About LOLITA, see here and here
TLS July 23, 2004 n.º 5286
Lolita
A tale by Heinz von Lichberg,
translated by Carolyn Kunin
Earlier this year, admirers of Vladimir Nabokov and scholars of modern
literature were startled by the revelation that the Lolita of Nabokov’s great
novel was not the first fictional nymphet of that name to have enchanted an
older lover: her namesake had appeared in an eighteen-page tale, also called
“Lolita”, by the obscure German author Heinz von Lichberg, published in 1916.
(See the TLS, April 2, and correspondence that followed.) We now publish, for
the first time in English, von Lichber’s story, translated by Carolyn Kunin.
During the
course of conversation someone mentioned the name of E.T.A. Hoffmann and those
musical tales. The Countess Beata, our young hostess, put down the orange she
was about to peel and said to the young poet "Would you believe it – his stories
-- and I only seldom read them -- can keep me awake all night long? My rational
mind tells me it is fantasy, and yet . . ."
"Perhaps it is not mere fantasy, my dear countess."
The diplomat gave a good natured chuckle "You don't think such outlandish things
actually happened to Hoffmann, do you?"
"But that is exactly what I do think," countered the poet. "They did happen to
him. Of course I don't mean that he saw them with his own eyes. But because he
was a poet, he experienced everything that he wrote psychically. Perhaps I
should say that he only wrote of things that he had encountered in his soul. In
fact I would say that this is what differentiates the poet from the writer. The
poet's soul experiences the fantastic as its reality."
Silence fell over the beautiful countess's little empire style room.
"You are completely right," said the professor, a sensitive man of youthful
appearance. "Will you allow me to tell you a story that I have carried with me
for many years? To this day I am not certain if it actually happened to me or if
I dreamed it. It won't take long."
"Please do tell us," said our hostess.
The professor began his tale:
"Toward the end of the last century, more than twenty years ago, I was studying
in a very old town in southern Germany. I lived, as it pleased me, in a narrow
street full of age-old houses. Not far from my rooms was a tavern -- one of the
oddest I have ever seen. I went there often in late autumn afternoons when I
could take a break from my work between daytime and nightfall.
"There was only one room, rather rickety with rafters sunk in gloom. Near the
window facing the street stood two well scoured tables and a few rough-hewn
chairs. Back in a dark corner where the tile stove stood there was a third
little table and two remarkably colorful chintz armchairs. Over one of them was
draped a black silk mantilla, the kind women wear in Spain on holy days. I never
saw any other customers there except for myself & I still sometimes wonder if it
really was a commercial establishment. Sometimes upon the stroke of seven the
door would be locked and the shutters closed. I never asked about this, but my
curiosity had already fastened itself on the proprietors of this odd
establishment.
"Their names were Aloys and Anton Walzer and they gave an impression of great
age. They were unusually tall and lanky. They were both bald but sported full
scraggly reddish-grey beards. I never saw them wear anything but yellow britches
and black jackets that hung loosely on them. They must have been twins for it
was impossible to tell them apart, and it took quite awhile before I was able to
distinguish Anton's slightly deeper voice.
"As soon as I entered the tavern a glass of marvelous sweet spanish wine would
be placed on the table near the stove for me with a friendly grin. Aloys would
take the easy chair next to me while Anton would stand leaning with his back to
the window. They puffed away on their aromatic pipes, the kind you see in old
Flemish pictures. Somehow I got the feeling that they were waiting for
something.
"I would almost say that the impression they made on me was grotesque, but that
wouldn't be quite the right word because the grotesque always has something of
the comic about it. But the impression made on me by the Walzer brothers was
inexpressibly sad and troubled -- almost tragic. There was no indication of a
feminine presence in the place and I certainly never saw a woman there.
"As winter came on with its early dusks and long nights, I found my visits to
the smoky tavern becoming almost a daily necessity. As the proprietors came to
know me better, now and then they would talk a little with me. But they seemed
to have lost their sense of time and always spoke of things that happened in
times long past and their voices made the same dry, rattling sound.
"I told them of my travels and whenever I mentioned southern climes, a
disturbing leery look would come into their eyes that were usually so sorrowful
and expectant. They seemed almost to be living in a kind of memory. I could
never leave without having the feeling that something dreadful was about to
happen as soon as I left, but I forced myself to laugh at such thoughts.
"One evening I was passing by the place rather late and from behind the
shuttered windows there came such a lovely sound of violin music that I stood
there in the street entranced. The next day when I asked the brothers about it,
they only smiled and nodded.
"Several weeks passed, and again I was passing by the tavern late at night, even
later than the last time. From behind the shutters I heard a desolate cry and
then such an extremity of quarreling and cursing that I was frightened out of my
wits. There could be no doubt, the shouts that came from within the old tavern
were not those of the two weak old men that I knew -- these voices were deep,
young and bellowing with rage. It sounded like two strong young men who were
having a dreadful row. The shouts became even louder until they reached a pitch
of frenzy punctuated by the blows of a fist crashing on a table.
"Then I heard the silvery bright laugh of a woman's voice, and immediately the
enraged voices swelled into an insane bawling. I stood frozen in my tracks. It
never occurred to me to open the door and see what was going on.
"The woman's voice screamed, just a single cry, but in such fearful anguish,
that I have never been able to forget it. Then everything was still.
"The next day when I went into the tavern, Anton placed my glass of wine on the
table with his usual friendly grin, and everything was so unchanged that I began
to wonder if the whole episode hadn't been a dream, and I was too ashamed to
ask.
"One afternoon towards the end of Winter I told the brothers that I wouldn't be
coming anymore as I was setting out for Spain on the following day.
"This news had a strange effect on Anton and Aloys, and their hard weathered
faces blanched for a moment and two pairs of eyes sought the floor. They went
out and I could hear them whispering together.
"After a while Anton returned and asked me in some excitement if by chance I
would be going to Alicante and when I said yes, he turned and almost skipped
back to his brother. Later they both returned, behaving as if nothing had
happened.
"While I was packing I forgot about the brothers, but that night I had a
confused and complicated dream that had something to do with a crooked little
salmon-colored house in a derelict street in the harbor of Alicante.
"On my way to the train station the next day, I was surprised to see that in
bright daylight Anton and Aloys had their shutters closed up tight.
"During the trip I soon forgot all about my studies and little adventures in
southern Germany. Traveling makes it easy to forget.
"I spent several days in Paris to visit a few friends and see the Louvre. One
evening I returned tired from a cabaret in the Latin Quarter, where I went to
hear a remarkable poet, who one of my friends had heard of. He turned out to be
an ancient blind bard who sang beautifully with a simple, sorrowful voice. He
had a lovely daughter who accompanied him skillfully on the violin.
"Later she played a solo piece, and I immediately recognized the melody as the
one that I had heard coming from the Walzer brothers' house. I later determined
it was a gavotte by Lully, from the time of Louis XIV. "Some days later I
traveled on toward Lisbon and in early February I passed through Madrid on my
way to Alicante.
"I have always had a weak spot in my heart for the South in general, and for
Spain first and foremost. You feel almost powerful there, and every experience
seems heightened. The sun makes life hot and unfettered. The people, like their
wine, are strong, fiery and sweet, but excitable and dangerous when aroused.
Then, too, I believed that the Southerners had a little of Don Quixote in their
blood.
"Actually, I didn't have anything in particular to do in Alicante, but I passed
several of those inexpressibly sweet nights there, when the moon rises over the
castle of Santa Barbara and throws the harbor into an uncanny chiaroscura. On
such nights the German heart beats with a lyrical romanticism.
"My first sight of the town brought memories of the Walzer brothers and their
strange establishment flooding back to me. I know it might be hindsight or
imagination, but it does seem to me that my mule turned very unwillingly at the
Algorfe Palace as I drove down toward the harbor. In one of the old streets
where mostly sailors live I found the place I sought.
"Severo Ancosta's inn was a crooked little building with large balconies, stuck
in between other similar establishments. The innkeeper, friendly and chatty,
gave me a room with a wonderful view of the sea, and I looked forward to
enjoying a week of undisturbed beauty. That is until the next day when I saw
Severo's daughter, Lolita.
"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 was full and dark. But there was something more than her beauty that
attracted me -- there was a strange mystery about her that troubled me often on
those moonlit nights.
“Sometimes when she came into my room to tidy up, she would pause in her work,
her red laughing smile compressed into a narrow line, and she would stare with
fear into the sunlight. Her bearing was that of a great tragedienne's Iphigenia.
I would take the child in my arms and feel an imperative need to protect 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 break 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, one time, the unforgettable reality and dreamlike unreality 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,
leaned her head on my chest, and began sobbing. There were tears in her eyes,
but her sweet mouth was laughing.
"Then the miracle happened. 'You are so strong,' she whispered.
"Days and nights came and went . . . my beauty kept her secret in a song of
imperturbable serenity.
"The days turned into weeks and I realized that it was time to continue my
travels. Not that any duty called me, but Lolita's immense and dangerous love
had begun to frighten me. When I told her this she gave me an indescribable look
and nodded silently. Suddenly she seized my hand and bit me as hard as she
could. Twenty-five years have not erased the marks of love she left on my hand.
"By the time I was able to speak Lolita had disappeared into the house. I only
saw her one more time.
"That evening I spoke seriously with Severo about his daughter. ‘Come, sir,’ he
said, ‘I have something to show you that will explain everything.’ He lead me
into a room that was separated from my own by a door. I stood in amazement.
"In that plain room stood only a small table and three armchairs. But they were
the same, or nearly the same, as the chairs in the Walzer brothers' tavern. And
I realized instantly that it had been Severo Ancosta's house that I had dreamed
of on the eve of my trip.
"There was a drawing of Lolita on the wall, which was so perfect that I went up
to examine it more closely.
" ‘You think that's a picture of Lolita,' laughed Severo, 'but that is Lola, the
grandmother of Lolita's great-grandmother. It's a hundred years since she was
strangled during a fight between her two lovers.'
"We sat down and Severo in his genial manner told this story. He told me of
Lola, who was the most beautiful woman of her time in the town, so beautiful
that men died for love of her. Shortly after giving birth to a daughter, she was
murdered by two of her lovers, whom she had driven to madness.
" ’And since that time a curse lies on the family. The women all give birth to a
daughter, and winthin weeks of giving birth, they always go mad. And they were
all beautiful -- as beautiful as Lolita.’
" ’My wife died that way,’ he whispered, serious now, ‘and my daughter will die
the same way.'
"I could hardly think of anything to say to comfort him, as I myself was
overcome with fear for my little Lolita.
“That evening when I went to my room I found a small red flower that I could not
identify on my pillow. Lolita's farewell present, I thought and picked it up.
Only then did I see that the flower was white, the red was Lolita's blood. Such
was her love.
"That night I couldn't sleep. A thousand dreams pursued me. Then suddenly, it
must have been close to midnight, I saw something frightful. The door to the
next room was open, and sitting at the table in the middle of the room were
three people. To the right and left were two strong young blond fellows and
between them sat Lolita. No, probably not Lolita but Lola -- or maybe it really
was Lolita?
"On the table were glasses of dark red wine. The girl laughed out loud,
uninhibitedly, and there was an insolence around her mouth. The two men picked
up violins and began to play. I felt the blood in my veins pulse faster -- I
recognized the melody -- the gavotte from the days of the Sun King. As the tune
ended, the woman drank down her glass to the bottom and let out another bright
silvery laugh.
"The young man who sat facing me lay down his violin on the table. ‘Now, tell
us, which of us will you choose?’
"She laughed, ‘the handsomest -- but you are both so handsome. You have a cold
foreign beauty that we are not used to here.'
"Then the other one shouted even louder, 'Him or me, tell us, woman, or by God .
. .'
" 'You both love me,' she said . ‘If your love is so great, then fight for me
and I will ask the blessed Virgin to send me a sign to show which of you loves
me most. Are you willing?’
" 'Yes,’ agreed the men and glared at each other.
" 'I will love the one who is strongest.’
" 'So they took off their jackets and their muscles swelled. But they were
realized they were equally strong.
" ’I will love whoever is tallest.’ Their eyes flashed.
"And the men seemed to grow taller and taller, their necks lengthened and
thickened, and their sleeves burst right down to the elbows. Their faces became
so ugly and distorted, that I feared their bones would break. But not by so much
as a hair was one larger than the other.
"Their fists came crashing down onto the table, and the violins jumped and then
came a godforsaken cursing.
" ’I will love the eldest.’
"The hair fell from their heads, deep furrows spread across their faces, their
hands trembled with weakness and their knees shook as they tried with great
fatigue to raise themselves to their full height. Their poisonous glances became
feeble and the roaring cries of rage turned to croaking.
" ’By God, woman,’ howled one of them, ‘speak once more or you will go to hell,
you and your thrice-accursed beauty.’
"She fell forward laughing onto the table, and cried with streaming eyes, ‘I
will love, yes, I will love the one who has the longest and ugliest beard!’
"Long red hair shot out of the men's faces, and they emitted insane animal cries
of rage and despair. With upraised fists they faced each other. Then the woman
tried to run away.
‘But in a moment the two of them fell on her and she was strangled between their
long, bony fingers.
"I was unable to move a muscle, my spine turned to ice and I forced my eyes
shut. When I opened them again I saw that the two men in the next room, gazing
down on the result of their rage were Anton and Aloys Walzer. I fainted dead
away.
"When I came to the sun was already streaming into my room, and the door to the
next room was shut. I rushed to opened it and found everything just as it had
been before. But I remember thinking that the fine layer of dust I had seen
before on the furniture was gone. And I could smell the faintest hint of wine in
the air.
"A few hours later I went outside into the street and found Severo pale and in
distress coming toward me. There were tears in his eyes.
" ’Lolita died last night,’ he said softly.
"I don’t know how to explain what those words did to me, but if I could it would
be a sacrilege to speak of it. My beloved little Lolita lay in her narrow bed,
her eyes wide open. Her tears had collected on her lower lip and her fragrant
blond hair lay in confusion.
"I don't know the manner of her death. In my fathomless dismay I forgot to ask.
There was a little cut on the brown left arm -- but that surely did not kill
her. She did that to turn a white flower red -- for me.
"I shut her tender eyes and hid my head in her cool hand -- I don't know for how
long.
"Eventually Severo came in and reminded me that the steamship that was to take
me to Marseilles would be leaving in an hour. So I left.
"When the ship was far from shore I recognized the outline of Santa Barbara, and
it occurred to me that this angular castle could now be looking down on a small
beloved body being laid in the earth. My heart had never felt such a yearning
and I beseeched the towers ‘Send her my love, send her my love before she is
gone -- and forever, forever.’
"But I took Lolita's soul with me.
"Some years later I returned to the old south German town. In the Walzer's old
tavern, there now lived an ugly woman who dealt in seed. I asked after the
brothers and found out that they were both found dead in their easychairs by the
stove on the morning that followed Lolita's death. They were smiling."
The professor, whose gaze blindly strayed on his dish as he spoke, looked up.
The Countess Beata opened her eyes. "You are a poet,’" she said and the bracelet
on her delicate wrist clinked as she gave him her hand.