Chapter 5 Chapter Four

It turned out to be almost the last of twenty entrances.These seem to be the creative ingenuity of the devil, whose schemes are the same every day.First he would seduce me -- and then thwart me, leaving meaningless pain at the root of my being.I know exactly what I want to do and how to do it without violating a child's chastity; My discreet desire squeezed into the hottest, most crowded corner of a city bus, among a group of students standing in suspenders.But for almost three weeks now, all my emotional machinations have been scrambled.The disturber was always Mrs. Haze (the reader will see that she was more afraid of what Lo would get from me than from me from Lo).My growing desire for that nymphet--the first nymphet I'd finally reached with clumsy, cowardly paws in my life--would no doubt send me back to the sanitarium.

Didn't the devil see that if he could just let me be a plaything for a while longer, I'd get some kind of relief. Readers also noticed the strange "mirage of the lake".Aubrey.It was also logical that McFate (as I would love to call my demon) arranged for me a little fun on the promised beach, in the supposed forest.In fact, Mrs. Haze's promise was just a ruse: she didn't tell me that Mary Rose Hamilton (a little dark beauty in her eyes) would be there too, and the two elves were going to whisper aside and play On the one hand, it's all their own happy hour; Mrs. Haze and her handsome lodger talk serenely, half naked, away from prying eyes.As it happens, the eye can indeed spy, and the tongue can indeed talk. How strange life is!The destiny we insist on changing is exactly what we want to aspire to.

Before I came here, my mistress had planned to have the old maid, the Ferron Group, (her mother was a cook for Mrs. Haze) come and live with Lolita and me, and Mrs. Haze, she thought. I am a career woman, and I want to find a job in the nearest city.Haze saw the whole situation quite clearly: Mr. Humbert, round-backed and spectacled, had come here with a central European body trying to collect some dust on a pile of old books; The Ugly Daughter could keep Phelan's team tight-lipped, who had once taken my Lo under her vulture's wing (Lo trembled with rage at the memory of the summer of 1944), and Mrs. Haze could go straight to a very Elegant city does clerk.However, a not-so-complicated event disrupted the plan.On the same day as I arrived in Ramsdale, Miss Phelan broke her hip in Sephanna, Georgia.Section 13

The Sunday after the Saturday I have described was as clear as the weatherman had predicted.After breakfast, I put all the dishes on the chairs outside the house, so that the kind hostess could remove them at her convenience.I overheard the following at the top of the stairs, then crossed the level ground softly, and in my old slippers—the only old thing I had—climbed up the stairs to the balcony. There was another sand scramble there.Mrs Hamilton called to say her daughter had "a high fever".Mrs. Haze then informed her daughter that the picnic would be postponed.How did little Haze tell cold big Haze that if so she wouldn't go to church with her.Mother said it was fine and left.

I've just shaved, I still have soapy water in my ears, and I'm wearing my cornflower-blue pajamas on the back; now I've wiped off the soap, sprayed perfume on my hair and armpits, and put on a silver-and-purple morning dress. Yi, humming nervously, went downstairs to greet Luo. I hope that my learned readers will put themselves in the scene of which I am about to relate; I hope that they will analyze it in every detail, and see for themselves that which, in the words of my lawyer in private conversation with me, is "sweet as wine." The events" are so pure.That's it, let's get started.I have a tough job ahead of me.

Main characters: Humbert the crooner.Time: One Sunday in June. Location: A bedroom in the sun.Props: Old sofas in the same shade and stripes, magazines, record players, Mexican bric-a-brac.She was wearing a beautiful printed dress that day. I saw her wear it once before. In her sunken hand, she held a beautiful red apple of Eden.But she didn't wear church shoes.Her white Sunday purse was also thrown by the record player. My heart was beating like a drum, and her wide skirt swelled and fell, and she sat on the sofa next to me, playing with that slippery fruit.She tossed it into the clear air, caught it again--with a short plop like that of falling into a glass.

Humbert Humbert intercepts the apple. "Throw it back," she begged, revealing the marbled shine of her palms.I say "delicious".She grabbed it and took a bite, and my heart was like snow under crimson skin, and she, with that typical American nymphet-monkey quickness, snatched the open magazine I was holding (sorry no film recorded it) In this singular way, the alphabetical coherence of our simultaneous overlapping actions is recorded).The shapeless apple she held barely hindered her, and Lo flipped through the magazine quickly and vigorously, looking for something she hoped would show Humbert.Finally found.I pretended to be interested and brought my head closer so her hair touched my temple and her arm brushed my cheek as she wiped her lips with her wrist.Because of my picture, which seemed to be through a burning smoke, she was slow to react to it, and her bare knees rubbed and bumped impatiently.Dimly came into view: a surrealist painter resting lazily on the beach, beside him, lying on his back in the opposite direction, was a plaster replica of the Venus de Milo, half buried in the sand. "This week's drawing," says the description.I brush the dirty stuff aside.Immediately pretending to get it back again, she threw herself on me.The magazine fled to the ground like a confused bird as it grabbed her limp, bony wrist.She broke free from me and leaned back against the right corner of the sofa.Then, very briefly and naturally, the brazen child put her leg up my lap.

By this time my excitement was on the verge of madness; at the same time I was madly cunning.Sitting on the couch, through a series of cryptic little movements, I finally attune my veiled desires to her frank limbs.For this plot to succeed, I need to make covert adjustments, but diverting this girl's attention will not be easy.I babbled, chased after me, out of breath, and pretended to have a toothache to explain my staccato speech—all the while staring at my golden target not far away with a maddened inner eye. .Cautiously, I added the magical caress, a feeling of illusion, if not reality, between the hot legs across my knees and the hidden swelling of unspeakable desire. The texture of barrier substances (pajamas and robes) that are physically indestructible but psychologically fragile are abolished.While I was babbling, I suddenly remembered a silly lyrics that was very popular at the time, I changed it a little, and recited it-oh, my Carmen, my little Carmen, what, what, those good nights, and There's stars, and cars, and bars, and bartenders; and I can't help but keep repeating it, holding her under its strange command (strange because it's altered); Anxiety at the possibility of disturbing, removing that golden weight from my preoccupied senses forced me to act more hesitantly for the first minute or so, rather than consensual in carefully adjusted enjoyment.The star that shines, the car parked, and the bar and the bartender, is turned over by her now; her singing steals and corrects the tone I tampered with.She has a beautiful voice, sweet as an apple.Her legs are slightly curled up on my vigorous thighs: I pat them lightly; she lolls in the right corner, almost on her back, the girl Laura, gnawing on her unforgettable fruit, with Singing with juice, throwing away her slippers, scratching the wet heels of her bare feet, leaning against the stack of old magazines on the couch to my left—her every move, every step, every sound, Both impel me now to hide and now to expand between bestiality and beauty--between my disgusting, burning anti-beastiality and the beauty of her limbs beneath her chaste cotton robes--perceived secrets.

Fumbling with my fingertips, I feel her fine hairs bristling gently on her shinbones.I was lost in the healthy heat that enveloped little Haze, a fiery summer flame.Let her stay here, let her stay here . . . her young body, her innocent, innocent legs and round buttocks, were all as she hurled that naked apple core into the fender. Rolling over my tense, scheming knee; suddenly, a sense of mystery came over me.I stepped into a plane of reality where nothing mattered except the infusion of happiness brewing within me.What started as a sweet extension of my deepest roots, turned into a red-hot sting, has now reached that level of utter safety, confidence and reliability not to be found anywhere else in feeling life.With a deep, fiery sweetness that builds up like this and goes smoothly to the ultimate commotion, I feel like I can slow down and prolong that red heat.Lolita is mine, but she's safe.Sparse sunlight dances among the dappled poplars; the two of us are alone, wild and holy; I gaze at her, the color of roses, bathed in golden dust, oblivious to the veil of my suppressed joy, which she knows not , she was totally different, the sun was on her lips, and her lips were obviously still trembling, humming the song "Carmen the Bartender"; I was completely ignorant of that.Now everything is ready.The nerves of pleasure have been exposed.Krause's blood particles entered that frantic phase.The smallest pleasure will be enough to make all heaven slack.

I'm no longer Humbert the Hound, the sad-eyed, depraved scum clinging to the boot that's going to kick him away.I am above the misery of ridicule, above the possibility of retribution.In my self-built Turkish palace, I am a radiant, strong Turkic emperor, absolutely free, without scruples, to postpone the real enjoyment of the youngest and most delicate moment of his female slaves .Stopped at the edge of the abyss of obsession, I couldn't help repeating the auspicious lyrics after her--bartender, dangerous, my charming, my carmen, amen, aha amen-like a person talking and laughing in a dream while my joyful hands ran over her clear legs as high as the demure shadow would allow.She had bumped a heavy box in the hall the day before -- "Look, look," -- I gasped -- "Look what you've done, look what you've done, ah, look!" I swear, there was a yellow-purple bruise on her lovely nymphet thigh, and I massaged it with my thick, hairy hands, and slowly covered it up - and because she was so perfunctorily dressed so much so that there seemed to be nothing stopping my muscular fingers from touching that hot hole in her groin - like you might scratch and cuddle a giggling girl - like that --and:

"Oh, not at all," she exclaimed, with a sudden vibrating note in her voice that could squirm, squirm, throw her head back, half turn her back, and set her teeth on her gleaming lower lip. , both my moaning mouths, gentlemen of the court, moved almost to her bare neck, when I pressed her right buttock, the last quiver of the longest ecstasy known to man or beast. Just finished (like we've been wrestling, now my hands are loose) She just rolled off the couch and hopped -- almost on one foot -- to answer that intimidatingly loud phone that I thought might have been ringing for decades.She stood there with her eyes half-closed, her cheeks flushed and her hair disheveled, her blindness brushing over me like those domestic fears, and while she was listening or talking (her mother made her Went to Chatfield’s house for New Year’s Eve together—Lo and Henry didn’t know what Haze was up to, she kept tapping on the table with the slippers in her hand, thank God she didn’t find anything! I took out a brightly colored silk handkerchief to wipe the sweat from my brow, and she followed it with alert eyes; indulging in a sense of slack comfort, and straightening my imposing burqa, she still held the phone, following She haggled with each other (the car must be picked up, my little Carmen), louder and louder, and I climbed the stairs and boomed the tub with boiling water. At this moment, I can also recite the complete lyrics of that song to you-at least the best way I remember-I never thought I could get it right.It is like this: Oh my Carmen, my little Carmen! What, what, those good nights, And stars, and cars, and bars and bartenders, Still fragrant, oh my charmer, our terrible strife. And the cheerful little town, arm in arm, us!And my last struggle, And the gun that killed you, oh my Carmen, I hold that gun tightly now. (He raises his .32 automatic, I think, and shoots a second round through his concubine's eye.) I ate lunch in town -- haven't been this hungry in years.After walking back slowly, Luo was not in the room.All afternoon I was thinking, plotting, and gleefully chewing on my morning's experience. I'm proud of myself for stealing sweets without hurting a young man's character.No harm at all.The magician poured milk, molasses, and frothy champagne into a young queen's brand new white bag; and lo, lo, the bag was still intact.And so I crafted my dirty, hot, sinful dreams; Lolita was safe—and so was I.It is not her that I crazily possess, but my own creation, another, a fantasy Lolita, perhaps more real than Lolita; the phantasy overlaps and encloses her, floating between me and her, without desire , without feeling, her own life does not exist. The kid doesn't know anything.I never did anything to him.At the same time there was nothing preventing me from re-enacting an action that had little effect on her, as if she were a moving image on the screen and I was the humble hunchback masturbating in the dark.Little by little the afternoon wore on, and in the mature silence the exuberant tree seemed to know something; desire even stronger than before began to torment me again.Let her come back soon, I pray to the foreign god, and let the sofa scene repeat itself while mother is in the kitchen, I beg, I am so terribly infatuated with her. No, "terrible" is the wrong word.A new sense of joy flooded me, and the exaltation was not terrible but pathetic.I define it as pathetic.Poor -- because despite my insatiable, burning lust, I suppressed it with all my strength, trying to preserve the innocence of that twelve-year-old. Now look at the reward for my pain.No Lolita came home -- she went to the movies with the Chatfields.The table was more elegantly arranged than usual: candles, indeed.In this sad atmosphere, Mrs. Haze tapped the silverware on both sides of the plate softly like a keyboard, then smiled down at her empty plate (being on a diet), and said she wished I could Love that salad (recipe picked from a women's magazine).She hoped that I would like that cold spell too. It was a perfect day.Mrs. Chatfield was a lovely person.Phyllis, her daughter, is going to summer camp tomorrow.to stay for three weeks.Lolita has also decided to leave on Thursday instead of waiting until July as previously planned.Phyllis lived there until school started.A nice prospect, my darling. Oh, how frightened I am by this news--doesn't it mean that I've just secretly claimed her and am about to lose her?In order to explain my stern look, I had to use the toothache excuse I played this morning.There must have been a canker the size of a wine-soaked cherry on that huge white tooth. "We have a very good dentist here," said Haze, "our neighbor, Quilty, actually. I think it's the playwright's uncle or cousin. Think you can pass?Well, up to you.In autumn, I would, in my mother's words, let him hold her steady, which could somewhat restrain Luo.I'm afraid Luo has been disturbing you enough these days.We've got a few more stormy days before she goes.At first she was determined not to leave.Movies might comfort her.Phyllis is a very sweet girl, and Luo has no reason not to like her.Really, sir, I am troubled by your teeth.If it's still hurting tomorrow morning, it's totally time for me to get Ivor.Quilty, it's a top priority.You know, I think summer camping is pretty healthy, and -- of course, I'm saying it's a whole lot better than just moping on the lawn, wearing mommy's lipstick, chasing shy movie gents, or blowing up at the slightest bit Temper, it's more meaningful than these. " "You're sure," I said at last, "that she'll be happy there?" (abrupt, regrettable abrupt!) "she'll be all right," said Haze. "Not a lot of fun, either. Summer Camp is run by Shirley Holmes—you know, the lady who wrote "The Spring Fire Girl." Summer camp will teach Dolores Haze to grow in many ways-health, knowledge, self-cultivation.Especially when it comes to being responsible to others.Shall we take these candles and sit in the porch?Or do you want to go to bed and get that tooth fixed? " Treat that tooth. The next day they drove into town to buy what they needed for summer camp: any clothes they bought amazed Lo.At meals she still showed her usual sarcastic nature.Immediately after the meal, she went upstairs to her own room and buried them in the comic books for the rainy days of the camp (she had gone through them thoroughly before Thursday, and then threw them aside).I also went back to my room and wrote some letters.My plan was to leave the beach right now, and then, when school started, to resume my presence at Haze House; for I knew I couldn't live without the child.On Tuesday, they went shopping again, and said that if the hostess of the camp called while they were away, I would answer it for her.She did come; and almost a month later we had occasion to reminisce about our pleasant conversation.Lo ate at her room that Tuesday.After the usual quarrel with her mother, she kept crying, as before, and she didn't want me to see her red and swollen eyes: after a big cry, her face was always very delicate, her eyes were blurred with tears, and she had an unhealthy look. allure. I am deeply sorry for her misunderstanding of my secret beauty. Fei just loves that Botticelli pink, two budding roses, and wet and dull eyelashes; There have been many opportunities that have given me special comfort.But, this is more serious than I thought.While I was still sitting on the pitch-black altar (a wild wind blew out her red candle), Mrs. Haze smiled sadly, and said she had told Lo her beloved Humbert was in full agreement with the Summer Camp. What happened, "who knows," Haze went on, "the kid was in a rage; excuse: you and I were going to get rid of her; real reason: I told her we were going to change into a few more plain clothes tomorrow, and she made me buy them for her." Outrageous attire. You see, she sees herself as a big star; to me, she's just a strong, healthy, not pretty girl. I guess that's the source of our troubles." On Wednesday, I managed to stop her on the road for a few seconds: she was rummaging through a locker in the rooftop hallway in a sweatshirt and white shorts with green dots.I said something friendly and amusing, but she just snorted and didn't look at me at all.Desperate as hell, Humbert smacks her clumsily on the tailbone, but she hits him back with the dead Mr. Haze's shoe last. "Liar," she said.I walked slowly down the stairs, scratching my arms, showing great remorse.Never condescending to come and eat with Heng and mother: After washing my hair, I went to bed with a joke book.Tomorrow Thursday, Mrs. Haze will tiptoe her way to Camp Q. As writers greater than I have written: "Let the reader imagine", etc.Thinking about it again, I was still very interested in those imaginations while I was panting.I know that I have been forever in love with Lolita; but I also know that she cannot always be Lolita.She will be thirteen on January 1st.In another two or so years, she would stop being a nymphet and become a "young lady," and then, a "college girl"—disappointment upon disappointment. The word "forever" refers only to my own feelings, only to that eternal Lolita in my blood.That Lolita her iliac crest hasn't spread out yet, that Lolita I can touch, smell, hear and see today, that Lolita has a rough voice and thick brown hair - combed bangs , with curly sides, a slightly arched back, a slim neck, and a mouth full of foul language -- "rebel," "high-class," "sexy," "dumb," "boring guy" -- that Lolita, my Lolita, poor Gataras, was about to lose her forever.So how could I bear the summer insomnia of not seeing her for two months?Two months out of the two years she's still sensual and girlish!Shall I disguise myself as gloomy old-fashioned nymphet, dumb Miss Humbert, and pitch my tent near Camp Q, hoping its crimson will make the nymphets go crazy: "We take that low voice D.P. in the house," and draws the brooding, shy-smiling "Bigfoot" Beth into their modest home.Bourne then potentially slept with Dolores Haze! Useless and raw dreams.Two months of beauty, two months of tenderness, will be wasted forever, and there is nothing I can do, nothing to do, nothing to do. But, love, a rare drop of honey did fall into its funnel that Thursday.Mrs. Haze was going to drive her to camp early in the morning, and I heard the chaotic noise before parting. I hurried out of bed and leaned out the window. Under the poplar trees, the car was already floating.On the side of the road, Louise stood, shielding her eyes with her hand, as if the little traveler had sailed into the low sun.That gesture was really childish. "Quick!" Haze called.My Lolita, half in the car, was about to close the door with all her might, roll down the glass again, and wave goodbye to Louise and Poplar (she never saw them and them again), when suddenly fate The thought interrupted her: she looked up - and rushed back into the room (Haze shouted furiously behind her). After a while, I heard my sweetheart running up the stairs.My heart was enlarged by a force that almost destroyed me.I quickly put on my pajama pants and opened the door: almost at the same time, Lolita arrived, wearing a Sunday dress, panting, and then threw herself into my arms, her innocent mouth was black in the eyes of men. The upper and lower lips softened under the fierce pressure, my trembling little heart!The next moment I heard her—alive and unmolested—running down the stairs hurriedly.The idea of ​​fate was restored.Brown legs tucked in, doors slammed shut -- slammed again -- and Driver Haze slammed the starter savagely, rubber red lips spitting something, and my love was taken away; And neither they nor Louise noticed that old Miss Opposite, a sick man, was coming down from her ivy-covered porch. Li waved his hands slightly rhythmically. I still hold ivory Lolita in my empty palm - full of the feeling of her immature slightly curved back, full of fingers gliding from top to bottom through her thin veil dress when hugging her The feeling of her ivory body.I walked into her messy room, opened the cabinet door wide, and got into a pile of crooked clothes that had been close to her.In particular, there was a thin pink shirt that was torn, and there was a faint sour smell from the seams.I hold it against Humbert's blood-swollen chest.There was a biting turmoil in my heart-but I had to throw away these things and recover quickly, because I clearly heard the maid's thin voice calling me at the stairs.She said she had a note for me; and adding "You're welcome" to my mechanical thanks, good Louise left an unstamped, handsomely handwritten letter in my trembling hands. Here’s the confession: I love you (and so begins the letter; there’s a twisted moment when I mistake this hysterical scribble for schoolgirl scribbles).Last Sunday at church - bad guy, you refused to look at our beautiful new windows 1 - it was last Sunday, my dear, I asked God what to do, I was inspired to do what I am going to do now.You see, there is no choice.I fell in love with you from the moment I saw you, I am a passionate and lonely woman, you are the love of my life. Now, my dearest, dearest, my dear, dear sir, you have read this letter; now you know everything. Therefore, I ask if you can pack your bags immediately and leave.This is an order from the hostess.I am removing a tenant.I'm going to kick you out.Set to open!go out!leave!I'll be back at dinnertime, and if I don't have an accident (but what does it matter?), I don't want to see you in my room again.Please, please, leave now, without even reading this ridiculous letter.set to open.Goodbye. Lovers, the situation is simple.Of course, I can be absolutely sure that I don't matter to you, absolutely nothing.Oh yes, you love talking to me (bad poor me), and you love our friendly house more and more, my favorite books, my pretty garden, and even Lo's rowdy look - but I don't matter to you.right?correct.It doesn't matter anyway.But if after reading my "confession", you conclude with your secretive and romantic European psychology that I am still attractive enough to you, so you want to take advantage of my letter and flirt with me, then you are a criminals -- even worse than abductors who rap young children.See, my dear, if you decide to stay, if I find you still at home (which I know it won't be - that's why I'm still writing this letter), the fact that you stayed will only mean one thing Thing: You need me as much as I need you: as a lifelong companion; you are ready to tie your life to mine forever and ever, and to be the father of my little daughter. Let me babble a little longer, my dearest, because I know this letter has now been torn up by you (illegible) and thrown into the vortex of the toilet.My dearest, my very, very dear, what a world of love I have built for you during this miraculous month of June!I know how conservative and "British" you are.Your old-fashioned silence, your sense of conformity might be horrified by an American girl's rudeness!You who hide your strongest feelings must think me a shameless little fool for opening my poor wounded heart in this way.Over the years, I have had many disappointments.Mr. Haze was a fine man, a solid soul, but he was twenty years my senior, and—well, let's stop talking about the past.My dearest, if you ignore my request and read to the painful end of this letter, your curiosity will be well served.never mind.Destroy it and walk away.Don't forget to leave the key on the table in your bedroom.Please leave your address so that I can refund the twelve dollars I owe you by the end of this month.goodbye dear.Pray for me - if you pray. Xia Heishang What I present here is my recollection of the letter, and what I remember is my memorization of the covenant verbatim (including those French words of Béneu).The original letter was at least twice as long.I missed a lyrical passage, I've been more or less skipping through it, which is usually about Lolita's brother, who died at the age of two, she was four, and she said how I would have loved it otherwise pool.Let me see if I have anything else to say?correct. "The vortex of the toilet" (where the letter came from) is actually my own coined phrase.She may have asked me to light a special fire to burn it down. My first reaction was disgust and withdrawal.The second rests like a friend's calm hand on my shoulder and orders me to hurry up and think.I did. I emerged from the stupor and found myself still in Lo's bedroom.A complete page torn from a highbrow magazine is tacked to the wall above the bed, between the mouth of a male singer and the eyelashes of a female movie star.That page showed a dark-haired young husband with an Irish dead eye.He was modeling a dress made by So-and-so, holding a bridge-shaped plate made by So-and-so with breakfast for two in it.The headline read, "Conquering Heroes, Photo by Reverend Thomas Morell."The thoroughly overwhelmed woman (not shown) may be supporting the half that is holding the saucer up.How her bedmate got under the bridge without sordid bad luck is less clear.Luo playfully drew an arrow on the face of his mourning lover, and wrote in square characters: H. H． .Indeed, despite the different ages, the similarities are amazing.Below this is another painting, also a color advertisement.A fine playwright is solemnly smoking a Trom.He always smokes Trom.This time the similarities are few and far between.Below this is Luo Chunjie's bed, littered with many "jokes".The enamel had peeled off from the bed frame, revealing round black spots on the bottom.When I was sure Louise was gone, I threw myself on Lo's bed and reread the letter.