When Humbert Humbert (the narrator and main character in VN's novel Lolita, 1955) visits Lolita (now married to Dick Schiller and big with child) in Coalmont, she tells him about her life after her escape from the Elphinstone hospital with Clare Quilty (a playwright and pornographer) and calls Elphinstone "Elephant:"
“Sit down,” she said, audibly striking her flanks with her palms. I relapsed into the black rocker.
“So you betrayed me? Where did you go? Where is he now?”
She took from the mantelpiece a concave glossy snapshot. Old woman in white, stout, beaming, bowlegged, very short dress; old man in his shirtsleeves, drooping mustache, watch chain. Her in-laws. Living with Dick’s brother’s family in Juneau.
“Sure you don’t want to smoke?”
She was smoking herself. First time I saw her doing it. Streng verboten under Humbert the Terrible. Gracefully, in a blue mist, Charlotte Haze rose from her grave. I would find him through Uncle Ivory if she refused.
“Betrayed you? No.” She directed the dart of her cigarette, index rapidly tapping upon it, toward the hearth exactly as her mother used to do, and then, like her mother, oh my God, with her fingernail scratched and removed a fragment of cigarette paper from her underlip. No. She had not betrayed me. I was among friends. Edusa had warned her that Cue liked little girls, had been almost jailed once, in fact (nice fact), and he knew she knew. Yes… Elbow in palm, puff, smile, exhaled smoke, darting gesture. Waxing reminiscent. He saw - smiling - through everything and everybody, because he was not like me and her but a genius. A great guy. Full of fun. Had rocked with laughter when she confessed about me and her, and said he had thought so. It was quite safe, under the circumstances, to tell him…
Well, Cue - they all called him Cue
Her camp five years ago. Curious coincidence… took her to a dude ranch about a day’s drive from Elephant (Elphinstone). Named? Oh, some silly name - Duk Duk Ranch - you know just plain silly - but it did not matter now, anyway, because the place had vanished and disintegrated. Really, she meant, I could not imagine how utterly lush that ranch was, she meant it had everything but everything, even an indoor waterfall. Did I remember the red-haired guy we (“we” was good) had once had some tennis with? Well, the place really belonged to Red’s brother, but he had turned it over to Cue for the summer. When Cue and she came, the others had them actually go through a coronation ceremony and then - a terrific ducking, as when you cross the Equator. You know.
Her eyes rolled in synthetic resignation.
“Go on, please.”
Well. The idea was he would take her in September to Hollywood and arrange a tryout for her, a bit part in the tennis-match scene of a movie picture based on a play of his - Golden Guts - and perhaps even have her double one of its sensational starlets on the Klieg-struck tennis court. Alas, it never came to that.
“Where is the hog now?”
He was not a hog. He was a great guy in many respects. But it was all drink and drugs. And, of course, he was a complete freak in sex matters, and his friends were his slaves. I just could not imagine (I, Humbert, could not imagine!) what they all did at Duk Duk Ranch. She refused to take part because she loved him, and he threw her out.
“What things?”
“Oh, weird, filthy, fancy things. I mean, he had two girls and tow boys, and three or four men, and the idea was for all of us to tangle in the nude while an old woman took movie pictures.” (Sade’s Justine was twelve at the start.)
“What things exactly?”
“Oh, things… Oh, I really I” - she uttered the “I” as a subdued cry while she listened to the source of the ache, and for lack of words spread the five fingers of her angularly up-and-down-moving hand. No, she gave it up, she refused to go into particulars with that baby inside her.
That made sense.
“It is of no importance now,” she said pounding a gray cushing with her fist and then lying back, belly up, on the divan. “Crazy things, filthy things. I said no, I’m just not going to [she used, in all insouciance really, a disgusting slang term which, in a literal French translation, would be souffler] your beastly boys, because I want only you. Well, he kicked me out.”
There was not much else to tell. That winter 1949, Fay and she had found jobs. For almost two years she hadoh, just drifted, oh, doing some restaurant work in small places, and then she had met Dick. No, she did not know where the other was. In New York, she guessed. Of course, he was so famous she would have found him at once if she had wanted. Fay had tried to get back to the Ranch - and it just was not there any more - it had burned to the ground, nothing remained, just a charred heap of rubbish. It was so strange, so strange. (2.29)
In her travelogue book Iz peshcher i debrey Indostana ("From the Caves and Wilds of Hindustan," 1883) Helena Blavatsky (a Russian and American mystic, the co-founder of Theosophy, 1831-1891) tells about her arrival in India on February 16, 1879, and describes Elephanta, or Gharapuri (literally meaning "the city of the caves"), in Bombay Harbor, 10 kilometres east of Bombay (Mumbai):
Пробираясь тихо и осторожно вдоль столь же прелестного, как и коварного залива, мы имели еще довольно времени любоваться его окрестностями. Направо от нас виднелась группа островов, во главе которой высится головообразный Гхарипури, или Элефанта, со своим глубокой древности храмом. Гхарипури в переводе означает «город пещер» – по мнению ориенталистов, «город очищения» – коли верить туземным санскритологам. Этот высеченный неизвестною рукой в самой сердцевине скалы храм из камня, похожего на порфир, давно уже служит яблоком раздора для археологов, из коих ни один не был доселе в состоянии определить даже приблизительно его древность. Высоко вздымается скалистое чело Элефанты; густо обросло оно вековым кактусом, а под челом, у самого подножия скалы, высечены два придела и главный храм… Словно сказочный Змей Горыныч, широко разинул он черную зияющую пасть, как бы готовясь поглотить дерзновенного, пришедшего выведать сокровенную тайну титана; и скалит он на пришельца два уцелевшие, потемневшие от времени длинные зуба, – две громадные колонны, поддерживающие при входе нёбо чудовища…
Сколько поколений индусов, сколько рас простиралось во прахе пред Тримурти, тройным божеством твоим, о Элефанта!.. Сколько веков понадобилось слабому человечеству, дабы прорыть в порфирном чреве твоем весь этот город пещерных храмов и мраморных пагод и изваять твои гигантские идолы? Кто может это знать теперь! Много лет прошло с тех пор, как виделись мы с тобою в последний раз, древний и таинственный храм! А все те же беспокойные мысли, те же неотвязные вопросы волнуют меня теперь, как и тогда, и остаются все же безответными… Через несколько дней опять увидимся мы с тобой; снова взгляну я на твое суровое изображение, на твой гранитный тройной лик в 19 футов вышины, чувствуя столь же мало надежды когда-либо проникнуть тайну бытия твоего!.. Эта тайна попала в верные руки еще за три века до нашего столетия. Недаром старый португальский летописец дон Диего де Кута похваляется (8 декада, книга III, глава XI) тем, что «большой квадратный камень, вделанный над аркой пагоды с четкою и крупною на нем надписью, был выломан и послан королю дон Жуану III, а затем таинственно исчез… и добавляет далее: «Возле этой большой пагоды стояла другая… и даже третья… самое изумительное строение на острове как по красоте, так и по неимоверно громадным размерам своим и богатству материала. И на эти-то постройки сатаны наши (португальские) солдаты накинулись с такою яростью, что в несколько лет не осталось от них камня на камне». (Letter I)
In one of the next letters Madame Blavatsky describes a stage performance of Sitta-Rama (an adaptation for scene of the Ramayana, an ancient Indian epic attributed to Valmiki) that she saw in the Elphinstone Theater in Bombay:
В тот же день вечером в театре Эльфинстона давалось в честь «американской миссии» (как нас здесь величают) необычайное представление. Туземные актеры играли на гуджератском языке древнюю волшебную драму Ситта-Рама, переделанную из Рамаяны, известной эпической поэмы Вальмики. Драма состояла из 14 актов и несчетного множества картин с превращениями. Все женские роли игрались по обыкновению мальчиками и, верные историческому и национальному костюму, все актеры были полунагие и босые. Зато богатство костюмов — какие требовались — декорации, машины, превращения были поистине изумительны. Трудно было бы даже на сцене больших столичных театров представить лучше и вернее природе, например, армию союзников Рамы — обезьян, под предводительством их знаменитого в истории (Индии, s. v. p.) полководца Ханумана: воина, государственного мужа, бога, поэта и драматурга. Древнейшая и лучшая изо всех санскритских драм Хануман-наттек (наттек — драма) приписывается этому нашему талантливому праотцу… Увы! прошли те времена, когда гордые сознанием своей белой, быть может, après tout только вылинявшей под северным небом кожи, мы взирали на индусов и других черномазых народов с подобающим нашему величию презрением! Крепко огорчался мягкосердечный сэр Вилльямс Джонс, переводя с санскритского такие, например, унизительные для европейского самолюбия речи, что «Хануман был-де нашим прародителем». Коли верить легенде, то за оказанное храброй обезьяньей армией пособие Рама, герой и полубог, даровал в супружество каждому из холостяков этой армии одну из дочерей великанов острова Ланки (Цейлона), бакшазасов, назначив этим «дравидским» красавицам в приданое все западные части света… Тогда, после величайшего в мире торжества бракосочетания, обезьяны-воины, соорудив из собственных хвостов висячий мост, перекинули его из Ланки в Европу и, благополучно перебравшись с супругами на другой берег, зажили счастливо и наплодили кучу детей. Эти дети — мы, европейцы. Найденные в языках Западной Европы (как в наречии басков, например) чисто дравидские слова привели браминов в восторг; в благодарность за это важное открытие, так неожиданно подтверждающее их древнее сказание, они чуть было не возвели филологов в сан богов. Дарвин увенчал дело. С распространением в Индии западного образования и ее научной литературы, в народе более чем когда-либо утвердилось убеждение, что мы потомки их Ханумана и что притом каждый европеец (если только поискать) украшен хвостом: узкие панталоны и длинные юбки пришлецов с Запада много способствуют к укоренению этого крайне нелестного для нас мнения… Чтò ж? уж если раз наука в лице Дарвина поддерживает в этом мудрость древних ариев, то нам остается лишь покориться. И право, в таком случае гораздо приятнее иметь Ханумана — поэта, героя и бога — праотцем, чем какую-либо другую «макашку», хотя бы даже и бесхвостую… (Letter III)
In his letter to Humbert Humbert John Farlow (a Ramsdale friend of Lolita's mother Charlotte) says that he and his young wife are going to India for their honeymoon soon:
I have often noticed that we are inclined to endow our friends with the stability of type that literary characters acquire in the reader’s mind. No matter how many times we reopen “King Lear,” never shall we find the good king banging his tankard in high revelry, all woes forgotten, at a jolly reunion with all three daughters and their lapdogs. Never will Emma rally, revived by the sympathetic salts in Flaubert’s father’s timely tear. Whatever evolution this or that popular character has gone through between the book covers, his fate is fixed in our minds, and, similarly, we expect our friends to follow this or that logical and conventional pattern we have fixed for them. Thus X will never compose the immortal music that would clash with the second-rate symphonies he has accustomed us to. Y will never commit murder. Under no circumstances can Z ever betray us. We have it all arranged in our minds, and the less often we see a particular person the more satisfying it is to check how obediently he conforms to our notion of him every time we hear of him. Any deviation in the fates we have ordained would strike us as not only anomalous but unethical. We would prefer not to have known at all our neighbor, the retired hot-dog stand operator, if it turns out he has just produced the greatest book of poetry his age has seen.
I am saying all this in order to explain how bewildered I was by Farlow’s hysterical letter. I knew his wife had died but I certainly expected him to remain, throughout a devout widowhood, the dull, sedate and reliable person he had always been. Now he wrote that after a brief visit to the U. S. he had returned to South America and had decided that whatever affairs he had controlled at Ramsdale he would hand over to Jack Windmuller of that town, a lawyer whom we both knew. He seemed particularly relieved to get rid of the Haze “complications.” He had married a Spanish girl. He had stopped smoking and had gained thirty pounds. She was very young and a ski champion. They were going to India for their honeymoon soon. Since he was “building a family” as he put it, he would have no time henceforth for my affairs which he termed “very strange and very aggravating.” Busybodies - a whole committee of them, it appeared - had informed him that the whereabouts of little Dolly Haze were unknown, and that I was living with a notorious divorcee in California. His father-in-law was a count, and exceedingly wealthy. The people who had been renting the Haze house for some years now wished to buy it. He suggested that I better produce Dolly quick. He had broken his leg. He enclosed a snapshot of himself and a brunette in white wool beaming at each other among the snows of Chile.
I remember letting myself into my flat and starting to say: Well, at least we shall now track them down - when the other letter began talking to me in a small matter-of-fact voice:
Dear Dad:
How’s everything? I’m married. I’m going to have a baby. I guess he’s going to be a big one. I guess he’ll come right for Christmas. This is a hard letter to write. I’m going nuts because we don’t have enough to pay our debts and get out of here. Dick is promised a big job in Alaska in his very specialized corner of the mechanical field, that’s all I know about it but it’s really grand. Pardon me for withholding our home address but you may still be mad at me, and Dick must not know. This town is something. You can’t see the morons for the smog. Please do send us a check, Dad. We could manage with three or four hundred or even less, anything is welcome, you might sell my old things, because once we go there the dough will just start rolling in. Write, please. I have gone through much sadness and hardship.
Yours expecting,
Dolly (Mrs. Richard F. Schiller) (2.27)
Humbert receives Lolita's letter (dated September 18, 1952) on September 22. On the next day, September 23, Humbert visits Lolita in Coalmont. On September 24 Humbert revisits Ramsdale and finds out Clare Quilty's address from his uncle Ivor (the Ramsdale dentist). On September 25 Humbert murders Quilty in his house near Parkington and is arrested by the road police. At the end of his manuscript Humbert says that it took him fifty-six days to write Lolita (which is impossible if he started immediately after his arrest and died on November 16, 1952, i. e. fifty-two days later). At the beginning of her travelogue Helena Blavatsky says that her journey from Liverpool to Bombay (where she arrived on February 16, 1879) lasted thirty-two days:
Поздно вечером 16 февраля 1879 года, после тяжелого тридцатидвухдневного плавания из Ливерпуля, раздались с пассажирской палубы радостные восклицания: «Маяк, Бомбейский маяк!..» И вот все, кто ни был чем занят, побросали карты, книги, музыку и кинулись наверх. Луна еще не всходила и, невзирая на звездное тропическое небо, на верхней палубе было совершенно темно. Звезды блистали так ярко, что трудно было сразу разглядеть между ними земной огонек: точно громадные глазища навыкате, моргали они на вас с черного неба, на склоне которого тихо сиял Южный Крест… Но вот, наконец, еще ниже на далеком горизонте заблистал и маяк, ныряя огненною точкой в волнах словно из растопленного фосфора. Горячо приветствовали измученные путешественники давно желанное явление. Все развеселились… (Letter I)
According to John Ray, Jr. (the author of the Foreword to Humbert's manuscript), Mrs. “Richard F. Schiller” outlived Humbert by forty days and died in childbed, giving birth to a stillborn girl, on Christmas Day 1952, in Gray Star, a settlement in the remotest Northwest:
For the benefit of old-fashioned readers who wish to follow the destinies of the “real” people beyond the “true” story, a few details may be given as received from Mr. “Windmuller,” or “Ramsdale,” who desires his identity suppressed so that “the long shadow of this sorry and sordid business” should not reach the community to which he is proud to belong. His daughter, “Louise,” is by now a college sophomore, “Mona Dahl” is a student in Paris. “Rita” has recently married the proprietor of a hotel in Florida. Mrs. “Richard F. Schiller” died in childbed, giving birth to a stillborn girl, on Christmas Day 1952, in Gray Star, a settlement in the remotest Northwest. “Vivian Darkbloom” has written a biography, “My Cue,” to be publshed shortly, and critics who have perused the manuscript call it her best book. The caretakers of the various cemeteries involved report that no ghosts walk.
But it seems that, actually, Lolita dies of ague in the Elphinstone hospital on July 4, 1949, and everything what happens after her sudden death (Lolita's escape from the hospital with Quilty, Humbert's affair with Rita, Lolita's marriage and pregnancy, and the murder of Clare Quilty) was invented by Humbert Humbert (whose "real" name is John Ray, Jr.).