NATASHA

slow down. 'I beg you,' he told the singers, 'do not spoil it for a devout Russian Orthodox churchman. Please, sing more slowly.'⁴⁴

3

'Our tragedy', wrote Nina Berberova of the younger exiled writers in the 1920s, was 'our inability to evolve in terms of style.'⁴⁵ The renewal of style entailed a fundamental problem for the emigres. If their purpose as Russian artists was to preserve their national culture, how could they evolve Stylistically without adapting to their new environment and

hence, in some ways, abandoning Russia? The problem mainly affected the younger generation - writers like Nabokov who had 'emerged naked from the Revolution'.⁴⁶ Older writers like Bunin brought with them to the West an established readership and written style from which they could not break. There was too much pressure on them to continue in the comforting traditions of the past - to churn out plays and stories about nests of Russian gentlefolk - and those who tried to break away were little prized or understood. Tsvetaeva's tragedy - to lose the readership that had sustained her as the rising star of the pre-revolutionary avant-garde - was yet another variant of this experience.

Scattered in bookshops, greyed by dust and time, Unseen, unsought, unopened, and unsold, My poems will be savoured as are rarest wines -When they are old.⁴⁷

Even Miliukov, former statesman, historian and editor of the Parisian journal Poslednie novosti, said, 'I don't understand Tsvetaeva.'⁴⁸ But for writers like Nabokov who had yet to find their feet there was little point or prospect in returning to the past. The old generation was dying out and the new becoming less Russian by the day as it assimilated into the mainstream of European culture. To create a new readership such writers had to break out of the mould.

Nabokov was the first major writer to complete this literary metamorphosis. According to Berberova, he was the only Russian-language writer of her generation with the genius to create not just a new style of writing but a new reader, too. 'Through him we learned to identify not with his fictional heroes' - as the nineteenth-century writers expected of their readers - 'but with the author, with Nabokov, and his existential themes became our theme as well.'⁴⁹ Nabokov always claimed that his writings were not about Russia or the emigres. But exile was their central theme. And even if he saw that as a universal theme, a metaphor of the human condition, the appearance of Nabokov's writings in the Berlin of the 1920s was received by the Russian emigres as an affirmation of their own national identity. Nabokov's writings were proof that 'Russia' (as embodied in its culture) was still with them in the West. As Berberova put it, with the

publication of his first great novel, The Luzhin Defence, in 1930, 'a great Russian writer had been born, like a phoenix from the ashes of the Revolution and exile. Our existence acquired a new meaning. All my generation were justified. We were saved.'⁵⁰

Exile was Nabokov's omnipresent theme, though he discovered the 'sorrows and delights of nostalgia' long before the Revolution had removed the scenery of his early years.⁵¹ Nabokov was born in 1899, the elder son of a highly cultured and prominently liberal aristocratic family from St Petersburg who fled Russia in 1919. His grandfather, Dmitry Nabokov, had been Minister of Justice in the final years of Alexander II's reign, when the Emperor had considered the adoption of a liberal constitution in the European mould. Until his dismissal in 1885, he had opposed the attempts by Alexander III to overturn the liberal judicial reforms of 1864. The writer's father, V. D. Nabokov, was a well-known liberal lawyer and an influential member of the Kadet (Constitutional Democratic) Party in the First Duma of 1906. He had drafted the abdication manifesto of the Grand Duke Mikhail, briefly invited to assume the throne in the February Revolution of 1917, which brought the monarchy to an official end. He had also been head of the Chancellery in the Provisional Government, a sort of executive secretary to the cabinet, and had played a leading role in formulating the electoral system of the Constituent Assembly. The Bolshevik seizure of power forced the Nabokovs to leave Russia, moving first to London and then to Berlin, where the writer's father was the editor of the newspaper Rul' until his assassination by a Russian monarchist in 1922. Throughout his career as a Russian writer in Europe Nabokov kept the pen name 'Sirin' (the name of a legendary bird of paradise in Russian mythology) to set himself apart from his famous father in the emigre community.

The Nabokov family was strongly Anglophile. Its mansion in St Petersburg was filled with 'the comfortable products of Anglo-Saxon civilization', Nabokov wrote in Speak, Memory:

Pears' soap, tar-black when dry, topaz-like when held to the light between wet fingers, took care of one's morning bath. Pleasant was the decreasing weight of the English collapsible tub when it was made to protrude a rubber underlip and disgorge its frothy contents into the slop pail. 'We could not improve the

cream, so we improved the tube,' said the English toothpaste. At breakfast, Golden Syrup imported from London would entwist with its glowing coils the revolving spoon from which enough of it had slithered on to a piece of Russian bread and butter. All sorts of snug, mellow things came in a steady procession from the English shop on Nevski Avenue: fruitcakes, smelling salts, playing cards, picture puzzles, striped blazers, talcum-white tennis balls.⁵²

Nabokov was taught to read English before he could read his native tongue. He and his brother and sister were looked after by 'a bewildering sequence of English nurses and governesses', who read them Little Lord Fauntleroy; and later by a mademoiselle who read to the children Les Malbeurs de Sophie, Le Tour du Monde en Quatre-vingts Jours and Le Comte de Monte Cristo. In a sense Nabokov was brought up as an emigre. As a schoolboy he would set himself apart, imagining himself as an 'exiled poet who longed for a remote, sad and - unquenchable Russia'.⁵³ Pushkin was Nabokov's inspiration. Many of the heroes in his novels were meant to be the poet in disguise. Nabokov saw himself as Pushkin's heir. So much so, in fact, that when, at the age of eighteen, Nabokov found himself a refugee in the Crimea, where his family had fled the Bolsheviks, he took inspiration from the image of himself as a romantic exile, wandering in the footsteps of Pushkin, who had been sent into exile a hundred years before. His first published collections of poems, The Empyrean Path (1923),contains an epigraph from Pushkin's poem 'Anon' on the title page.

From the Crimea the family sailed to England, where Nabokov completed his education at Trinity College, Cambridge, between 1919 and 1922. The reality of post-war England was a long way from the Anglo-Saxon dreamworld of the Nabokov mansion in St Petersburg. The rooms at Trinity were cold and damp, the food unspeakable, and the student clubs were full of naive socialists, like the pipe-smoking 'Nesbit' in Speak, Memory who saw only bad in Russia's past and only good in the Bolsheviks.* Nabokov grew homesick. 'The story of my college years in England is really the story of my trying to become

* Nabokov later identified R. A. ('Rab') Butler, the future Tory Deputy Prime Minister and 'a frightful bore', as the man behind the mask of R. Nesbit Bain in Speak, Memory (B. Boyd, Nabokov: The Russian Years (London, 1990), p. 1 68).

a Russian writer', he recalled. 'I had the feeling that Cambridge and all its famed features - venerable elms, blazoned windows, loquacious tower clocks - were of no consequence in themselves but existed merely to frame and support my rich nostalgia.'⁵⁴

The focus of Nabokov's longing for Russia was the family estate at Vyra, near St Petersburg. It contained his childhood memories. In Speak, Memory he claimed to have felt his first pangs of nostalgia at the tender age of five, when, on holiday in Europe, 'I would draw with my forefinger on my pillow the carriage road sweeping up to our Vyra house.'⁵⁵ The pain of losing Vyra was acute - perhaps more acute than the loss of much of the family wealth or the loss of his homeland, which Nabokov hardly knew, apart from Vyra and St Petersburg. In Speak, Memory he emphasizes the point.

The following passage is not for the general reader, but for the particular idiot who, because he lost a fortune in some crash, thinks he understands me.

My old (since 1917) quarrel with the Soviet dictatorship is wholly unrelated to any question of property. My contempt for the emigre who 'hates the Reds' because they 'stole' his money and land is complete. The nostalgia I have been cherishing all these years is a hypertrophied sense of lost childhood, not sorrow for lost banknotes.

And finally: I reserve for myself the right to yearn after an ecological niche:

… Beneath the sky Of my America to sigh For one locality in Russia.