she said
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herself with a slight shake (dreamy? Incredulous?) of her head every time she spoke of those prepubescent years, had a gray home life marked by ill health, and boredom. Only some very expensive, super-Oriental doctor with long gentle fingers could have analyzed her nightly dreams of erotic torture in so called “labs”, major and minor laboratories with red curtains. She did not remember her father and rather disliked her mother. She was often alone in
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the house with Mr. Hubert, who constantly “prowled” (rodait) around her, humming a monotonous tune and sort of mesmerising her, envelopping her, so to speak in some sticky invisible substance and coming closer and closer no matter what way she turned. For instance she did not dare to let her arms hang aimlessly lest her knuckles came into contact with some horrible part of that kindly but smelly and “pushing” old male.
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He told her stories about his sad life, he told her about his daughter who was just like her, same age—twelve—, same eyelashes—darker than the dark blue of the iris, same hair, blondish or rather palomino, and so silky—if he could be allowed to stroke it, or l’effleurer des levres, like this, thats all, thank you. Poor Daisy had been crushed to death by a backing lorry on a country road—short cut home from school—
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through a muddy construction site—abominable tragedy—her mother died of a broken heart. Mr Hubert sat on Flora’s bed and nodded his bald head acknowledging all the offences of life, and wiped his eyes with a violet handkerchief which turned orange—a little parlor trick—when he stuffed it back into his heart-pocket, and continued to nod as he tried to adjust his thick outsole to a pattern of the carpet. He looked now like a not too successful conjuror paid to tell
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fairytales to a sleepy child at bedtime, but he sat a little too close. Flora wore a nightgown with short sleeves copied from that of the Montglas de Sancerre girl, a very sweet and depraved schoolmate, who taught her where to kick an enterprising gentleman.
A week or so later Flora happened to be laid up with a chest cold. The mercury went up to 38˚ in the late afternoon and she complained of a dull buzz
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in the temples. Mrs Lind cursed the old housemaid for buying asparagus instead of Asperin and hurried to the pharmacy herself. Mr Hubert had brought his pet a thoughtful present: a miniature chess set (“she knew the moves”) with tickly-looking little holes bored in the squares to admit and grip the red and white pieces; the pin-sized pawns penetrated easily, but the slightly larger noblemen had to be forced in with an
ennervating joggle. The pharmacy was perhaps closed
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and she had to go to the one next to the church or else she had met some friend of hers in the street and would never return. A fourfold smell—tobacco, sweat, rum and bad teeth—emanated from poor old harmless Mr Hubert, it was all very pathetic. His fat porous nose with red nostrils full of hair nearly touched her bare throat as he helped to prop the pillows behind her shoulders, and the muddy road was again, was for ever a short cut between her and school, between school and death,
