Lectures on Russian literature

by Vladimir Nabokov

  Vladimir Nabokov: Lectures on Russian literature

  with the smooth ivory knife in her small hands, and forced

  herself to go on reading. [Was she a good reader from our

  point of view? Does her emotional participation in the life

  of the book remind one of another little lady? Of Emma?].

  "The hero of the novel was about to reach his English

  happiness, a baronetcy and an estate, when she suddenly

  felt that he ought to feel somehow ashamed, and that she

  was ashamed, too [she identifies the man in the book with

  Vronski]. But what had he to be ashamed of? 'What have/

  to be ashamed of?' she asked herself in injured surprise.

  She laid down the book and sank against the back of her

  fauteuil, tightly gripping the knife in both hands. There was

  nothing. She went over all her Moscow impressions. All

  was good, pleasant. She remembered the ball, remembered

  Vronski's face of slavish adoration, remembered all her

  conduct with him: there was nothing shameful. And for all

  that, at this point in her memories, the feeling of shame

  was intensified, as though some inner voice, just at that

  point when she thought of Vronski, were saying to her,

  'Warm, very warm, hot.' [In a game where you hide an

  object and hint at the right direction by these thermal

  exclamations — and mark that the warm and the cold are

  alternating in the night-coach too.] 'What is it?' she asked

  herself, shifting her position in the fauteuil. 'What does it

  mean? Can it be that between me and that officer boy

  there exist, or can exist, any other relations than those of

  ordinary acquaintance?' She gave a little snort of contempt

  and took up her book again; but now she was definitely

  unable to follow the story. She passed the ivory paper-knife

  over the window-pane, then laid its smooth, cool surface

  [contrast again of warm and cold] to her cheek, and almost

  laughed aloud at the feeling of delight that all at once

  without cause came over her [her sensuous nature takes

  over]. She felt as though her nerves were violin strings

  being strained tighter and tighter on their pegs. She felt

  her eyes opening wider and wider, her fingers and toes

  twitched, something within her oppressed her, while all

  shapes and sounds seemed in the uncertain half-light to

  strike her with unaccustomed vividness. Moments of doubt

  were continuously coming upon her, when she was

  uncertain whether the train was going forwards or

  backwards [compare this to an important metaphor in

  'Ivan Ilyich'], or was standing still altogether; whether it

  was Annushka at her side or a stranger. 'What's that on the

  arm of the chair, a fur cloak or some big furry beast? And

  what am I myself? Myself or somebody else?' She was

  afraid of giving way to this state of oblivion. But something

  drew her towards it. She sat up to rouse herself, removed

  her lap robe and took off the cape of her woolen dress. For

  a moment she regained full consciousness and realized

  Pages from Nabokov's teaching copy of Anna Karenin.

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  Vladimir Nabokov: Lectures on Russian literature

  that the working man who had come into the car, wearing a long nankeen coat with one button missing from it [another flaw in the pattern of her mood], was the stove-heater, that he was looking at the thermometer, that it was the wind and snow bursting in after him [telltale flaw] at the door of the car; but then everything was blurred again. That working man seemed to be gnawing at something in the wall, the old lady began stretching her legs the whole length of the section and filling it with a black cloud; then there was a fearful creaking and knocking, as though someone were being torn apart

  [mark this half-dream]; then there was a blinding dazzle of red fire before her eyes and a wall seemed to rise up and hide everything. Anna felt as though she had fallen through the floor. But it was not terrible, it was delightful. The voice of a man muffled up [note this too] and covered with snow shouted something in her ear. She pulled herself together; she realized that it was a station and that this muffled up man was the conductor. She asked her maid to hand her the cape she had taken off and her warm kerchief, put them on, and moved towards the door.

  " 'Do you wish to go out, Ma'am?' asked the maid.

  " 'Yes, I want a little air. It's very hot in here.' And she opened the door leading to the open platform of the car. The driving snow and the wind rushed to meet her and struggled with her over the door. But she enjoyed the struggle. [Compare this with the wind struggling with Lyovin at the end of the book.]

  "She opened the door and went out. The wind seemed as though lying in wait for her [again the pathetic fallacy about the wind: emotions ascribed to objects by man in distress] ; with a gleeful whistle it tried to snatch her up and bear her off, but she clung to the cold iron post at the car's end, and holding her skirt, got down onto the station platform and stood on the lee side of the car. The wind had been powerful on the open end of the car, but on the station platform, sheltered by the cars, there was a lull. . . .

  "But then again the raging tempest rushed whistling between the wheels of the cars, and around the corner of the station along its pillars. The cars, pillars, people, everything that was to be seen was covered with snow on one side and was getting more and more thickly covered there. [Now mark the following ingredient of the later dream.] The bent shadow of a man glided by at her feet, and she heard sounds of a hammer upon iron. 'Hand over that telegram!' came an angry voice out of the stormy darkness on the other side. . . . Muffled figures ran by covered with snow. Two gentlemen with lighted cigarettes passed by her. She drew one more deep breath of the fresh air, and had just put her hand out of her muff to take hold of the car platform post and get back into the car, when another man in a military overcoat, quite close beside her, stepped between her and the flickering light of a station lamp. She turned and immediately recognized Vronski. Putting his hand to the peak of his cap, he bowed to her and asked, Was there anything she wanted? Could he be of any service to her?

  She peered for a few seconds at him without answering, and, in spite of the shadow in which he was standing, she saw, or fancied she saw, the expression of his face and his eyes. It was again that expression of respectful ecstasy which had made such an impression upon her the day before. . . .

  " T didn't know you were on the train. Why are you here?' she said, letting fall the hand with which she had grasped the iron post. And irrepressible lovely joy lit up her face.

  " 'Why am I here?' he said, looking straight into her eyes. 'You know why. I am on this train to be where you are. I can't help it.'

  "At that moment the wind, as if surmounting all obstacles, sent the snow flying from the car roofs, and clanked some sheet of iron it had loosened, while the throaty whistle of the engine roared in front, plaintively and gloomily. . . .

  "And clutching at the cold post, she clambered up the steps and got rapidly into the hallway of the car. . . .

  "At Petersburg, so soon as the train stopped and she got out, the first person that attracted her attention was her husband.

  'Oh, mercy! why have his ears become like that?' she thought, looking at his cold and imposing figure, and especially at his ears whose cartilages propped up the brim of his round hat of black felt."

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  "[Lyovin] walked along the path towards the skating-ground, and kept saying to himself—'You mustn't be excited, you must be calm. What’s the matter with you? What do you want? Be qui
et, stupid,' he conjured his heart. And the more he tried to compose himself, the more breathless he found himself. An acquaintance met him and called him by his name, but Lyovin did not even recognize him. He went towards the ice-slopes for coasting whence came the clank of the chains of sleighs as they were dragged up, the rumble of the descending sleighs, and the sounds of merry voices. He walked on a few steps, and the skating-ground lay open before his eyes, and at once, amidst all the skaters, he recognized her.

  "He knew she was there by the rapture and the terror that seized on his heart. She was standing talking to a lady at the opposite end of the skating-rink. There was nothing striking either in her dress or in her attitude. But for Lyovin she was as easy to find in that crowd, as a wild rose among nettles. . . .

  "On that day of the week and at that time of day people of one set, all acquainted with one another, used to meet on the ice. There were crack skaters there, showing off their skill, and beginners behind chairs on wooden runners clinging to the backs of these gliding chairs and scuttling along with timid awkward movements; boys, and elderly people skating for their health. They seemed to Lyovin an elect band of blissful beings because they were here, near her. All the skaters, it seemed, with perfect indifference, caught up with her, overtook her, even spoke to her, and, quite apart from her presence, enjoyed the excellent ice and the fine weather.

  "Nikolay Shcherbatski, Kitty's cousin, in a short jacket and tight trousers, was sitting on a bench with his skates on. Upon seeing Lyovin, he cried to him : 'Ah, the best skater in Russia! Been here long? First-rate ice—put on your skates, old fellow.'

  "'I haven't got my skates with me,' Lyovin answered, marveling at this boldness and ease in her presence, and not for one second losing sight of her, though he did not look at her. He felt that an invisible sun was coming near him. She was at the bend of the rink and, holding together her slender feet in their blunt-toed high skating shoes, with obvious apprehension she glided in his direction. [Ridiculous—Garnett has Kitty turn her toes out.] A young boy in Russian garb, violently swinging his arms and bending low towards the ice, was in the act of overtaking her. She skated uncertainly ; taking her hands out of the little muff, that hung on a cord round her neck, she held them ready for emergency, and looking towards Lyovin, whom she had recognized, she smiled at him, and at her own fears. When she had got round the turn, she gave herself a springy push-off with one foot, and skated straight up to her cousin.

  Clutching at his arm, she nodded smiling to Lyovin. She was lovelier than he had imagined her. . . . But what always struck him in her as something unlooked for, was the expression of her eyes, mild, calm, and truthful. . . .

  " 'Have you been here long?' she said, shaking hands with him. 'Thank you,' she added, as he picked up the handkerchief that had fallen out of her muff. [Tolstoy keeps a keen eye on his characters. He makes them speak and move—but their speech and motion produce their own reaction in the world he has made for them. Is that clear? It is.]

  " 'I didn't know you could skate, and skate so well.'

  "She looked at him attentively as though wishing to find out the cause of his confusion.

  " 'Your praise is worth having,' she said. 'They say you are a crack skater,' and with her little black-gloved hand she brushed off the little spikes of hoar frost which had fallen upon her muff. [Again Tolstoy's cold eye.]

  " 'Yes, I used once to skate with passion,' Lyovin answered. 'I wanted to reach perfection.'

  " 'You do everything with passion, I think,' she said smiling. 'I should so like to see how you skate. Put on skates, and let us skate together.'

  " 'Skate together! Can that be possible?' thought Lyovin, gazing at her.

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  Vladimir Nabokov: Lectures on Russian literature

  " 'I'll put them on directly,' he said.

  "And he went off to get skates.

  " 'It's a long while since we've seen you here, sir,' said the attendant, supporting his foot, and screwing on the skate to the heel. 'There have been no first-rate skaters among the gentlemen since your time. Will that be all right?' said he, tightening the strap."

  A little later, "one of the young men, the best of the skaters after Lyovin's time, came out of the coffee-house in his skates, with a cigarette in his mouth. Taking a run, he dashed down the ice crusted steps in his skates, bouncing noisily. He flew down, and without even changing the relaxed position of his arms, skated away over the ice.

  " 'Ah, that's a new trick!' said Lyovin, and he promptly ran up to the top to do this new trick.

  " 'Don't break your neck! It needs practice!' Kitty's cousin shouted after him.

  "Lyovin went on the porch, and running from above to gain impetus, he dashed down, preserving his balance in this unwonted motion with his arms. On the last step he stumbled, but barely touching the ice with his hand, with a violent effort recovered himself, and skated off, laughing."

  We are at a dinner party two years after Lyovin had been rejected by Kitty, a dinner party arranged by Oblonski. First let us retranslate the little passage about a slippery mushroom.

  " 'You have killed a bear, I've been told!' said Kitty, trying assiduously to spear with her fork a slippery preserved mushroom, every little poke setting the lace quivering over her white arm. [The brilliant eye of the great writer always noting what his puppets are up to after he has given them the power to live.] 'Are there bears on your place?' she added, turning her charming little head to him and smiling."

  We come now to the famous chalk scene. After dinner Kitty and Lyovin are for a minute in a separate part of the room.

  "Kitty, going up to a card-table, sat down, and, taking up the chalk, began drawing concentric circles upon the immaculate green cloth.

  "They began again on the subject that had been started at dinner—the liberty and occupations of women. Lyovin shared Dolly's opinion that a girl who did not marry should find some occupation suitable for a lady, in her own family. . . .

  "A silence followed. She was still drawing with the chalk on the table. Her eyes were shining with a soft light. Under the influence of her mood, he was pervaded with an increasing feeling of happiness.

  " 'Akh! I have scrawled all over the table!' she said, and laying down the chalk, she made a movement as though to get up.

  " 'What! Shall I be left alone—without her?' he thought with horror, and he took the chalk. 'Wait a minute,' he said, 'I've long wanted to ask you one thing.'

  "He looked straight into her friendly, though frightened eyes.

  " 'Please ask it.'

  " 'Here,' he said; and he wrote the initial letters w,y, s, n, d,y,m,n. These letters meant, 'When you said no, did you mean never?' There seemed no likelihood that she could make out this complicated sentence; but he looked at her as though his 105

  Vladimir Nabokov: Lectures on Russian literature

  life depended on her understanding the words. She glanced at him seriously, then puckered her brow and began to read.

  Once or twice she stole a look at him, as though asking him, 'Is it what I think?'

  " 'I understand,' she said, flushing a little. "'What is this word?' he said, pointing to the n that stood for never.

  " 'It means never,' she said; 'but that's not true!' "He quickly rubbed out what he had written, gave her the chalk, and stood up. She wrote, t, i, c, n, a, d. . . . It meant, 'Then I could not answer differently.'

  "He glanced at her questioningly, timidly. " ' Only then?' 'Yes,' her smile answered. "'And now?' he asked.

  "'Well, read this,' she said. She wrote the initial letters f, a, f. This meant, 'Forget and forgive.' "

  All this is a little far fetched. Although, no doubt, love may work wonders and bridge the abyss between minds and present cases of tender telepathy — still such detailed thought-reading, even in Russian, is not quite convincing. However, the gestures are charming and the atmosphere of the scene artistically true.

  Tolstoy stood for the natural life. Nature, alias God, had decreed that th
e human female should experience more pain in childbirth than, say, a porcupine or a whale. Therefore Tolstoy was violently opposed to the elimination of this pain.

  In Look magazine, a poor relation of Life, of April 8, 1952, there is a series of photos under the heading, "I Photographed my Baby's Birth." A singularly unattractive baby smirks in a corner of the page. Says the caption : Clicking her own camera as she lies on the delivery table, Mrs. A. H. Heusinkveld, a photography-writer (whatever that is) of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, records (says the caption) these extraordinary views of the birth of her first baby—from the early labor pains to the baby's first cry.

  What does she take in the way of pictures? For instance: "Husband [wearing a handpainted philistine tie, with a dejected expression on his simple face] visits wife in the midst of her pains" or "Mrs. Heusinkveld shoots Sister Mary who sprays patient with disinfectants."

  Tolstoy would have violently objected to all this.

  Except for a little opium, and that did not help much, no anaesthetics were used in those days for relieving the pains of childbirth. The year is 1875, and all over the world women were delivered in the same way as two thousand years ago.

  Tolstoy's theme here is a double one, first, the beauty of nature's drama; and second, its mystery and terror as perceived by Lyovin. Modern methods of confinement —anaesthetics and hospitalization—would have made this great chapter 15 of part seven impossible, and the dulling of natural pain would have seemed quite wrong to Tolstoy the Christian. Kitty was having her baby at home, of course, Lyovin wanders about the house.