Chapter 8 Chapter VII

I rush out the door.Beyond our steep little road lay a strange vista.A big, bright Packard limousine glinted in the sun on a lawn that sloped up from the sidewalk at Miss Opposite's house (a tartan lapcloth lay in the haystack), its doors glistening. Open like wings, the front wheels sink deep into evergreen bushes.To the right of the car, on the neat grass of the lawn slope, a well-dressed older gentleman with a white mustache - double-breasted gray suit, flowery bow tie - lay on his back, his two The long legs are joined together, like a lifeless human body of sealing wax.I had to turn the momentary sight into a succession of words; their arrangement on the page, one after the other, would make up for the chaos of impressions that had actually been violently assembled in a moment: rug, car, old man. Gentleman, nurse from O's team ran, with a rustling, half-empty tumbler in hand, back to the screened front porch - as you can imagine, the one there who was strutted and restrained The old woman was probably screaming herself, but not loud enough to drown out the rhythmic barking of the jonkers as they passed from group to group--a group that had gathered on the pavement near some of the inspectors. Then he ran back to the car, turned it upside down, and then to another group on the lawn, Leslie, two policemen, and a burly man with tortoiseshell glasses.On that note, I should explain that the cops on patrol showed up less than a minute after the accident because they were issuing notices to illegally parked vehicles on the intersection two blocks away; the one with the glasses The man's name was Frederick Beale, Jr., the driver of the Parder limousine; his seventy-nine-year-old father was lying on the green grass, and the nurse was still watering him--the haystack, so to speak, was a piles of workbenches—he wasn't really dead, but comfortable and methodical waiting to wake up from a heart attack or the possibility of it; pointed to me on the pavement with displeasure at the crooked green slit) of the mangled corpse of Charlotte Humbert as she hurried across the road to the corner of Miss Opposite's lawn. The mailbox was knocked over by Bill's car on its way to drop the three letters, and dragged a few feet.A pretty-faced kid in a dirty pink robe picked up the letters and handed them to me.So I tore them to shreds in my trouser pocket.

Three doctors and the Farlows were on the scene quickly and took over.The widower, a man of exceptional self-control, neither wept nor yelled. He wobbled a bit, that's what he looked like; but he opened his mouth only to convey all the circumstances and instructions that were so necessary in relation to the autopsy and its aftermath; her parietal bone, brains, blond hair, and blood were blurred one slice.The sun was still shining when he was put into bed in Dolly's room by his two friends, John the Kind and Joan the Tears; Knowing that he probably didn't get through the night with the purity that this dire situation required.

In this particular memoir I need not dwell on the obligatory pre-funeral ceremonies, or the funeral itself, which was as silent as a wedding.But in the five or so days following Charlotte's easy death, there are nine episodes that deserve mention. On my first night as a widower, I was so drunk that I fell asleep like a child who had slept in that bed.Early the next morning, I hurriedly checked the fragments in my pocket.It's a mess when it's finished, and it can't be put together into three complete things.I presume that "...you better find it because I can't buy it..." is from a letter to Lo; other fragments seem to refer to Charlotte trying to take Lo to Parkington, or back to Persky, lest The black-hearted vultures stole her precious sheep (I never thought I'd have such claws).The other scraps were obviously applications, not to St. Ah's, but to another boarding school, where the education was said to be very harsh, very old, and very dull (although there was looping ball under the elms too) , thus gaining the nickname of "Girl Reformatory".This last third letter was obviously addressed to me.I recognized the lines "...after a year apart, we might..." "Oh my dearest, oh my..." "...even worse than you have a new love..."" ...or, possibly, I will die..."

But all in all, my arrangement was useless; the variously shaped fragments of these three hastily written letters, intermingled in the palm of my hand, seemed still to be the thoughts of poor Charlotte's mind. On this day, John had to see a customer, and Joan had to feed the dogs, so I was able to get away from my friends for a while.These dear people are afraid that I will kill myself if I am left here alone, but because there are no other friends to be found (Miss Opposite is forbidden to communicate with the outside world, the McCoos are busy building a new house a few miles away, and the Chatfields have recently died of called to Maine over some family dispute of their own), entrusted Leslie and Louise to keep me company under the pretense of helping me sort out the orphan's things.With a moment of tragic gratitude, I gave the kind and gullible Farrows (we were waiting for Leslie to come on his and Loisie's paid date) a photograph I had recovered from Charlotte's belongings.She was sitting on a large pebble, smiling through her brunette hair that was plastered across her forehead.It was taken in April 1934, a memorable spring.During an official visit to Hezhong Park, I had the opportunity to spend a few months at Piesky.We got acquainted -- and a wild romance ensued.I'm married, ah, and she's engaged to Haze.But after I got back to Europe, we continued to connect through a friend: now dead.Joan stared at the picture and whispered that she had heard some rumour, and while looking at it handed it to John, who took away his pipe and looked at the lovely dissolute Charlotte.Becker, hand it back to me right away.They left for several hours after this.In the basement happy Louise giggled and scolded her beau.

No sooner had the Farrows left than a sullen priest with a jaw dropped—I wanted the interview to be as simple as possible, neither to hurt his feelings nor to arouse his suspicions.Yes, I will devote my life to that child's happiness.Let me mention, by the way, that this little cross was given to me by Charlotte when we were both young.I have a cousin who is a respectable old lady in New York.We can go there and find a good private school for Dolly.Oh, what a treacherous old Humbert! To make it easier for Leslie and Louise, who might (and did) report to John and Joan, I made a long-distance phone call with a deafening voice and a very good show, pretending to have sex with Shirley Holmes had a conversation.When John and Joan came back, I wholeheartedly welcomed them in, babbling to them that Lo had gone on a five-day trip with the intermediate group and therefore couldn't find her.

"God," said Joan, "what are we going to do?" John says it's easy - get the "top" police station to find the marching kids - and it won't take them an hour.In fact, he knew the area well, and—"Well," he went on, "why don't I just drive there now, and you can sleep with Joan"—(he didn't really add that, but Joan But he enthusiastically supported his suggestion, as if there was something tricky in it.) I was completely devastated.I beg John to let things take their course.I said I couldn't stand the baby crying around me all the time, she was so nervous, this experience might have a bad influence on her future, the psychiatrist has analyzed such phenomena.Then there was a sudden silence.

"Well, you're a doctor," John said abruptly. "But I'm Charlotte's friend and advisor after all, and I'd like to know what you're going to do with that child." "John," cried Joan, "she's his child, not Harold Haze's, don't you understand? Humbert is Dolly's real father." "I see," John said. "I'm sorry, yes, I see. I didn't think of that. That makes it easier, of course. Whatever you think is fine." The distraught father went on to say that as soon as the funeral was over, he went to find his precious daughter and did his best to give her a happy life in a completely different environment, possibly a trip to New Mexico or California -- as long as he lived, of course.

The calm of utter disappointment and tranquility before the outburst of madness I had assumed was so real that the kind Farrows forced me to move into their house.They've got a nice cellar, and it's all the rage around here; which helps a lot, because I'm afraid of insomnia and of ghosts. Now I should explain why I didn't let Dolores come.Naturally, first of all, when Charlotte had just vanished, and I was back in the house as a free father, swallowed the whiskey and soda I had prepared, and ducked into the bathroom to avoid neighbors and friends, only one thought was throbbing in my mind --Say it, it's clear, that in a few hours from then sweet, brunette, mine, mine, my Lolita will fall into my arms, and I will cry for her tears She kissed it even faster than they could gush.But when I stood before the mirror wide-eyed, flushed, and John Farrow knocked on the door and asked me if it was all right--I saw immediately that it would be madness to bring her home, where there was so much love Nosy people are always running around and trying to get her away from me.Indeed, the unpredictable Lo herself might as well -- who knows? --showing me some stupid mistrust, sudden distaste, or dazed fear, etc.--therefore fleeing was the magic reward of the moment of success.

Speaking of meddlers, I had another visitor--my friend Bill, the guy who got rid of my wife.Vulgar and serious, he looked like an assistant executioner, with a bulldog chin, small dark eyes, thick mirror-rimmed glasses, and upturned nostrils.He was ushered in by John, who turned and left, closing the door for us with the utmost graciousness.My sullen visitor kindly remarked that he had twin girls in my step-daughter's class, and then unfurled a volume of his homemade accident pictures, which were, in my step-daughter's words, "beautiful," full of Attractive arrows and dotted lines in various colored inks. H． Mrs. H's appointment route is shown by a series of small figures placed on several sides - doll-like Miss Careers or "Women's Army" - which are generally used as visual aids for statistics and the like .Be very clear and very specific.This line touches a sharply drawn circuitous line that marks two consecutive turns--one indicating that Bill's car is avoiding the jonker dog (the location of the dog is not marked), the second turning at A hyperbolic extension of the first, meant to alter the tragedy.A very conspicuous black fork indicated the location of the accident, and the neat little man finally stopped on the sidewalk.I tried to look for a similar symbol in place of the slope where my client's father had been lying on his back like a wax figure, but found nothing.The gentleman had signed the witness papers, signed Leslie.Below Thomson, Miss Opposite, and eight others.

Frederick's hummingbird pencil flits deftly from point to point with skill and deftness meant to illustrate his utter innocence and my wife's negligence: she was on the freshly drunk asphalt while he was hiding from the dog She slipped and fell forward, but she was not supposed to run forward, but back (Fred demonstrated with a sudden dip of his padded shoulder).I said it was certainly not his fault, and the autopsy agreed with me. He breathed heavily through his black, distended nostrils, shook his head, and my hand; then, with a well-known and gentlemanly air, he offered to pay for the funeral.He expects me to refuse his request.But I lost my way and accepted it gratefully.This really startled him, and he repeated his words slowly.I thanked him again, even more than before.

As a result of this incredible visit, the numbness of my soul was temporarily altered.no doubt!I've actually seen an agent of fate.I have touched the flesh of Destiny - and its thick shoulder pads.A burst of fantastic and weird changes came suddenly, this is the means.In the intricacies of the situation (the housewife in a hurry, the slippery road, a nasty dog, the steep slope, the oversized car, the gentleman at the wheel), I could dimly recognize my own sordid responsibility.If I hadn't been such a fool--or such an intuitive genius--to preserve that diary, the ooze of discerning anger and burning humiliation wouldn't be running in Charlotte. Blinded her eyes as she went to the mailbox.But even blinded, were it not for the accidental fate, that concurrent phantom confounding the car and the dog and the sun and the shadow and the damp and the weak and the strong and the stone in its still, still Probably nothing will happen.Goodbye, Marlin!Gracious Fate shook hands politely (as Bill had done again before leaving the room), and lifted me out of my dullness; I shed tears.Ladies and gentlemen of the hidden jury -- I shed a tear. Behind the billowing elms and poplars was turning into a gust of wind, and a cumulus cloud before and after the storm weighed down on the top of the white church tower at Ramsdale, and I looked around for the last time.For an adventure no one knows, I'm leaving this teal-and-black house I rented a one-bedroom just ten weeks ago.The curtains - economical bamboo shades - have been removed.A delicate braid to hang on a balcony or in a room is perfect for modern drama.Paradise House must be quite empty thereafter.A drop of rain fell on my hand.I was back in the house to get my stuff together again, and John was loading my luggage into the car, when a funny thing happened.I don't know if I have emphasized enough in the account of these tragedies that the author's good looks--pseudo-Celtic, charming ape, boyish masculinity--make people of all ages and backgrounds astonished. Women are especially fascinated by this.Of course, such a statement in the first person might sound ridiculous.But every now and then I must remind my readers of my appearance, which is much like that of a professional novelist who has given his character some quirk, or a dog, and every time the character appears in the story Whenever it appeared in the development process, he had to mention the dog, or the quirk again.This event may be even more so now.If my story is to be properly understood, it must bear in mind my sullen good looks.Adolescent Lo was fascinated by Humbert's charm, just as she was fascinated by hiccup pop; adult Lottie loved me with a mature possessiveness that I now regret and respect, Needless to say.Joan Farrow, thirty-one, deranged, was apparently also developing a strong affection for me.She was beautiful, a carved Indian type, with a complexion of burnt loess.Her lips are like big crimson polyps, and whenever she makes a special smile like a barking dog, her big withered yellow teeth and deep white gums will be exposed.She was tall, wore either gowns and sandals or flowing skirts and ballet slippers, drank hard liquor of any strength at all times, had two miscarriages, wrote novels about animals, drew pictures, readers know, landscapes, and was already in After undergoing cancer treatment, she will not live to be thirty-three years old; it's just helpless, she doesn't have any attraction for me.A few seconds before I left, Joan (who stood with me in the aisle) thought I was panicking and cupped my temples with her trembling fingers, her bright blue eyes filled with tears, Tried to stick my lips, but failed. "You take care of yourself," she said, "kiss your baby for me." A thunderclap shook the house again, and she said again: "Maybe, somewhere, someday, at a less painful time, we'll meet again." (Joan, whatever you are, wherever you are, in negative spacetime or positive soul time, forgive me for all this , including this parenthesis). Now I'm on the road, the steep road, shaking hands with both of them.Everything spins and dances before the white downpour; a truck from Philadelphia with a mattress loads confidently into an empty house, blowing dust over the slate on which Charlotte lay , when others lifted the top knee cloth for me, her curled body was revealed, her eyes were intact, the black eyelashes were still wet and thick, just like your Lolita. One might think that, now that all obstacles have been removed and there is only the prospect of boundless happiness and excitement before me, I can always let my heart down and give her a sigh of relief.But not at all!Instead of enjoying the light of the "opportunity" of smiling, he was entangled in all kinds of purely logical doubts and fears.For example: Would people be surprised that Lo so happens to always be excluded from celebrations and funerals of immediate family members?You remember -- we didn't have her at our wedding.Another thing is: assuming that the long hairy arm of the "coincidence" reached an innocent woman and killed her, wouldn't the "coincidence" ignore what its twin arms did when they were not religious Why, had Luo notified hastily out of sympathy?The accident was indeed reported only by the Ramsdale Journal--neither the Parkington's Record nor the Climax's Herald. Camp Q is in another state, and the local news of the death is less interesting than the national news; but I still can't help but imagine that Dolly Haze might have been told the bad news, and just before I went to On the way to pick her up, I was already driven back to Ramsdale by a friend I didn't know.Even more disturbing than all these speculations and anxieties is the fact that Humbert Humbert, a new American citizen of dubious European descent, has not yet adopted any of his dead wife's daughters (twelve and seven month) of the legal guardian's actions.Dare I take action?Whenever I imagine myself naked, surrounded by statutes sheltered in the blinding light of the brutal Common Law, I cringe. My plan is a marvel of primordial art: I'm going to drive like hell to Camp Q, tell Lol that her mother is going to have a major operation in one of my fictional hospitals, and then hang out from hotel to hotel with my sleepy sexy babe , while her mother's condition improved day by day, but unfortunately passed away in the end.My anxiety grew as I drove toward camp.I can't imagine that I might not find Lolita there - or find another, terrified Lolita yelling for help to some relatives and friends: not the Farlows, thank God - she doesn't know yet They--but wouldn't it be some others I couldn't think of?Finally, I decided to make a long-distance call, which I had deliberately simulated a few days ago.It was raining heavily, and I pulled over in the muddy suburb of Parkington at a fork in the road that bypasses the city and joins the highway, which cuts through the mountains to Lake Cremax and Camp Q.I turned off the ignition lightly and sat in the car for a full minute to brace myself for that call.Eyes on the rain, on the flooded pavement, on a fire hydrant: a stupid thing, really, thickly painted with silver and red, sticking out its red horns to let the rain soak, the rain like Strange blood dripped on its silver chains.Parking next to these nightmarish cripples is no doubt taboo.So I drove into a gas station.A surprise awaited me when the coin finally dropped with a clang of satisfaction, and a voice answered me. Ms. Holmes, the hostess of the camp, told me that Dolly left on Monday (today is Wednesday) to go with her group on the mountain hike and would not return until late today.Am I better off coming tomorrow, what the hell is going on - I didn't say anything in detail, just that her mother is in the hospital and in a bad way, but don't tell the kid it's bad and get her ready to leave with me tomorrow afternoon.The two voices parted in warm and sincere wishes, and all my pennies fell back to me with some strange mechanical failure, with a sudden, sudden crackling of good fortune, though I had to postpone the blessings of heaven. Disappointed, but it almost made me laugh.One might wonder if, having invented that little expedition before I had even heard of it, are these sudden outbursts, this intermittent refunds, in Mr. This is related. What's next?I drove on back to the commercial center of Parkington, and spent the afternoon (the weather was clear and the wet city was like a silver mirror) shopping for beautiful clothes for Lo.God, what kind of crazy buying is motivated by a strong preference that Humbert has these days, checker prints, bright cottons, floral silk trims, puff short sleeves, Soft pleats, comfortably fitted bodice and full skirt!Oh Lolita, you're my girl like Vie is Poe's and Belle's is Dante's, and what little girl doesn't like to spin around in a round skirt or shorts?Is there anything special I have in mind?A charming voice asked me. bathing suit?We have them in various colors.Dreamy pink, frosty white, lavender of acorn fruit, tulip red, oh la la, even the color of black jade.How about costumes?skirt?No skirts.Lo and I both hate skirts. The guide to buying these clothes was an anthropometric record taken by Lo's mother on her twelfth birthday (readers remember the book "Know Your Child").I have a feeling that Charlotte, driven by vague jealousy and resentment, has put on an inch here and a pound there; but as the maiden must have grown again in the last seven months, I suppose I Most of these January measurements can be safely accepted: hip, twenty-nine inches; thigh (just below the groin, 54321, seventeen; calf and neck, eleven; chest, twenty-seven; upper arm , eight; waist, twenty-three; length, fifty-seven inches; weight, seventy-eight pounds; build, slender; IQ, 121; appendix, thank God. Apart from these measurements, I could of course imagine Greta in hallucinatory splendor; I stroked the sting on my sternum where her haired head had once or twice rested against my atrium; I can still feel the weight of her warm flesh on my lap (so that, in a sense, I am always "with Lolita" as a pregnant woman is "with the fetus"), It was not surprising that I later found that my calculations were almost correct.Besides, I also studied a midsummer shopping book, so that I can browse all kinds of beautiful goods, sneakers, sneakers, made for crushed kid, with a rather knowledgable air. Made of crushed suede pumps.A make-up and black-clad group who served my exacting requests translated parenting knowledge and nuanced descriptions into business euphemisms like "little."Another older woman, wearing a white dress with gouache makeup, seemed to be touched by my knowledge of children's fashion; When the skirt was tumbling around, I deliberately asked an innocent male question, and was rewarded with a smiling demonstration of how the zipper on the back of the skirt opened and closed.Secondly, I have a great interest in all kinds of short and simple clothes-the little Lolitas in the fantasy are dancing, landing, bouncing around the counter, chirping.The shopping ended with some sets of plain cotton pajamas in the style of the little butcher.Humbert, the fashionable butcher. In those big stores, there was an atmosphere of mythic fascination, where, according to the ad, a working woman could buy a full-on stylish work suit, and a little sister could dream of the day when she would make classrooms look better in wool tights. The boys in the back were salivating.Life-size plastic figures of snub-nosed children, dun, green, and brown-dotted, faun-like faces floated beside me.I found myself the only customer in the eerie store, walking like a fish in a pale turquoise aquarium.I feel the strange thoughts in the minds of those languid clerks escorting me from counter to counter, from rocky edge to seaweed, while the belt and bracelet I choose fall from the hands of a siren. into clear water.I bought a scented suitcase, filled it with my shopping, and headed to the nearest hotel, feeling relieved for the day. But, in connection with this quiet, poetic, fastidious shopping afternoon, I was reminded of the seductively named "The Enchanted Hunter" Hotel or Inn that Charlotte had casually mentioned shortly before my emancipation.With the help of a guidebook, I located it in hidden Bryce Land, a four-hour drive from Lowe's camp.Ordinarily I could call, but I was afraid that my voice would lose control and I would stutter like a shy Yangjingbang English, so I decided to send a telegram to book a double room for tomorrow night.What a comic, melancholy, vacillating happy prince I am!How some of my readers would laugh at me if I told them about the trouble with the words I had in sending!How should I write: Humbert and Daughter?Hemberg and young daughter ?Humberger with underage girls? Hemberg with kids?That amusing mistake--the ending "dig"--worked out in the end, perhaps these hesitant telepathic echoes of mine. And then, on a cozy summer evening, I thought of narcotics!O greedy Humbert!Wasn't he just an enchanted hunter when he was alone contemplating his box of magic potions?Should he try a tablet of this purple medicine himself in order to drive away the ghost of insomnia?There are forty pieces in total, and it's all said-forty nights, there is a weak sleeper by my throbbing side; can't I give up a night like this, just to fall asleep now?Of course not: simply too precious, every little purple treasure, every tiny orrery with clusters of stars.Oh, let me weep for this moment!I'm tired of being sarcastic all the time. In this dead, dark, filthy prison, the daily headaches were disturbing, but I had to bear it.I have written more than a hundred pages, and I still haven't touched the point.The days I remember are messed up.About August 15th, 1947. Don't think I can keep writing.Heart, brain, everything.Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita.Typesetter, repeat till the end of the page.