Chapter 6 chapter Five

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury!I can't swear that some motive for the deal at hand--unless I can fake the expression--has never crossed my mind before.But my brain never retained them in any logical form, or connected them with certain exact situations in memory; Darkness really thought about it (putting on another expression).There have been many times in the past - and there should have been many, if I knew Humbert - when, in fairness, I contemplated marrying a mature widow (like Charlotte Haze) with the sole purpose of being able to Her daughters (Lo, Laura, Lolita) do as they please.I was even ready to tell my tormentor that maybe once or twice I would cast a cold connoisseur's gaze on Charlotte's pink lips, blond hair, and dangerously low neckline before trying to make her Get used to this daydream that seems real.All this I admit with pain.Imaginable pain, maybe, but extraordinarily horrible.I wish I could get off the subject and tell you more about Nocturne Fantasia; as I wandered back to my childhood, a word came to mind by accident, such as sharp and hard pain (what a painful genius invented that!) Or after the ghastly and cunning words "trauma," "traumatic accident," and "the gallows," Fantasia would again haunt the night; it tore me too.But my story is bad enough.

After a while I destroyed the letter, went back to my room, mused, tousled my hair, straightened my purple nightgown, gritted my teeth and moaned under my breath, and then suddenly—suddenly, Mr. Court, I felt A Dostoyevsky grin emerged (through my twisted and hideous lips), like a distant and terrifying sun.I imagined (in new and accurate visibility) all the abusive caresses her mother's husband had for his Lolita.I can hold her to my chest three times a day.My troubles will disappear and I will be a healthy person. "Embracing you softly on one tender knee, pressing a father's kiss on your delicate cheek..." Learned Humbert!

Then, with extreme caution, so to speak, carefully spelled Charlotte as a possible life mate.By God, I can force myself to spare her half a grapefruit and serve her a sugar-free breakfast. Humbert Humbert, sweating profusely in the harsh light of day, wailing under his breath, turning his conscience, tearing the lining of his soul for further "explanation" (what a word of caution!) I didn't plan To marry poor Charlotte, in order to get rid of her by some savage, dangerous and hideous means, like putting five tablets of mercury dioxide in her sherry before dinner to kill her, etc.; but a The Recipe for Intimacy--Sexual thoughts were indeed tinkling in my dark, confused mind.What was it that limited me, made me cringe and hide in that hug I tried?Visions of sexual fulfillment flickered and smiled before me.I saw myself injecting both mother and daughter with a powerful sleeping potion so that I could indulge the latter all night long.The room was filled with Charlotte's thunderous snoring, while Lolita was silent in her sleep, as quiet as a girl in a painting.

"Mommy, I swear Kenny never touched me." You've either lied, Dolores Haze, or you're the devil who lays on sleeping women. " No, I won't go that far. Thus the "demon Humbert over woman" plots, fantasizes -- the sun of desire and decision (these two create a living world) rises higher; , glistening wine glass in hand, to swig the joyous evenings of the past and future.Then I shattered the cup symbolically, and bravely imagined (by then, drunk on the beauties and underestimating my natural delicacy) how I could finally blackmail—no, the word That's too serious--how can Big Haze be coaxed; if she tries to stop me from playing with my legal stepdaughter, I'll scare the poor debilitated big pigeon by pretending to abandon her, and force her to allow me and Little Black In a word, in the face of such a "surprising marriage proposal" by today's people and such a vast and ever-changing scene, I seem so helpless, just like Adam in the ancient oriental historical film, Night Apple In the core, I fantasized about the appearance of a mirage.

Now please mark the following passage: the artistry in me already has a great advantage over the gentlemanly.In this memoir, I have been able to adapt my style to the diary style by strong willpower.I kept writing when Mrs. Haze was just a hindrance to me.There is nothing more to say about my diaries; let me cherish their tone, however wrong and ruthless they now appear to me; I force this to be my artistic duty.Happily, for the sake of verisimilitude, my story has come to a point where I do not have to humiliate poor Charlotte. Hoping to reassure poor Charlotte of her second or third defense on the road (and to avoid, perhaps, a collision with an oncoming vehicle that would shatter our respective dreams), I thought twice about calling Find her at the camp, but the attempt fails.She had left half an hour ago, and Lo picked it up, and I told her—in a trembling voice, full of my contentment over the conquest of fate—that I was going to marry her mother.I had to repeat it twice because something distracted her from me.

"Yeah, that's great," she said, laughing. "When's the wedding? Wait a minute, dog--here dog bit my sock, listen--" She added that she reckoned she'd have a lot of fun...and after I hung up, I realized, Those new impressions in a few hours at camp were enough to blot out the image of Humbert Humbert's handsomeness from little Lolita's mind.But what does it matter now?After the wedding, at the proper time, I can bring her back. "Orange buds wither horribly in graveyards," said a poet.But I am not a poet.I'm just a very frank recorder. After Louise left, I checked the refrigerator, found it too poor, and went into town to buy enough food.I also bought some good wine and a couple of vitamins.I am sure that by means of these stimulants and my natural strength I shall be able to avoid any embarrassment which indifference might produce when called upon to express a strong and burning passion.Seeing the vibrant Humbert over and over again, as if through a diorama of a male fantasy, makes Charlotte lose her mind.She was impeccably clean and well-shaped, and I could say she was my Lolita's big sister—if I didn't take too seriously her heavy hips, her round knees, her full breasts, her rough neck The pink skin (rough as opposed to satin and honey) and all the other regrettable and dull things I might keep thinking: a beautiful woman, that would be nice.

When the afternoon was about to ripen into night, the sun was round and slanted in the corner of the room as usual.I had a drink.Another glass.Another cup.Gin and pineapple jam, my best pairing, always gives me strength.I decided to give our lawn a go.A little tip.There were dandelions growing there, and a poodle--I hate dogs--had soiled the rough stones where a sundial had once been set.Most of the dandelions have changed from sunlight to moonlight.Gin and Lolita both danced in my mind, and I nearly tripped over the folding chair I wanted to banish.Blood red zebras!Some hiccups sound like you're laughing -- at least mine did.An old fence at the back of the garden separated us from the neighbour's dustbins and lilacs; the grass fence in front of the gate (which sloped along the side of our house) and the road were not much screened.So I can watch (with the smirk of someone who is about to perform some good deed) Charlotte's return: that tooth should be pulled out immediately.I pushed the mower back and forth, left and right, and all the blades of grass seemed to shake in the low sun, while I kept my eyes on the other side of the road.The road curves in under the green arc of the tall trees, and comes toward us, coming, very straight, between old Miss Opposite's ivy-covered brick house and steep lawn (than ours much tidier) before passing, and then the shop disappeared behind our own front porch, out of sight from where I toiled happily gasping.

The dandelion fell.A drop of sap melted into pineapple jam.Two little girls, Marion and Mabel, at the mercy of whom I was later mechanically trapped, unable to escape (but which one would replace my Lolita?), headed down this street (our "Law Street 1" just fell like a waterfall from there), one pushed the bicycle, the other ate something out of the paper bag, and both of them talked and laughed with their sunny voices.Lechley, the gardener and driver of the old Opposite team, a very kind and strong black man, grinned and yelled at me from a distance, and explained with gestures that I was really refreshed today .The stupid dog of the wealthy junk dealer next door is chasing a blue sedan -- not Charlotte's.The prettier of the two little girls (Mabel, I think) wore shorts and a narrow corset, and had shiny hair--a nymphet, made by the Aries God!

-- ran back to the road, crumpled the paper bag, and hid behind the "green goat" on the border of the Humberts' house.A stagecoach came suddenly out of the shade of the street tree, its roof hanging a little before the green shadow snapped; The second-hand dealer's dog weeps, there's a momentary pause for a smile -- and then there's a thump in my chest as I see the "Blue Car" return.I saw it go downhill and disappear behind the corner of the house.I only glimpsed her calm, pale profile.I don't think she'll know if I'm gone until she goes upstairs.A minute later she was looking down from the window in Luo's room with an expression of anguish on her face.I ran upstairs at full speed, trying to get there before she left.

When the bride is a widow and the groom is a widower; when the former has lived in "our great little town" for less than two years, the latter has not lived for more than a month; The smile yields; a wedding, then, my reader, is generally a "quiet" event.A bride may forego a crown of orange blossoms, secure her fingertip hoods, or carry a sprig of brandy in a prayer book.The bride's youngest daughter may add a touch of vivid vermilion to Heng and Heng's union, but I know I dare not be too tender to a forced Lolita and agree that it is not worth taking the child from her heart at this time. Love the Q camp pull away.

My self-proclaimed amorous and lonely Charlotte is gregarious in everyday life.Also, I found her to be a very confident woman, despite her instinct to control her heart or her tears.She has just made love to my lady (her "eager and nervous lover"--a heroic lover!--although there are still some early difficulties on the doping, for which he uses his old-time sweet Sweet romantic tenderness more than compensated her) good Charlotte asked me about my relationship with God.I could have replied that I was open-minded; but it turned out -- paying my homage to a set of pious platitudes -- that I cursed the gods of the universe.She looked down at her nails and asked if there was any strange blood in my family. I asked her back if she would marry me if my father's maternal grandfather had been, say, Turk.She said it didn't matter; but if she found out that I didn't believe in "our Christian God" at all, she would kill herself.She spoke so seriously that I shuddered.That's when I knew she was a woman of faith. Oh, she was very educated indeed: she said "forgive me" every time there was a slight pause in her fluent conversation, every time "xinfeng" was pronounced "xiafeng"; My girlfriends call me Mr. Humbert.I thought she would be delighted if I entered the public circle with a glamorous light.On the day of my wedding, a short interview with me appeared in the "Society Section" of the Ramsdale Journal, complete with a picture of Charlotte, one eyebrow raised, and a misspelled name (" Hazel").Despite all the embarrassment, the publicity cheered her up—and I shook my head with embarrassing pleasure.By the time Charlotte became interested in ecclesiastical affairs, and managed to get acquainted with the better mother of Charlotte's schoolmates, in nearly twenty months she had become an acceptable, if not eminent, citizen; She never appeared in the exciting column, and it was I, Edgar, Mr. H. Humbert (I add Edgar for show only), the "writer and explorer," who made her name.McCoo's brother asked me what I had written.No matter what I told him, when it came out it was "a couple of books about peacocks and rainbows and other poets".It also stated that Charlotte and I had known each other for many years and that I was a distant relative of her first husband.I hinted that I had an affair with her thirteen years ago, but this was not mentioned at the time of publication.I said to Charlotte that the social column should have some margin of error. Let us continue with this bizarre story.Did I experience nothing but pain and disgust when I was called to enjoy the transition from houseguest to lover?No, Mr. Humbert admits that his vanity takes a certain thrill, a vague tenderness, and even a remorse which gracefully follows the edge of his conspirator's dagger.I never expected this girl, as pretty as she was to be, with her blind faith in her church and book club, her manner of speaking, and her harsh, hard-hearted attitude toward a furry, sweet twelve-year-old. Mrs Humbert, who seemed rather ridiculous in her contemptuous manner, could become such a charming and delicate creature that when I laid my hand on Lolita's at the door of her bedroom, she shrank back tremblingly. , kept saying, "No, no, please don't." The change drastically changed her appearance.Her smile used to be such a contrived thing, but now it has become so charming and bright -- bright, with something soft and warm, and I was surprised to find that it was different from that cute but empty and confused look. So much the same look that Lo has when he's greedily eyeing a new concoction drink, or silently admiring my expensive clothes that are always freshly tailored.I went into a frenzy, watching Charlotte exchange parenthood woe with other ladies, watching her make that national grimace (eyes rolled up, mouth slanted to one side) that symbolizes female submissiveness, which I had seen as a baby Generally for yourself.We always had a whiskey or some other spirit before bed, and I depended on them to remember the baby while holding my mother.This is her white belly where my nymphet curled up like a small fish in 1934.The thin, dyed hair, so dry to my sense of smell and touch, yet at certain moments of lamplight, on the porter's bed, acquired the color, if not the texture, of Lolita's curls.As I dispose of my new wife who has grown old together, I keep telling myself that, as far as I am concerned, this is the most convenient way to get close to Lolita; schoolgirl, and Lolita's daughter will one day be.From a thirty-year-old photo album, I unearthed my wife under a pile of shoes (Mr. No, the clothes are not beautiful, I can still vaguely see the original outline of Lolita, the legs, the cheekbones, the short nose.Lotti Rita, Loli Teshin. In this way, like a tomcat, I looked over the wall of the years and looked into the pale window.As she, with her noble breasts and fat hips, prepared me for my nocturnal duty with compassionate passion and caresses of a naive commoner, I cried out through the dark undergrowth and decaying grove, While still desperately trying to find the breath of a nymphet. I simply cannot tell you how tender and touching my poor wife is. At breakfast, in the depressingly bright kitchen, with gleaming chrome flatware, a "Hardware and Cobalt List" and a lovely breakfast nook (pretend that Charlotte and Humbert used to hang out in college "Coffee Shop"), where she sat, dressed in red, with her elbows on the plastic-topped table and her cheek in her palm, watching with unbearable tenderness as I digested my ham and eggs.Humbert's face may have been contorted with neuralgia, but to her it was as beautiful and alive as the sunlight and rippling leaf shadows on the white refrigerator.My serious anger was to her the silence of love.I added my meager income to her more limited income, and moved her as if she had made a fortune; not because the total can meet the needs of most middle-class people today, but because even my money is attached to me in her eyes. Masculine magic, she sees our combined property as a southern avenue at noon, continuous shade on one side, genial sun on the other, stretching to the end of hope, with pink hills looming. During the fifty days we lived together, Charlotte was packed with several years of activity. The poor woman is busy with a series of things she hasn't done for a long time or has never been so interested in doing, as if (drawing out this Prussian tone) I marry the mother of the child I love, just Being able to be entrusted with labor has restored my wife's vigorous youth. She begins to "brilliantize the room" with the intense interest of an ordinary young bride.I have felt every crack in the house with my heart - because these days I sit in a chair and meditate and draw Lolita's route through the house - I have already stepped into the relationship with this home and its Some emotional connection to the filth and dust, and now I could almost feel these unfortunate things recoil, reluctance to suffer the baths of hazel and ocher and buff and deep yellow lead dust Charlotte planned to bestow on them.She had never been so quick, thank God, but she did spend a lot of money washing the curtains, waxing the strips of the Venetian blinds, buying new curtains and blinds, sending them back to the store for another set, and so on. With energy, she smiles, frowns, doubts, pouts; as if in a chiaroscuro painting.She tried changing the color of the couch with chintz - right on top of this holy couch where a bubble of heaven was slowly bursting inside me.She rearranged the furniture—and, in an essay on housekeeping, found this phrase quite comfortably: "It's perfectly possible to separate a pair of sofa frames from their matching lamps." Inspired by "Your Home is You" She developed an absolute hatred of small armchairs and long spindle-shaped tables.She believes that the wide windows and the fine wood panels are typical of the masculinity of the room, while the feminine characteristics are the small windows and the unstable wooden frame.I went in to find that the few novels she read had been replaced by picture books and home guides.She then ordered a double bed from a factory located at 4640 Roosevelt Avenue in Philadelphia, and also asked for a "brocade mattress that can accommodate 314 snails"-although the boat is old, I think it is elastic and durable. Both are good enough to support anything. She was a Midwesterner, and her husband hadn't lived long enough in quiet Ramsdale--the jewel of an Eastern state--to know all the good people.She knew a little about the jovial Yaling who lived in a crumbling wooden cottage behind our lawn.At a church tea, she meets the wife of the local junk dealer "Pride Power", whose husband owns the white terror of "Colony" on the corner of the high street.She also "meets" old Miss Opposite often; but on those she visits more often, or meets at lawn meetings.Or among the noble ladies who chatted with me on the phone--such elegant ladies as Mrs. Graff, Mrs. Sheridan, Mrs. McChrystal, Mrs. Knight, etc., but rarely seem to visit my neglected place. charlotte.Indeed, the only people with whom she had a genuinely cordial relationship, without any ulterior motives or any practical purpose, were the Faroes who returned from a business trip to Chile in time for our wedding.There were also the Chatfields, the McCoos, and a few others (but no Mrs. Junk or the more haughty Mrs. Hound).John Farlow was middle-aged, quietly, quietly lively and strong, a quietly successful sporting goods broker, with an office in Parkington, ten miles away: It was he who, on a Sunday walk in the woods, brought me some special cartridges for the Colt revolver, and told me how to do it;Joan, his young wife (formerly a cousin), was a long-limbed girl with funny glasses and two boxers, two tall jade peaks, and a pair of thick red lips.She painted--landscapes and portraits--and I distinctly remember, over a cocktail, admiring her portrait of one of her nieces, Rosalind Jr.Honeke, a sweet little rose: wearing a Boy Scout uniform, a green velvet beret, a green belt, charming curly hair falling shoulders--John took off the pipe and said it was a poor doll (my flower Rita), who was too critical of everyone at school, but he hopes, and we all hope, that they will be better when they return from their respectable camp.We talk about school.It has its drawbacks as well as its virtues, "Of course, there are too many Italians doing business here", John said, "On the other hand, we are still giving up..." "I hope," interrupted Joan, laughing, "that Doll and Rosaleen can spend the summer together." Suddenly I imagined Lo returning from camp--brown, warm, lethargic, drugged--and about to cry with unbearable longing. A few more words to say about Mrs. Humbert, while things are still going well (a mishap is about to happen).I knew her inner possessiveness well, but I never expected her to be so madly jealous of any romance in my life that wasn't hers.She showed an insatiable curiosity about my past.She asked me to revive all my romances, so that I could insult them, trample them, spit them out, and destroy my past.She made me tell her about my marriage to Valeria, who of course was a joke; meanwhile I had to create, or brutally compile, a series of lovers for Charlotte's morbid pleasure. I also had to please her by showing her an illustrated catalog I made for them, all sorts, made according to the rules of those American advertisements, which usually depict students with subtle sex ratios, and there is always one The chocolate-colored, round-eyed lad -- just one, but rather cleverly drawn -- was almost in the middle of the front row.So I show her my women and make them laugh and sway -- languid blondes, hot brunettes, lustful vipers -- like a drill in a brothel, I The more vulgar and coquettish they were made, the more pleased Mrs. Humbert was with the display. I have never confessed so much in my life, nor have I heard so many confessions.She talks about her so-called "love life", from the first casual kiss and hug, with a sincerity and simplicity that, morally, contrast sharply with my glib tirade; The set is the same, because both are influenced by the same things (soap opera, psychoanalysis, cheap novella), from which I draw my characters, and she, the modes of expression.According to Charlotte, the good man Harold Haze had some strange sexual habits that made me laugh. Charlotte thought my laughter was purely abnormal, but the rest of her autobiography was like her. The post-mortem analysis that loves to do is just as uninteresting.I have never seen a healthier woman, though she ate very little.She said very little about my Lolita--in fact, less than she said about the blond baby boy in the only blurry photograph that adorned our forlorn bedroom.In one of her tedious flashbacks, she prophesied that the spirits of dead babies would be reincarnated in the form of the children she conceived from this marriage.It's just that I'm not particularly eager to follow up on Humbert's cigarettes with Harold's replica (Lolita, whom I already consider my child with an incestuous tremor), but I think next spring When, a long sickness, or a nice escapade in a safe maternity ward or some other complication would have given me a few weeks alone with my Lolita, or-- Sleeping pills feed my weak nymphet. Oh, she just hated her daughter!What I find particularly cruel is that she assiduously answered sets of questions from a stupid Chicago-published book she owned (The Child's Guide to Development).The gibberish was repeated year after year, and Mom seemed to have to fill out a checklist for each of her child's birthdays.On January 1, 1947, the day Lo turned twelve, Charlotte, Haze, and Becker underlined ten of the forty adjectives in the column "Your Child's Personality" : Aggressive, violent, critical, untrustworthy, impatient, easily irritated, nosy, disorganized, passively defiant (double crossed), and stubborn. She also ignores thirty other adjectives, including charming, cooperative, energetic, and so on.This is crazy.With a cruelty never shown before, my lovely and mild-natured wife encroached and cleared Lowe's meager property, throwing it about like so many hypnotized squirrels.This good woman never dreamed that one morning my terribly sick stomach (the result of my attempts to improve her jam) prevented me from accompanying her to church, when I used one of Lolita's The socks tricked her.And then her attitude to my dear man's letter! Dear Mom and Hemi: I wish you happiness.Thank you so much for the candy you posted.I (crossed out and rewritten) lost my new sweater in the mountains.It's been cold here the last few days.My day is very.Love you guys. Dolly "The stupid boy," said Mrs Humbert, "missed a word at the very end. That sweater is pure wool, I hope next time I don't send her candy until I ask. "