Studies in 20th Century Literature Volume 11 Issue 2 Article 7 1-1-1987 Practicing Nostalgia: Time and Memory in Nabokov's Early Russian Fiction Philip Sicker Fordham University Follow this and additional works at: https://newprairiepress.org/sttcl Part of the Modern Literature Commons, and the Russian Literature Commons This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 4.0 License. Recommended Citation Sicker, Philip (1987) "Practicing Nostalgia: Time and Memory in Nabokov's Early Russian Fiction ," Studies in 20th Century Literature: Vol. 11: Iss. 2, Article 7. https://doi.org/10.4148/2334-4415.1200 This Article is brought to you for free and open access by New Prairie Press. It has been accepted for inclusion in Studies in 20th Century Literature by an authorized administrator of New Prairie Press. For more information, please contact [email protected]. Practicing Nostalgia: Time and Memory in Nabokov's Early Russian Fiction Abstract Nabokov's earliest Russian fiction er veals his lifelong preoccupation with time and his complex strategies for preserving heightened moments of experience. Dissatisfied with the brevity of involuntary (Proustian) recall, his émigré protagonists strive to inhabit their Russian past more fully through a painstaking process of aesthetic re-creation. Beginning with a handful of vivid recollections, the hero of Mary gradually fabricates a past that is more intensely real than the original. Nabokov's most mature characters, however, recognize the solipsistic danger and utility of living in a vanished mental paradise. Turning to the present, they find unexpected beauty in the arrangement of ordinary objects in Berlin. In order both to intensify these perceptions and to memorialize them, the heroes of "Torpid Smoke" and "A Guide to Berlin" adopt a remarkable strategy: projecting themselves into an imagined future, they view the scene before them as if it were already a memory. This ocular adjustment endows the perceived objects with a radiance, fixity, and "relief" that they would acquire (and lose) only in a moment of extraordinary recall; but this act simultaneously preserves the impression indelibly when it becomes part of the actual past. In short, by anticipating and accelerating time's destructive movement, by "practicing nostalgia" for the past while it is yet present, these individuals arrest the process of forgetting. Keywords time, memory, nostalgia, Nabokov, Russian fiction, time, Proustian, émigré protagonist, aesthetics, re- creation, Torpid Smoke, A Guide to Berlin, future, past, forgetting This article is available in Studies in 20th Century Literature: https://newprairiepress.org/sttcl/vol11/iss2/7 Sicker: Practicing Nostalgia: Time and Memory in Nabokov's Early Russian PRACTICING NOSTALGIA: TIME AND MEMORY IN NABOKOV'S EARLY RUSSIAN FICTION PHILIP SICKER Fordham University "The nostalgia I have been cherishing all these years," Vladimir Nabokov disclosed in Speak, Memory, "is a hypertrophied sense of lost childhood. "I Like Proust, his most obvious antecedent in the high art of retrospection, Nabokov yearned to recover not merely particular sensations from his distant past but, more crucially, a quality of consciousness, a condition of being that marked his early years. He wished, in particular, to reclaim the magical sense of time that he first knew as a four-year-old in Russia, an awareness of dura- tion, sequence and chronology but not of finitude or loss: "The mirror brims with brightness; a bumblebee has entered the room and bumps against the ceiling. Everything is as it should be, nothing will ever change, nobody will ever die" (SM, p. 77). At such moments of recall, a "summer warmth" pervades his senses and the past becomes a "robust reality [that] makes a ghost of the present." But if childhood recollections possess the most piquant taste of the actual, they are also the rarest and most elusive of flavors for the mature memorist to conjure. Most deeply buried of all is the source of the child's well- being-his sense of being immersed in "a radiant and mobile medium" that mimics immortality, but is "none other than the pure element of time" (SM, p. 21). Separated from the origin and end of his existence by "an impersonal darkness on both sides of life," Nabokov reports groping frantically in the remote regions of childhood for a "secret outlet" into eternity, only to discover that "the prison of time is spherical and without exits" (SM, p. 20). Having made this dis- covery, he had to contrive some means to combat "the utter degrada- tion, ridicule and horror of having developed an infinity of sensation and thought within a finite existence" (SM, p. 297). Since experi- ence afforded him neither shadowy recollea*ions of prenatal being nor 253 Published by New Prairie Press 1 Studies in 20th & 21st Century Literature, Vol. 11, Iss. 2 [1987], Art. 7 254 STCL, 11, No. 2 (Spring, 1987) glimpses beyond the grave, Nabokov devoted himself from the outset of his creative life to the preservation of heightened perceptual moments, past and present, within time's prison. His tools were memory and art, and through their related agency he sought to unify the constituent parts of his ego, to trace the "colored spiral in a small ball of glass" that was the pattern of his life (SM, p. 275). Cultivated over half a century, these preoccupations gave rise to the fantastic memory flowering of Ada, but they also dominate Nabokov's very earliest Russian stories.' Written in Berlin during the 1920s and 30s under the pseudonym Siren and published in various emigre journals, these short works reveal not only a complex theory of time but also the remarkable strategies that he had already devised for retrieving and safeguarding its treasures. Although Nabokov addressed himself almost exclusively to short fiction at the start of his career (publishing twenty-two stories between 1924-29), and despite the fact that these works anticipate his mature concern with time and memory more than any of his Russian novels, they have existed until recently in a critical vacuum.' While they vary in form, style and quality, these fictions are linked by the predominance of a single theme: the experience of cultural and psychological loss, most often embodied in the loss of a beloved. Composed in the years following Nabokov's return from Cambridge in 1923, many are meditations on the exile that the Bolshevist Revolution inflicted on him and his family. Collectively, the stories afford multiple glimpses into the desperate, strangely unfocused minds of transplanted students and artists, train waiters and traveling salesmen, individuals for whom fog-ridden Berlin is not a real place but a diaphanous screen upon which they project-or try to project-memories of their Russian childhood or of vanished love. In these recollections alone does a faint sense of self survive, and it is with their gradual erosion that identity disappears altogether. It is a recurrent paradox in these early stories that the moment in which the protagonist experiences his lover's absence most acutely and irrevocably is also the moment when he feels her presence most intensely in memory. "The Return of Chorb" (1925), one of Nabokov's most exquisite early fictions, explores the inter- dependence of grief and memory and the titular hero's attempts to preserve both.4 Chorb's wife was electrocuted in a freak accident during their honeymoon trip. During the subsequent three weeks he has retraced their route from the South of France through the Alps to https://newprairiepress.org/sttcl/vol11/iss2/7 DOI: 10.4148/2334-4415.1200 2 Sicker: Practicing Nostalgia: Time and Memory in Nabokov's Early Russian Sicker 255 Bavaria, revisiting each of the spots where they had stopped months before, as if this reversal in geographic sequence could likewise reverse the flow of time, intensifying memory until it is somehow actualized in flesh and blood. Chorb realizes, of course, that this is impossible, and he knows too that, just as he is moving forward in time, each new locale represents a more distant epoch in their short life together. Still, each place yields up its distinctive measure of grief, and in these accumulated moments of longing Chorb hopes to com- pose a lasting recollection of his wife: "He thought that if he managed to gather all the little things that they had noticed together-if he re- created thus the near past-her image would grow immortal and replace her forever" (DS, p. 61). In order that "her image [be] made perfect," Chorb's private agony must not be contaminated by the sorrow of others nor diluted by their sympathy. Thus, he puts off disclosing the tragedy to his wife's parents until his retraced journey brings him to the small town where they met, married, and began their honeymoon. The town marks "the very source of his recollections" (DS, p. 66), and Chorb believes that the final "agonizing yet blissful test" in the immortalization of his beloved is to spend a night in the tawdry hotel room to where they had absconded immediately after their wedding. Strangely, however, he finds the thought of repairing to the room alone almost unendurable. An insomniac since his wife's death, his nights have been "imbued with sudden terror" (DS, p. 67). The source of this fear is not self- dissolution (as it is in such early works as "Terror" and The Eye), but a sudden sense of his wife's "irrational presence." Chorb's moment of panic obliterates the sustaining structure of memory. The invisible presence that haunts him bears no relation to the woman he loved and even less to the image of her that he strives to preserve. Darkness seems to encroach upon the temple of his personal recollection no less than time itself.