Symbols and Signs
Vladimir Nabokov
For the fourth time in as many years, they were confronted with the problem of what
birthday present to take to a young man who was incurably deranged in his mind. Desires
he had none. Man-made objects were to him either hives of evil, vibrant with a malignant
activity that he alone could perceive, or gross comforts for which no use could be found
in his abstract world. After eliminating a number of articles that might offend him or
frighten him (anything in the gadget line, for instance, was taboo), his parents chose a
dainty and innocent trifle—a basket with ten different fruit jellies in ten little jars.
At the time of his birth, they had already been married for a long time; a score of years
had elapsed, and now they were quite old. Her drab gray hair was pinned up carelessly.
She wore cheap black dresses. Unlike other women of her age (such as Mrs. Sol, their
next-door neighbor, whose face was all pink and mauve with paint and whose hat was a
cluster of brookside flowers), she presented a naked white countenance to the faultfinding
light of spring. Her husband, who in the old country had been a fairly successful
businessman, was now, in New York, wholly dependent on his brother Isaac, a real
American of almost forty years’ standing. They seldom saw Isaac and had nicknamed
him the Prince.
That Friday, their son’s birthday, everything went wrong. The subway train lost its life
current between two stations and for a quarter of an hour they could hear nothing but the
dutiful beating of their hearts and the rustling of newspapers. The bus they had to take
next was late and kept them waiting a long time on a street corner, and when it did come,
it was crammed with garrulous high-school children. It began to rain as they walked up
the brown path leading to the sanitarium. There they waited again, and instead of their
boy, shuffling into the room, as he usually did (his poor face sullen, confused, ill-shaven,
and blotched with acne), a nurse they knew and did not care for appeared at last and
brightly explained that he had again attempted to take his life. He was all right, she said,
but a visit from his parents might disturb him. The place was so miserably understaffed,
and things got mislaid or mixed up so easily, that they decided not to leave their present
in the office but to bring it to him next time they came.
Outside the building, she waited for her husband to open his umbrella and then took his
arm. He kept clearing his throat, as he always did when he was upset. They reached the
bus-stop shelter on the other side of the street and he closed his umbrella. A few feet
away, under a swaying and dripping tree, a tiny unfledged bird was helplessly twitching
in a puddle.
During the long ride to the subway station, she and her husband did not exchange a word,
and every time she glanced at his old hands, clasped and twitching upon the handle of his
umbrella, and saw their swollen veins and brown-spotted skin, she felt the mounting
pressure of tears. As she looked around, trying to hook her mind onto something, it gave
her a kind of soft shock, a mixture of compassion and wonder, to notice that one of the
passengers—a girl with dark hair and grubby red toenails—was weeping on the shoulder
of an older woman. Whom did that woman resemble? She resembled Rebecca Borisovna,
whose daughter had married one of the Soloveichiks—in Minsk, years ago.
The last time the boy had tried to do it, his method had been, in the doctor’s words, a
masterpiece of inventiveness; he would have succeeded had not an envious fellow-patient
thought he was learning to fly and stopped him just in time. What he had really wanted to
do was to tear a hole in his world and escape.
The system of his delusions had been the subject of an elaborate paper in a scientific
monthly, which the doctor at the sanitarium had given to them to read. But long before
that, she and her husband had puzzled it out for themselves. “Referential mania,” the
article had called it. In these very rare cases, the patient imagines that everything
happening around him is a veiled reference to his personality and existence. He excludes
real people from the conspiracy, because he considers himself to be so much more
intelligent than other men. Phenomenal nature shadows him wherever he goes. Clouds in
the staring sky transmit to each other, by means of slow signs, incredibly detailed
information regarding him. His in- most thoughts are discussed at nightfall, in manual
alphabet, by darkly gesticulating trees. Pebbles or stains or sun flecks form patterns
representing, in some awful way, messages that he must intercept. Everything is a cipher
and of everything he is the theme. All around him, there are spies. Some of them are
detached observers, like glass surfaces and still pools; others, such as coats in store
windows, are prejudiced witnesses, lynchers at heart; others, again (running water,
storms), are hysterical to the point of insanity, have a distorted opinion of him, and
grotesquely misinterpret his actions. He must be always on his guard and devote every
minute and module of life to the decoding of the undulation of things. The very air he
exhales is indexed and filed away. If only the interest he provokes were limited to his
immediate surroundings, but, alas, it is not! With distance, the torrents of wild scandal
increase in volume and volubility. The silhouettes of his blood corpuscles, magnified a
million times, flit over vast plains; and still farther away, great mountains of unbearable
solidity and height sum up, in terms of granite and groaning firs, the ultimate truth of his
being.
When they emerged from the thunder and foul air of the subway, the last dregs of the day
were mixed with the street lights. She wanted to buy some fish for supper, so she handed
him the basket of jelly jars, telling him to go home. Accordingly, he returned to their
tenement house, walked up to the third landing, and then remembered he had given her
his keys earlier in the day.
In silence he sat down on the steps and in silence rose when, some ten minutes later, she
came trudging heavily up the stairs, smiling wanly and shaking her head in deprecation of
her silliness. They entered their two-room flat and he at once went to the mirror.
Straining the corners of his mouth apart by means of his thumbs, with a horrible, mask-
like grimace, he removed his new, hopelessly uncomfortable dental plate. He read his
Russian-language newspaper while she laid the table. Still reading, he ate the pale
victuals that needed no teeth. She knew his moods and was also silent.
When he had gone to bed, she remained in the living room with her pack of soiled
playing cards and her old photograph albums. Across the narrow courtyard, where the
rain tinkled in the dark against some ash cans, windows were blandly alight, and in one of
them a black-trousered man, with his hands clasped under his head and his elbows raised,
could he seen lying supine on an untidy bed. She pulled the blind down and examined the
photographs. As a baby, he looked more surprised than most babies. A photograph of a
German maid they had had in Leipzig and her fat-faced fiancé fell out of a fold of the
album. She turned the pages of the book: Minsk, the Revolution, Leipzig, Berlin, Leipzig
again, a slanting house front, badly out of focus. Here was the boy when he was four
years old, in a park, shyly, with puckered forehead, looking away from an eager squirrel,
as he would have from any other stranger. Here was Aunt Rosa, a fussy, angular, wild-
eyed old lady, who had lived in a tremulous world of bad news, bankruptcies, train
accidents, and cancerous growths until the Germans put her to death, together with all the
people she had worried about. The boy, aged six—that was when he drew wonderful
birds with human hands and feet, and suffered from insomnia like a grown-up man. His
cousin, now a famous chess player. The boy again, aged about eight, already hard to
understand, afraid of the wallpaper in the passage, afraid of a certain picture in a book,
which merely showed an idyllic landscape with rocks on a hillside and an old cart wheel
hanging from the one branch of a leafless tree. Here he was at ten—the year they left
Europe. She remembered the shame, the pity, the humiliating difficulties of the journey,
and the ugly, vicious, backward children he was with in the special school where he had
been placed after they arrived in America. And then came a time in his life, coinciding
with a long convalescence after pneumonia, when those little phobias of his, which his
parents had stubbornly regarded as the eccentricities of a prodigiously gifted child,
hardened, as it were, into a dense tangle of logically interacting illusions, making them
totally inaccessible to normal minds.
All this, and much more, she had accepted, for, after all, living does mean accepting the
loss of one joy after another, not even joys in her case, mere possibilities of improvement.
She thought of the recurrent waves of pain that for some reason or other she and her
husband had had to endure; of the in visible giants hurting her boy in some unimaginable
fashion; of the incalculable amount of tenderness contained in the world; of the fate of
this tenderness, which is either crushed or wasted, or transformed into madness; of
neglected children humming to themselves in unswept corners; of beautiful weeds that
cannot hide from the farmer.
It was nearly midnight when, from the living room, she heard her husband moan, and
presently he staggered in, wearing over his nightgown the old overcoat with the astrakhan
collar that he much preferred to his nice blue bathrobe.
“I can’t sleep!” he cried.
“Why can’t you sleep?” she asked. “You were so tired.”
“I can’t sleep because I am dying,” he said, and lay down on the couch.
“Is it your stomach? Do you want me to call Dr. Solov?”
“No doctors, no doctors,” he moaned. “To the devil with doctors! We must get him out of
there quick. Otherwise, we’ll be responsible.... Responsible!” He hurled himself into a
sitting position, both feet on the floor, thumping his forehead with his clenched fist.
“All right,” she said quietly. “We will bring him home tomorrow morning.”
“I would like some tea,” said her husband and went out to the bathroom.
Bending with difficulty, she retrieved some playing cards and a photograph or two that
had slipped to the floor—the knave of hearts, the nine of spades, the ace of spades, the
maid Elsa and her bestial beau. He returned in high spirits, saying in a loud voice, “I have
it all figured out. We will give him the bedroom. Each of us will spend part of the night
near him and the other part on this couch. We will have the doctor see him at least twice a
week. It does not matter what the Prince says. He won’t have much to say anyway,
because it will come out cheaper.”
The telephone rang. It was an unusual hour for it to ring. He stood in the middle of the
room, groping with his foot for one slipper that had come off, and childishly, toothlessly,
gaped at his wife. Since she knew more English than he, she always attended to the calls.
”Can I speak to Charlie?” a girl’s dull little voice said to her now.
“What number do you want? . . . No. You have the wrong number.”
She put the receiver down gently and her hand went to her heart. “It frightened me,” she
said.
He smiled a quick smile and immediately resumed his excited monologue. They would
fetch him as soon as it was day. For his own protection, they would keep all the knives in
a locked drawer. Even at his worst, he presented no danger to other people.
The telephone rang a second time.
The same toneless, anxious young voice asked for Charlie.
“You have the incorrect number. I will tell you what you are doing. You are turning the
letter ‘o’ instead of the zero.” She hung up again.
They sat down to their unexpected, festive midnight tea. He sipped noisily; his face was
flushed; every now and then he raised his glass with a circular motion, so as to make the
sugar dissolve more thoroughly. The vein on the side of his bald head stood out
conspicuously, and silvery bristles showed on his chin. The birthday present stood on the
table. While she poured him another glass of tea, he put on his spectacles and reëxamined
with pleasure the luminous yellow, green, and red little jars. His clumsy, moist lips
spelled out their eloquent labels—apricot, grape,
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