Vladimir Nabokov. First Love



1

     In the early years of this century,  a  travel  agency  on
Nevski Avenue displayed a three-foot-long model of an oak-brown
international  sleeping  car.  In  delicate  verisimilitude  it
completely outranked the painted tin of  my  clockwork  trains.
Unfortunately  it was not for sale. One could make out the blue
upholstery  inside,  the  embossed  leather   lining   of   the
compartment   walls,  their  polished  panels,  inset  mirrors,
tulip-shaped  reading  lamps,  and  other  maddening   details.
Spacious  windows  alternated  with  narrower  ones,  single or
geminate, and some of these were of frosted glass. In a few  of
the compartments, the beds had been made.
     The  then  great  and glamorous Nord Express (it was never
the  same  after  World  War  I),  consisting  solely  of  such
international  cars and running but twice a week, connected St.
Petersburg with Paris. I would have said: directly with  Paris,
had  passengers  not been obliged to change from one train to a
superficially  similar  one  at   the   Russo-German   frontier
(Verzhbolovo-Eydtkuhnen),  where  the  ample  and  lazy Russian
sixty-and-a-half-inch    gauge    was    replaced    by     the
fifty-six-and-a-half-inch standard of Europe and coal succeeded
birch logs.
     In the far end of my mind I can unravel, I think, at least
five such  journeys  to  Paris, with the Riviera or Biarritz as
their ultimate destination. In 1909, the year I now single out,
my two small sisters had been left  at  home  with  nurses  and
aunts.  Wearing  gloves  and  a  traveling  cap,  my father sat
reading a book in the compartment he shared with our tutor.  My
brother and I were separated from them by a washroom. My mother
and  her  maid occupied a compartment adjacent to ours. The odd
one of our party, my  father's  valet,  Osip  (whom,  a  decade
later,  the  pedantic  Bolsheviks  were  to  shoot,  because he
appropriated our bicycles instead of turning them over  to  the
nation), had a stranger for companion.
     In  April  of that year, Peary had reached the North Pole.
In May, Chaliapin had sung  in  Paris.  In  June,  bothered  by
rumors  of  new  and  better  zeppelins,  the United States War
Department had told reporters of plans for an aerial  navy.  In
July,  Bleriot  had  flown  from Calais to Dover (with a little
additional loop when he lost his bearings). It was late  August
now.  The  firs and marshes of northwestern Russia sped by, and
on the following day  gave  way  to  German  pine  barrens  and
heather.
     At a collapsible table, my mother and I played a card game
called  durachki. Although it was still broad daylight,
our cards, a glass, and on a different plane  the  locks  of  a
suitcase  were  reflected  in  the  window.  Through forest and
field, and in sudden ravines,  and  among  scuttling  cottages,
those discarnate gamblers kept steadily playing on for steadily
sparkling stakes.
     "Ne  budet-li,  t  ved'  ustal?" ("Haven't you had
enough, aren't you tired? '") my mother  would  ask,  and  then
would  be lost in thought as she slowly shuffled the cards. The
door of the compartment was open and I could see  the  corridor
window,  where  the  wires--  six thin black wires-- were doing
their  best  to  slant  up,  to  ascend  skyward,  despite  the
lightning blows dealt them by one telegraph pole after another;
but just as all six, in a triumphant swoop of pathetic elation,
were  about  to  reach  the  top  of the window, a particularly
vicious blow would bring them down, as low  as  they  had  ever
been, and they would have to start all over again.
     When,  on  such  journeys  as these, the train changed its
pace to a dignified amble and all but  grazed  housefronts  and
shop  signs,  as we passed through some big German town, I used
to feel a twofold excitement, which terminal stations could not
provide. I saw a city with its toylike trams, linden trees, and
brick walls enter the compartment, hobnob with the mirrors, and
fill to the  brim  the  windows  on  the  corridor  side.  This
informal  contact  between  train  and city was one part of the
thrill. The other was putting  myself  in  the  place  of  some
passerby  who, I imagined, was moved as I would be moved myself
to  see  the  long,   romantic,   auburn   cars,   with   their
intervestibular  connecting  curtains as black as bat wings and
their metal lettering copper-bright in the low sun, unhurriedly
negotiate an iron bridge across an  everyday  thoroughfare  and
then  turn,  with  all  windows  suddenly ablaze, around a last
block of houses.
     There were drawbacks to those optical  amalgamations.  The
wide-windowed  dining car, a vista of chaste bottles of mineral
water, miterfolded napkins, and  dummy  chocolate  bars  (whose
wrappers-- Cailler, Kohler, and so forth-- enclosed nothing but
wood)  would  be  perceived  at  first as a cool haven beyond a
consecution  of  reeling  blue  corridors;  but  as  the   meal
progressed  toward  its  fatal  last  course,  one  would  keep
catching the car in  the  act  of  being  recklessly  sheathed,
lurching waiters and all, in the landscape, while the landscape
itself  went  through  a  complex system of motion, the daytime
moon stubbornly keeping abreast of  one's  plate,  the  distant
meadows   opening  fanwise,  the  near  trees  sweeping  up  on
invisible swings toward the track, a parallel rail line all  at
once  committing  suicide by anastomosis, a bank of nictitating
grass rising, rising, rising, until the little witness of mixed
velocities was made to disgorge his portion of omelette  aux
confitures de fraises. 
     It   was   at   night,   however,  that  the  Compagnie
Internationale  des   Wagons-Lits   et   des   Grands   Express
Europens  lived  up  to the magic of its name. From my bed
under my brother's bunk (Was he asleep? Was he there at  all?),
in  the  semidarkness of our compartment, I watched things, and
parts  of  things,  and  shadows,  and  sections   of   shadows
cautiously  moving  about  and  getting  nowhere.  The woodwork
gently creaked and crackled. Near the  door  that  led  to  the
toilet,  a  dim  garment on a peg and, higher up, the tassel of
the blue, bivalved night-light swung rhythmically. It was  hard
to  correlate  those  halting  approaches, that hooded stealth,
with the headlong rush of  the  outside  night,  which  I  knew
was rushing by, spark-streaked, illegible.
     I  would  put  myself  to  sleep  by  the  simple  act  of
identifying myself: with the engine driver. A sense  of  drowsy
well-being  invaded my veins as soon as I had everything nicely
arranged-- the carefree passengers in their rooms enjoying  the
ride  I  was  giving them, smoking, exchanging, knowing smiles,
nodding, dozing; the waiters and cooks and train guards (whom I
had to place somewhere) carousing in  the  diner;  and  myself,
goggled  and  begrimed,  peering  out  of the engine cab at the
tapering track, at the ruby  or  emerald  point  in  the  black
distance.  And then, in my sleep, I would see something totally
different-- a glass marble rolling under a grand piano or a toy
engine lying on its side with its wheels still working gamely.
     A change in the speed of the train  sometimes  interrupted
the current of my sleep. Slow lights were stalking by; each, in
passing,  investigated  the  same  chink,  and  then a luminous
compass measured the shadows. Presently, the train stopped with
a  long-drawn  Westinghousian  sigh.  Something  (my  brother's
spectacles,  as  it  proved  next  day) fell from above. It was
marvelously exciting to move to the foot  of  one's  bed,  with
part  of  the bedclothes following, in order to undo cautiously
the catch of the window shade, which could  be  made  to  slide
only  halfway  up,  impeded  as it was by the edge of the upper
berth.
     Like moons around Jupiter, pale  moths  revolved  about  a
lone   lamp.  A  dismembered  newspaper  stirred  on  a  bench.
Somewhere  on  the  train  one  could  hear   muffled   voices,
somebody's  comfortable  cough.  There was nothing particularly
interesting in the portion of station platform before  me,  and
still I could not tear myself away from it until it departed of
its own accord.
     Next  morning, wet fields with misshapen willows along the
radius of a ditch or a row of  poplars  afar,  traversed  by  a
horizontal  band  of  milky-white mist, told one that the train
was spinning through Belgium. It reached Paris  at  four  p.m.;
and  even  if  the stay was only an overnight one, I had always
time to  purchase  something--  say,  a  little  brass  Tour
Eiffel, rather roughly coated with silver paint-- before we
boarded at noon on the following day the Sud Express, which, on
its  way  to  Madrid,  dropped  us  around  ten  p.m. at the La
Ngresse station of Biarritz, a  few  miles  from  the  Spanish
frontier.

2

     Biarritz  still retained its quiddity in those days. Dusty
blackberry bushes and weedy terrains   vendre  bordered
the  road  that  led  to our villa. The Cariton was still being
built. Some thirty-six years had  to  elapse  before  Brigadier
General  Samuel  McCroskey  would occupy the royal suite of the
Hotel du Palais, which stands on the site of a  former  palace,
where,  in  the  sixties,  that incredibly agile medium, Daniel
Home, is said to have been caught stroking with his  bare  foot
(in  imitation  of  a  ghost  hand)  the kind, trustful face of
Empress Eugenic. On the promenade near the Casino,  an  elderly
flower  girl,  with carbon eyebrows and a painted smile, nimbly
slipped the plump torus of a carnation into the  buttonhole  of
an  intercepted  stroller whose left jowl accentuated its royal
fold as he glanced down sideways at the coy  insertion  of  the
flower.
     Along  the  back line of the plage, various seaside
chairs  and  stools  supported  the  parents  of   straw-hatted
children who were playing in front on the sand. I could be seen
on  my  knees  trying  to set a found comb aflame by means of a
magnifying glass. Men sported white trousers that to the eye of
today would look  as  if  they  had  comically  shrunk  in  the
washing;  ladies wore, that particular season, light coats with
silk-faced lapels, hats with big crowns and wide  brims,  dense
embroidered white veils, frill-fronted blouses, frills at their
wrists, frills on their parasols. The breeze salted one's lips.
At  a  tremendous  pace  a  stray  golden-orange butterfly came
dashing across the palpitating plage. 
     Additional movement and sound  were  provided  by  vendors
hawking cacahutes, sugared violets, pistachio ice cream
of  a heavenly green, cachou pellets, and huge convex pieces of
dry, gritty, waferlike stuff that came from a red barrel.  With
a  distinctness that no later superpositions have dimmed, I see
that waffleman stomp along through deep mealy  sand,  with  the
heavy cask on his bent back. When called, he would sling it off
his  shoulder by a twist of its strap, bang it down on the sand
in a Tower of Pisa position, wipe his face with his sleeve, and
proceed to manipulate a kind of arrow-and-dial arrangement with
numbers on the lid of the cask. The arrow  rasped  and  whirred
around.  Luck  was supposed to fix the size of a sou's worth of
wafer. The bigger the piece, the more I was sorry for him.
     The process of bathing took place on another part  of  the
beach.  Professional  bathers,  burly  Basques in black bathing
suits, were there to help ladies and children enjoy the terrors
of the surf Such a baigneur would place  you  with  your
back  to  the  incoming  wave  and  hold you by the hand as the
rising, rotating mass of foamy, green water violently descended
upon you from behind, knocking  you  off  your  feet  with  one
mighty wallop. After a dozen of these tumbles, the baigneur,
glistening  like a seal, would lead his panting, shivering,
moistly snuffling charge landward, to the flat foreshore, where
an unforgettable old woman with gray hairs on her chin promptly
chose a bathing robe from several hanging on a clothesline.  In
the  security  of  a  little  cabin, one would be helped by yet
another attendant to peel off one's soggy,  sand-heavy  bathing
suit.  It would plop onto the boards, and, still shivering, one
would step out  of  it  and  trample  on  its  bluish,  diffuse
stripes.  The cabin smelled of pine. The attendant, a hunchback
with beaming wrinkles, brought a basin of  steaming-hot  water,
in  which one immersed one's feet. From him I learned, and have
preserved ever since  in  a  glass  cell  of  my  memory,  that
"butterfly" in the Basque language is misericoletea-- or
at  least  it sounded so (among the seven words I have found in
dictionaries the closest approach is micheletea). 

3

     On the browner and wetter part of the  plage, that
part  which  at  low  tide  yielded the best mud for castles, I
found myself digging, one day,  side  by  side  with  a  little
French girl called Colette.
     She  would  be  ten  in November, I had been ten in April.
Attention was drawn to a jagged bit of violet mussel shell upon
which she  had  stepped  with  the  bare  sole  of  her  narrow
long-toed foot. No, I was not English. Her greenish eyes seemed
flecked  with  the  overflow  of  the freckles that covered her
sharp-featured face. She  wore  what  might  now  be  termed  a
playsuit,  consisting  of  a blue jersey with rolled-up sleeves
and blue knitted shorts. I had taken her at first for a boy and
then had been puzzled by the bracelet on her thin wrist and the
corkscrew brown curls dangling from under her sailor cap.
     She spoke in birdlike  bursts  of  rapid  twitter,  mixing
governess English and Parisian French. Two years before, on the
same  plage, I  had  been  much attached to the lovely,
suntanned little daughter of a Serbian physician;  but  when  I
met  Colette,  I  knew  at  once  that this was the real thing.
Colette seemed to me so much stranger than all my other  chance
playmates  at Biarritz! I somehow acquired the feeling that she
was less happy than I, less loved. A bruise  on  her  delicate,
downy  forearm  gave  rise to awful conjectures. "He pinches as
bad as my mummy," she said,  speaking  of  a  crab.  I  evolved
various  schemes to save her from her parents, who were "des
bourgeois lie Paris" as I heard  somebody  tell  my  mother
with  a  slight  shrug.  I  interpreted  the  disdain in my own
fashion, as I knew that those people had come all the way  from
Paris   in   their  blue-and-yellow  limousine  (a  fashionable
adventure in those days) but had drably sent Colette  with  her
dog  and  governess  by  an ordinary coach train. The dog was a
female fox terrier with bells on her collar and a  most  waggly
behind.  From sheer exuberance, she would lap up salt water out
of Colette's toy pail. I remember the sail, the sunset, and the
lighthouse pictured on that pail, but I cannot recall the dog's
name, and this bothers me.
     During the two months of our stay at Biarritz, my  passion
for Colette all but surpassed my passion for butterflies. Since
my  parents  were  not keen to meet hers, I saw her only on the
beach; but I thought of her constantly. If I  noticed  she  had
been  crying,  I  felt a surge of helpless anguish that brought
tears to my own eyes. I could not destroy the  mosquitoes  that
had  left  their bites on her frail neck, but I could, and did,
have a successful fistfight with a red-haired boy who had  been
rude  to  her. She used to give me warm handfuls of hard candy.
One day, as we were  bending  together  over  a  starfish,  and
Colette's  ringlets  were  tickling my ear, she suddenly turned
toward me and kissed me on the cheek. So great was  my  emotion
that all I could think of saying was, "You little monkey."
     I  had  a  gold  coin  that  I  assumed  would pay for our
elopement. Where did I want to take her?  Spain?  America?  The
mountains    above    Pau?" "L-bas,   l-bas,   dans   la
montagne," as I had heard Carmen sing  at  the  opera.  One
strange  night, I lay awake, listening to the recurrent thud of
the ocean and planning our flight. The ocean seemed to rise and
grope in the darkness and then heavily fall on its face.
     Of our actual getaway, I have little to report. My  memory
retains  a  glimpse  of  her  obediently  putting on rope-soled
canvas shoes, on the lee side  of  a  flapping  tent,  while  I
stuffed  a  folding  butterfly  net into a brown paper bag. The
next glimpse is of our evading pursuit by entering a pitch-dark
cinema near the Casino (which, of course, was absolutely out of
bounds). There we sat, holding hands across the dog, which  now
and  then  gently  jingled  in  Colette's lap, and were shown a
jerky, drizzly, but highly exciting bullfight at San Sbastian.
My final glimpse is of myself being led along the promenade  by
my  tutor.  His long legs move with a kind of ominous briskness
and I can see the muscles of his grimly set jaw  working  under
the  tight  skin.  My  bespectacled brother, aged nine, whom he
happens to hold with his other hand, keeps trotting out forward
to peer at me with awed curiosity, like a little owl.
     Among the trivial souvenirs acquired  at  Biarritz  before
leaving,  my favorite was not the small bull of black stone and
not the sonorous sea-shell but something which now seems almost
symbolic-- a meerschaum  penholder  with  a  tiny  peephole  of
crystal  in  its  ornamental  part.  One held it quite close to
one's eye, screwing up the other, and when one had got  rid  of
the shimmer of one's own lashes, a miraculous photographic view
of  the  bay  and  of the line of cliffs ending in a lighthouse
could be seen inside.
     And  now  a  delightful  thing  happens.  The  process  of
re-creating  that  penholder  and  the  microcosm in its eyelet
stimulates my memory to a last effort. I try  again  to  recall
the  name  of  Colette's  dog--  and,  sure enough, along those
remote beaches, over the glossy  evening  sands  of  the  past,
where each footprint slowly fills up with sunset water, here it
comes,  here  it  comes,  echoing  and vibrating: Floss, Floss,
Floss!
     Colette was back in Paris by the time we stopped there for
a day before continuing our homeward journey; and there,  in  a
fawn  park  under  a  cold  blue sky, I saw her (by arrangement
between our mentors, I believe) for the last time. She  carried
a hoop and a short stick to drive it with, and everything about
her  was extremely proper and stylish in an autumnal, Parisian,
tenue-de-ville-pour-fillettes way.  She  took  from  her
governess  and  slipped  into  my  brother's  hand  a  farewell
present, a box of sugar-coated almonds, meant, I  knew,  solely
for  me;  and  instantly  she was off, tap-tapping her glinting
hoop through light and shade,  around  and  around  a  fountain
choked  with  dead leaves near which I stood. The leaves mingle
in my memory with the leather of  her  shoes  and  gloves,  and
there  was,  I  remember,  some detail in her attire (perhaps a
ribbon on her Scottish cap, or the pattern  of  her  stockings)
that  reminded me then of the rainbow spiral in a glass marble.
I still seem to  be  holding  that  wisp  of  iridescence,  not
knowing  exactly  where to fit it, while she runs with her hoop
ever faster around me and finally dissolves among  the  slender
shadows  cast  on the graveled path by the interlaced arches of
its low looped fence.
Last-modified: Thu, 22-Jan-98 05:58:44 GMT
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