Describing Lolita's classmates at Beardsley College, Humbert Humbert (the narrator and main character in VN's novel Lolita, 1955) mentions Eva Rosen, a displaced little person from France:
Her girlfriends, whom I looked forward to meet, proved on the whole disappointing. There was Opal Something, and Linda Hall, and Avis Chapman, and Eva Rosen, and Mona Dahl (save one, all these names are approximations, of course). Opal was a bashful, formless, bespectacled, bepimpled creature who doted on Dolly who bullied her. With Linda Hall the school tennis champion, Dolly played singles at least twice a week: I suspect Linda was a true nymphet, but for some unknown reason she did not comewas perhaps not allowed to cometo our house; so I recall her only as a flash of natural sunshine on an indoor court. Of the rest, none had any claims to nymphetry except Eva Rosen. Avis ws a plump lateral child with hairy legs, while Mona, though handsome in a coarse sensual way and only a year older than my aging mistress, had obviously long ceased to be a nymphet, if she ever had been one. Eva Rosen, a displaced little person from France, was on the other hand a good example of a not strikingly beautiful child revealing to the perspicacious amateur some of the basic elements of nymphet charm, such as a perfect pubescent figure and lingering eyes and high cheekbones. Her glossy copper hair had Lolita’s silkiness, and the features of her delicate milky-white face with pink lips and silverfish eyelashes were less foxy than those of her likes - the great clan of intra-racial redheads; nor did she sport their green uniform but wore, as I remember her, a lot of black or cherry dark - a very smart black pullover, for instance, and high-heeled black shoes, and garnet-red fingernail polish. I spoke French to her (much to Lo’s disgust). The child’s tonalities were still admirably pure, but for school words and play words she resorted to current American and then a slight Brooklyn accent would crop up in her speech, which was amusing in a little Parisian who went to a select New England school with phoney British aspirations. Unfortunately, despite “that French kid’s uncle” being “a millionaire,” Lo dropped Eva for some reason before I had had time to enjoy in my modest way her fragrant presence in the Humbert open house. The reader knows what importance I attached to having a bevy of page girls, consolation prize nymphets, around my Lolita. For a while, I endeavored to interest my senses in Mona Dahl who was a good deal around, especially during the spring term when Lo and she got so enthusiastic about dramatics. I have often wondered what secrets outrageously treacherous Dolores Haze had imparted to Mona while blurting out to me by urgent and well-paid request various really incredible details concerning an affair that Mona had had with a marine at the seaside. It was characteristic of Lo that she chose for her closest chum that elegant, cold, lascivious, experienced young female whom I once heard (misheard, Lo swore) cheerfully say in the hallway to Lo - who had remarked that her (Lo’s) sweater was of virgin wool: “The only thing about you that is, kiddo…” She had a curiously husky voice, artificially waved dull dark hair, earrings, amber-brown prominent eyes and luscious lips. Lo said teachers had remonstrated with her on her loading herself with so much costume jewelry. Her hands trembled. She was burdened with a 150 I. Q. And I also knew she had a tremendous chocolate-brown mole on he womanish back which I inspected the night Lo and she had worn low-cut pastel-colored, vaporous dresses for a dance at the Butler Academy. (2.9)
According to Humbert, at Beardsley he took Lolita and Eva Rosen to a concert:
There was the day, during our first trip - our first circle of paradise - when in order to enjoy my phantasms in peace I firmly decided to ignore what I could not help perceiving, the fact that I was to her not a boy friend, not a glamour man, not a pal, not even a person at all, but just two eyes and a foot of engorged brawn - to mention only mentionable matters. There was the day when having withdrawn the functional promise I had made her on the eve (whatever she had set her funny little heart on - a roller rink with some special plastic floor or a movie matinee to which she wanted to go alone), I happened to glimpse from the bathroom, through a chance combination of mirror aslant and door ajar, a look on her face… that look I cannot exactly describe… an expression of helplessness so perfect that it seemed to grade into one of rather comfortable inanity just because this was the very limit of injustice and frustration - and every limit presupposes something beyond it - hence the neutral illumination. And when you bear in mind that these were the raised eyebrows and parted lips of a child, you may better appreciate what depths of calculated carnality, what reflected despair, restrained me from falling at her dear feet and dissolving in human tears, and sacrificing my jealousy to whatever pleasure Lolita might hope to derive from mixing with dirty and dangerous children in an outside world that was real to her.
And I have still other smothered memories, now unfolding themselves into limbless monsters of pain. Once, in a sunset-ending street of Beardsley, she turned to little Eva Rosen (I was taking both nymphets to a concert and walking behind them so close as almost to touch them with my person), she turned to Eva, and so very serenely and seriously, in answer to something the other had said about its being better to die than hear Milton Pinski, some local schoolboy she knew, talk about music, my Lolita remarked:
“You know, what's so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own;” and it struck me, as my automaton knees went up and down, that I simply did not known a thing about my darling's mind and that quite possibly, behind the awful juvenile clichés, there was in her a garden and a twilight, and a palace gate — dim and adorable regions which happened to be lucidly and absolutely forbidden to me, in my polluted rags and miserable convulsions; for I often noticed that living as we did, she and I, in a world of total evil, we would become strangely embarrassed whenever I tried to discuss something she and an older friend, she and a parent, she and a real healthy sweetheart, I and Annabel, Lolita and a sublime, purified, analyzed, deified Harold Haze, might have discussed — an abstract idea, a painting, stippled Hopkins or shorn Baudelaire, God or Shakespeare, anything of genuine kind. Good will! She would mail her vulnerability in trite brashness and boredom, whereas I, using for my desperately detached comments an artificial tone of voice that set my own last teeth on edge, provoked my audience to such outbursts of rudeness as made any further conversation impossible, oh my poor, bruised child. (2.32)
The surname Pinski comes from Pinsk, a city in Brest Region, Belarus. In a letter of August 21-28, 1916, to his mother Alexander Blok (a Russian poet, 1880-1921, who served in World War I as a timekeeper) describes his day at the front and compares the nearby Pinsk to Kitezh (a legendary and mythical city beneath the waters of Lake Svetloyar):
Сегодня воскресенье, дела, в сущности, нет, поэтому день проходит тихо. Я проснулся в 7-м часу, так как рядом уже копошился начальник отряда. Он — одинокий человек моих лет, семья и имущество остались в Вильне. Он страшно нервный, довольно суетливый, скучает и ищет все время дела, а когда дела нет, старается придумать. Проснувшись, я стал вместе с ним ругать «дачников» (так он называет наш «штаб»), который не присылает нам вовремя мяса, хлеба и т. д. Это его любимая тема. Потом умылись на крылечке, потом пошли в обоз, разбудив заведующего обозом (ему лет 14 по наружности и по развитию, и разбудить его трудно, между тем он должен вставать раньше всех, чтобы распределять подводы). Потом пришли и пили чай, потом я удрал с письмами, потом сидели в конторе и составляли табель. После обеда легли спать, но начальник пришел и стал опять ругать штаб и говорить о политике. Ему, бедному, страшно скучно. Я опять удрал. Заведующий хозяйством сегодня ночью застревал в болоте, потому крепко спит; Идельсон собирается в отпуск, Егоров — в штабе; начальник живет один на фольварке и хочет переманить кого-нибудь из нас к себе, но мы все упираемся, потому что устроились очень уютно. В избе три комнаты, блохи выведены. В одной спят Попов, Идельсон и Глинка, в другой — Игнатов, Егоров и я, в третьей (кухне) — хозяин или хозяйка и котенок, на чердаке — две миловидные девицы (загнаны нами на чердак), на дворе — стадо гусей, огромная свинья и поросенок. Днем приходит повар и мальчишка Эдуард, повар готовит очень вкусно и довольно разнообразно, обедаем все вместе. Последнее лицо — техник, который скоро уйдет. В сущности, он страшно вредное животное, но для нас большей частью элемент увеселительный, а мне в нем даже многое нравится (мы с ним, между прочим, устраивали скачки на лошадях, он чувствует природу, хотя глуп и очень циничен). Интересы наши — кушательные и лошадиные (кроме деловых), и живем мы все очень дружно. Я надеюсь, что тебя застанет в Петербурге десятник Ащеулов, уморительный старик, хотя он может и приврать. Иногда встречаемся мы тут с офицерами и саперами, иногда — со служащими в других отрядах. По обыкновению — возникают разные «трения». Полдеревни заселено нашими 300-ми рабочими — туркестанцы, уфимцы, рязанцы, сахалинцы с каторги, москвичи (всех хуже и всех нахальнее), петербургские, русины. С утра выясняется, сколько куда пошло, кто просится к доктору, кому что выдать из кладовой, кто в бегах. Утром выезжаешь верст за пять, по дороге происходит кавалерийское ученье — два эскадрона рубят кусты, скачут через препятствия и пр. Раз прошла артиллерия. Аэроплан кружится иногда над полем, желтеет, вокруг него — шрапнельные дымки, очень красиво. За лесом пулеметы щелкают. По всем дорогам ездят дозоры, вестовые, патрули, во всех деревнях и фольварках стоят войска. С поля виднеется Пинск, вроде града Китежа, — приподнятый над туманом — белый собор, красный костел, а посередине — поменьше — семинария. Один день — жара, так что не просыхаешь ни на минуту, особенно верхом. Другой день — сильная гроза, потом холодно, потом моросит. Очень крупные звезды. Большая Медведица довольно низко над горизонтом, направо — Юпитер. Описать все это — выходит похоже на любую газетную корреспонденцию, так что, в сущности, нельзя описать, в чем дело. На реке рядом работает землечерпалка, наш штаб хочет заводить катер для доставки нам припасов в распутицу. Телефон обыкновенно испорчен (вероятно, мальчишки на нем качаются). Начальник страшно ругается и очень много говорит о коменданте, расстрелах, повешенье, каторге, порке и пр. К счастью (а иногда, может быть, и напрасно), не исполняет.
The Legend of the Invisible City of Kitezh and the Maiden Fevroniya (1907) is an opera in four acts by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov. In his next letter (Sept. 4, 1916) Blok mentions K. A. Glinka (the composer's descendant who also served as a timekeeper) who was going to St. Petersburg and who would bring the poet's letter to his mother:
Опять воскресенье, все уехали, единственный день, когда я могу сколько-нибудь отвлечься от отряда и написать письмо. Тебе его передаст на днях Конст. Алексеев. Глинка, очень милый, смелый и честный мальчик (табельщик), потомок композитора. Положение усложняется — все мы начинаем скверно относиться к начальнику. Глинка, я думаю, расскажет что-нибудь об этом, я не хочу писать, и так целые дни об этом разговариваем.
The libretto of Mikhail Glinka's opera Zhizn' za tsarya ("A Life for the Tsar," 1836) was written by Nestor Kukolnik, Baron Rosen (1800-1860), Vladimir Sollogub and Vasiliy Zhukovski. The original title of the opera was to be Ivan Susanin, after the hero, but when Nicholas I attended a rehearsal, Glinka changed the title to A Life for the Tsar. During the Soviet era the opera was known under the name Ivan Susanin, due to the anti-monarchist censorship. In 1939 a new libretto was written by Sergey Gorodetski (1884-1967). A minor poet, Gorodetski is the author of Iva ("The Weeping Willow," 1912), a collection of poetry. In his diary (the entry of November 11, 1912) Alexander Blok criticizes Gorodetski's Iva which he reread on the eve:
Кстати, вчера я читал «Иву» Городецкого, увы, она совсем не то, что с первого взгляда: нет работы, все расплывчато, голос фальшивый, все могло бы быть в 10 раз короче, сжатей, отдельные строки и образы блестят — самоценно, большая же часть оставляет равнодушие и скуку.
In the Russian Lolita (1967) Vivian Darkbloom (the name of Clare Quilty's coauthor, anagram of Vladimir Nabokov) becomes Vivian Damor-Blok, and a biography she has written is entitled Kumir moy ("My Idol"):
В угоду старомодным читателям, интересующимся дальнейшей судьбой «живых образцов» за горизонтом «правдивой повести», могу привести некоторые указания, полученные от г-на «Виндмюллера» из «Рамздэля», который пожелал остаться неназванным, дабы «длинная тень прискорбной и грязной истории» не дотянулась до того городка, в котором он имеет честь проживать. Его дочь «Луиза» сейчас студентка-второкурсница. «Мона Даль» учится в университете в Париже. «Рита» недавно вышла замуж за хозяина гостиницы во Флориде. Жена «Ричарда Скиллера» умерла от родов, разрешившись мертвой девочкой, 25-го декабря 1952 г., в далеком северо-западном поселении Серой Звезде. Г-жа Вивиан Дамор-Блок (Дамор – по сцене, Блок – по одному из первых мужей) написала биографию бывшего товарища под каламбурным заглавием «Кумир мой», которая скоро должна выйти в свет; критики, уже ознакомившиеся с манускриптом, говорят, что это лучшая ее вещь. Сторожа кладбищ, так или иначе упомянутых в мемуарах «Г. Г.», не сообщают, встает ли кто из могилы.
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. (Foreword)
K nogam prezrennogo kumira ("To the feet of a despised idol," 1900) is a poem by Alexander Blok:
К ногам презренного кумира
Слагать божественные сны
И прославлять обитель мира
В чаду убийства и войны;
Вперяясь в сумрак ночи хладной,
В нём прозревать огонь и свет —
Вот жребий странный, беспощадный
Твой, божьей милостью поэт!
Gorodetski's beautiful wife (whom everybody called "Nymph") wrote poetry under the penname Nimfa Bel-Kon' Lyubomirskaya. "Bezenchuk and the Nymphs" is the first chapter in Ilf and Petrov's novel Dvenadtsat' stuliev (The Twelve Chairs, 1928). Dvenadtsat' ("The Twelve," 1918) is a poem by Alexander Blok. "Homer, Milton and Panikovsky" is a chapter in Ilf and Petrov's novel Zolotoy telyonok (The Golden Calf, 1931). A character in The Golden Calf, Alexander Ivanovich Koreyko (a secret Soviet millionaire) brings to mind Korea, a land where Charlie Holmes (Lolita's first lover, the son of Shirley Holmes, the headmistress of Camp Q) was killed:
Feeling I was losing my time, I drove energetically to the downtown hotel where I had arrived with a new bag more than five years before. I took a room, made two appointments by telephone, shaved, bathed, put on black clothes and went down for a drink in the bar. Nothing had changed. The barroom was suffused with the same dim, impossible garnet-red light that in Europe years ago went with low haunts, but here meant a bit of atmosphere in a family hotel. I sat at the same little table where at the very start of my stay, immediately after becoming Charlotte’s lodger, I had thought fit to celebrate the occasion by suavely sharing with her half a bottle of champagne, which had fatally conquered her poor brimming heart. As then, a moon-faced waiter was arranging with stellar care fifty sherries on a round tray for a wedding party. Murphy-Fantasia, this time. It was eight minutes to three. As I walked though the lobby, I had to skirt a group of ladies who with mille grâces were taking leave of each other after a luncheon party. With a harsh cry of recognition, one pounced upon me. She was a stout, short woman in pearl-gray, with a long, gray, slim plume to her small hat. It was Mrs. Chatfield. She attacked me with a fake smile, all aglow with evil curiosity. (Had I done to Dolly, perhaps, what Frank Laselle, a fifty-year-old mechanic, had done o eleven-year-old Sally Horner in 1948?) Very soon I had that avid glee well under control. She thought I was in California. How was - ? With exquisite pleasure I informed her that my stepdaughter had just married a brilliant young mining engineer with a hush-hush job in the Northwest. She said she disapproved of such early marriages, she would never let her Phillys, who was now eighteen -
“Oh yes, of course,” I said quietly. “I remember Phyllis. Phyllis and Camp Q. Yes, of course. By the way, did she ever tell you how Charlie Holmes debauched there his mother’s little charges?”
Mrs. Chatfield’s already broken smile now disintegrated completely.
“For shame,” she cried, “for shame, Mr. Humbert! The poor boy has just been killed in Korea.”
I said didn’t she think “vient de,” with the infinitive, expressed recent events so much more neatly than the English “just,” with the past? But I had to be trotting off, I said. (2.33)
Eva Rosen belongs to the great clan of intra-racial redheads. The Red-Headed League is one of the 56 Sherlock Holmes stories written by Arthur Conan Doyle. According to Humbert, it took him 56 days (eight weeks) to write Lolita:
This then is my story. I have reread it. It has bits of marrow sticking to it, and blood, and beautiful bright-green flies. At this or that twist of it I feel my slippery self eluding me, gliding into deeper and darker waters than I care to probe. I have camouflaged what I could so as not to hurt people. And I have toyed with many pseudonyms for myself before I hit on a particularly apt one. There are in my notes “Otto Otto” and “Mesmer Mesmer” and “Lambert Lambert,” but for some reason I think my choice expresses the nastiness best.
When I started, fifty-six days ago, to write Lolita, first in the psychopathic ward for observation, and then in this well-heated, albeit tombal, seclusion, I thought I would use these notes in toto at my trial, to save not my head, of course, but my soul. In mid-composition, however, I realized that I could not parade living Lolita. I still may use parts of this memoir in hermetic sessions, but publication is to be deferred.
For reasons that may appear more obvious than they really are, I am opposed to capital punishment; this attitude will be, I trust, shared by the sentencing judge. Had I come before myself, I would have given Humbert at least thirty-five years for rape, and dismissed the rest of the charges. But even so, Dolly Schiller will probably survive me by many years. The following decision I make with all the legal impact and support of a signed testament: I wish this memoir to be published only when Lolita is no longer alive.
Thus, neither of us is alive when the reader opens this book. But while the blood still throbs through my writing hand, you are still as much part of blessed matter as I am, and I can still talk to you from here to Alaska. Be true to your Dick. Do not let other fellows touch you. Do not talk to strangers. I hope you will love your baby. I hope it will be a boy. That husband of yours, I hope, will always treat you well, because otherwise my specter shall come at him, like black smoke, like a demented giant, and pull him apart nerve by nerve. And do not pity C. Q. One had to choose between him and H. H., and one wanted H. H. to exist at least a couple of months longer, so as to have him make you live in the minds of later generations. I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita. (2.36)
Prophetic sonnets bring to mind slavnyi prorocheskiy sonet (the famous prophetic sonnet) mentioned by Pushkin in his unfinished article O Mil'tone i Shatobrianovom perevode poteryannogo raya ("On Milton and Chateaubriand's Translation of Paradise Lost," 1836):
Нет, г. Юго! Не таков был Джон Мильтон, друг и сподвижник Кромвеля, суровый фанатик, строгий творец <Иконокласта> и книги Defensio populi! Не таким языком изъяснялся бы с Кромвелем тот, который написал ему свой славный пророческий сонет
"Cromwel, our chief, etс."
Не мог быть посмешищем развратного Рочестера и придворных шутов тот, кто в злые дни, жертва злых языков, в бедности, в гонении и в слепоте сохранил непреклонность души и продиктовал «Потерянный рай».
The author of Paradise Lost (1667), the poet John Milton (1608-1674) was a son of John Milton (1562–1647), an English composer. Milton's prophetic Sonnet 16 is addressed to Cromwell. Lord Protector from 1653 until his death (Sept. 3, 1658), Oliver Cromwell (1599-1658) died suddenly at age 59. His physicians diagnosed his fatal disorder as "bastard tertian ague." Describing Lolita's illness and hospitalization in Elphinstone (a small town in the Rocky Mountains), Humbert mentions the “ague” of the ancients:
Mrs. Hays, the brisk, briskly rouged, blue-eyed widow who ran the motor court, asked me if I were Swiss perchance, because her sister had married a Swiss ski instructor. I was, whereas my daughter happened to be half Irish. I registered, Hays gave me the key and a tinkling smile, and, still twinkling, showed me where to park the car; Lo crawled out and shivered a little: the luminous evening air was decidedly crisp. Upon entering the cabin, she sat down on a chair at a card table, buried her face in the crook of her arm and said she felt awful. Shamming, I thought, shamming, no doubt, to evade my caresses; I was passionately parched; but she began to whimper in an unusually dreary way when I attempted to fondle her. Lolita ill. Lolita dying. Her skin was scalding hot! I took her temperature, orally, then looked up a scribbled formula I fortunately had in a jotter and after laboriously reducing the, meaningless to me, degrees Fahrenheit to the intimate centigrade of my childhood, found she had 40.4, which at least made sense. Hysterical little nymphs might, I knew, run up all kinds of temperatureeven exceeding a fatal count. And I would have given her a sip of hot spiced wine, and two aspirins, and kissed the fever away, if, upon an examination of her lovely uvula, one of the gems of her body, I had not seen that it was a burning red. I undressed her. Her breath was bittersweet. Her brown rose tasted of blood. She was shaking from head to toe. She complained of a painful stiffness in the upper vertebraeand I thought of poliomyelitis as any American parent would. Giving up all hope of intercourse, I wrapped her in a laprobe and carried her into the car. Kind Mrs. Hays in the meantime had alerted the local doctor. “You are lucky it happened here,” she said; for not only was Blue the best man in the district, but the Elphinstone hospital was as modern as modern could be, despite its limited capacity. With a heterosexual Erlkönig in pursuit, thither I drove, half-blinded by a royal sunset on the lowland side and guided by a little old woman, a portable witch, perhaps his daughter, whom Mrs. Hays had lent me, and whom I was never to see again. Dr. Blue, whose learning, no doubt, was infinitely inferior to his reputation, assured me it was a virus infection, and when I alluded to her comparatively recent flu, curtly said this was another bug, he had forty such cases on his hands; all of which sounded like the “ague” of the ancients. I wondered if I should mention, with a casual chuckle, that my fifteen-year-old daughter had had a minor accident while climbing an awkward fence with her boy friend, but knowing I was drunk, I decided to withhold the information till later if necessary. To an unsmiling blond bitch of a secretary I gave my daughter’s age as “practically sixteen.” While I was not looking, my child was taken away from me! In vain I insisted I be allowed to spend the night on a “welcome” mat in a corner of their damned hospital. I ran up constructivistic flights of stairs, I tried to trace my darling so as to tell her she had better not babble, especially if she felt as lightheaded as we all did. At one point, I was rather dreadfully rude to a very young and very cheeky nurse with overdeveloped gluteal parts and blazing black eyesof Basque descent, as I learned. Her father was an imported shepherd, a trainer of sheep dogs. Finally, I returned to the car and remained in it for I do not know how many hours, hunched up in the dark, stunned by my new solitude, looking out open-mouthed now at the dimly illumined, very square and low hospital building squatting in the middle of its lawny block, now up at the wash of stars and the jagged silvery ramparts of the haute montagne where at the moment Mary’s father, lonely Joseph Lore was dreaming of Oloron, Lagore, Rolas - que sais-je! - or seducing a ewe. Such-like fragrant vagabond thoughts have been always a solace to me in times of unusual stress, and only when, despite liberal libations, I felt fairly numbed by the endless night, did I think of driving back to the motel. The old woman had disappeared, and I was not quite sure of my way. Wide gravel roads criss-crossed drowsy rectangual shadows. I made out what looked like the silhouette of gallows on what was probably a school playground; and in another wastelike black there rose in domed silence the pale temple of some local sect. I found the highway at last, and then the motel, where millions of so-called “millers,” a kind of insect, were swarming around the neon contours of “No Vacancy”; and, when, at 3 a. m., after one of those untimely hot showers which like some mordant only help to fix a man’s despair and weariness, I lay on her bed that smelled of chestnuts and roses, and peppermint, and the very delicate, very special French perfume I latterly allowed her to use, I found myself unable to assimilate the simple fact that for the first time in two years I was separated from my Lolita. All at once it occurred to me that her illness was somehow the development of a themethat it had the same taste and tone as the series of linked impressions which had puzzled and tormented me during our journey; I imagined that secret agent, or secret lover, or prankster, or hallucination, or whatever he was, prowling around the hospital - and Aurora had hardly “warmed her hands,” as the pickers of lavender way in the country of my birth, when I found myself trying to get into that dungeon again, knocking upon its green doors, breakfastless, stoolless, in despair. (2.22)
According to John Ray, Jr. (the author of the Foreword to Humbert's manuscript), Mrs. “Richard F. Schiller” (Lolita's married name) died in childbed, giving birth to a stillborn girl, on Christmas Day 1952, in Gray Star, a settlement in the remotest Northwest. But it seems that, actually, Lolita dies of ague on July 4, 1949, in the Elphinstone hospital. Everything what happens after her sudden death (Lolita's escape from the hospital, 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.).