"The Potato Elf" (Kartofel'nyy el'f) is a short story written in Russian by Vladimir Nabokov in Berlin where it was first published in the émigré daily Rul in 1929 and then included in 1929 collection Vozvrashchenie Chorba ("The Return of Chorb"). It was initially translated into English by Serge Bertensen and Irene Kosinska for publication in Esquire in 1939, and reprinted in A Single Voice (Collier, London, 1969). Nabokov then retranslated the story and included it in A Russian Beauty and Other Stories in 1973.
The Potato Elf whose real name is Fred Dobson is a dwarf who works in the circus where people laugh at him. After a tour through the Continent, he has returned to England. He gets beaten up when he tries to kiss a ballerina. Shock, the conjuror, takes him home so that he and his wife, Nora, can nurture him back to health. Nora and Fred have a one night affair, - Nora to get back at her husband who always does tricks, but Fred is in love. He quits the circus, plans to go to the north of England, and expects Nora to follow him. He tries to tell this to the conjuror who does not seem to listen. But in the evening, Shock pretends to have poisoned himself because of his wife's unfaithfulness, and Nora, in despair, realizes that she loves him. Fred moves to Drowse and receives Nora's letter: she will not come and will be going with her husband to America. Fred retreats from life and lives like a recluse. Eight years later Nora visits him and announces that she had a son from him. Fred wants to see him but Nora leaves abruptly. He runs after her, excited to have a son, happy, and collapses at her feet. As people realize he is dead, Nora denies him:"I don't know anything. My son died a few days ago."
I sat upon the evening hill
The shadows set, the night grew still
And as I sat, guitar on knee
A voice of flowers called to me
Sing, sing to me your song
Sing, for I belong to the night
In the gray morning light, I'll be gone
I turned with eyes that strained for sight
And there amid the failing light
Dimly saw a figure small
Heard a voice of magic call
Sing, sing to me your song
Sing, for I belong to the night
In the gray morning light, I'll be gone
My fumbling fingers found the chords
My trembling lips fought for the words
I stopped to ask the stranger how
He softly said, "No questions now"
Sing, sing to me your song
Sing, for I belong to the night
In the gray morning light, I'll be gone
Then with the magic of the elves
My fingers danced among themselves
A heart with lightness thus endowed
Formed melodies I know not how
Song played the whole night long
Thus he danced and laughed through the night
And with gray morning light, he was gone
Now, the whispering wind plays over the hill
And the evening sounds again grow still
A year or more has passed since then
Oh, he will not pass my way again
So, I sing, sing to you my song
Sing for I belong to the night