As he speaks to his wife Charlotte (Lolita's mother), Humbert Humbert (the narrator and main character in VN’s novel Lolita, 1955) mentions a Hollywood harlot:
I swallowed my spoonful, wiped my lips with pink paper (Oh, the cool rich linens of Mirana Hotel!) and said:
"I have also a surprise for you, my dear. We two are not going to England.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” she said, looking - with more surprise than I had counted upon - at my hands (I was involuntarily folding and tearing and crushing and tearing again the innocent pink napkin). My smiling face set her somewhat at ease, however.
“The matter is quite simple,” I replied. “Even in the most harmonious of households, as ours is, not all decisions are taken by the female partner. There are certain things that the husband is there to decide. I can well imagine the thrill that you, a healthy American gal, must experience at crossing the Atlantic on the same ocean liner with Lady Bumble - or Sam Bumble, the Frozen Meat King, or a Hollywood harlot. And I doubt not that you and I would make a pretty ad for the Traveling Agency when portrayed looking - you, frankly starry-eyed, I, controlling my envious admiration - at the Palace Sentries, or Scarlet Guards, or Beaver Eaters, or whatever they are called. But I happen to be allergic to Europe, including merry old England. As you well know, I have nothing but very sad associations with the Old and rotting World. No colored ads in your magazines will change the situation.” (1.21)
A Harlot's Progress is a series of six paintings (1731, now destroyed) and engravings (1732) by William Hogarth (an English artist, 1697-1764). The title and allegory are reminiscent of John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. Pushkin’s poem Strannik (“The Wanderer,” 1835) is an adaptation in Alexandrines of the first chapter of Bunyan’s The Pilgrim's Progress from This World, to That Which Is to Come (1678). In Pushkin's poem, the hero twice exclaims O gore, gore! (“O woe, woe!”):
И так я, сетуя, в свой дом пришел обратно.
Уныние мое всем было непонятно.
При детях и жене сначала я был тих
И мысли мрачные хотел таить от них;
Но скорбь час от часу меня стесняла боле;
И сердце наконец раскрыл я поневоле.
«О горе, горе нам! Вы, дети, ты, жена! —
Сказал я, — ведайте: моя душа полна
Тоской и ужасом, мучительное бремя
Тягчит меня. Идет! уж близко, близко время:
Наш город пламени и ветрам обречен;
Он в угли и золу вдруг будет обращен,
И мы погибнем все, коль не успеем вскоре
Обресть убежище; а где? о горе, горе!» (II)
In VN's novel Priglashenie na kazn' ("Invitation to a Beheading," 1935) Cincinnatus's father-in-law proclaims gore, gore! (“Woe, woe!”):
Между тем все продолжали прибывать мебель, утварь, даже отдельные части стен. Сиял широкий зеркальный шкап, явившийся со своим личным отражением (а именно: уголок супружеской спальни, -- полоса солнца на полу, оброненная перчатка и открытая в глубине дверь). Вкатили невеселый, с ортопедическими ухищрениями, велосипедик. На столе с инкрустациями лежал уже десять дет плоский гранатовый флакон и шпилька. Марфинька села на свою черную, вытканную розами, кушетку.
-- Горе, горе! -- провозгласил тесть и стукнул тростью.
Старички испуганно улыбнулись.
-- Папенька, оставьте, ведь тысячу раз пересказано, -- тихо проговорила Марфинька и зябко повела плечом. Ее молодой человек подал ей бахромчатую шаль, но она, нежно усмехнувшись одним уголком тонких губ, отвела его чуткую руку. ("Я первым делом смотрю мужчине на руки".) Он был в шикарной черной форме телеграфного служащего и надушен фиалкой.
-- Горе! -- с силой повторил тесть и начал подробно и смачно проклинать Цинцинната. Взгляд Цинцинната увело зеленое, в белую горошинку, платье Полины: рыженькая, косенькая, в очках, не смех возбуждающая, а грусть этими горошинками и круглотой, тупо передвигая толстые ножки в коричневых шерстяных чулках и сапожках на пуговках, она подходила к присутствующим и словно каждого изучала, серьезно и молчаливо глядя своими маленькими темными глазами, которые сходились за переносицей. Бедняжка была обвязана салфеткой, -- забыли, видимо, снять после завтрака.
Meanwhile, furniture, household utensils, even individual sections of walls continued to arrive. There came a mirrored wardrobe, bringing with it its own private reflection (namely, a corner of the connubial bedroom with a stripe of sunlight across the floor, a dropped glove, and an open door in the distance.) A cheerless little tricycle with orthopedic attachments was rolled in. It was followed by the inlaid table which had supported a flat garnet flacon and a hairpin for the last ten years. Marthe sat down on her black couch, embroidered with roses.
"Woe, woe!" proclaimed the father-in-law, striking the floor with his cane. Frightened little smiles appeared on the faces of the oldsters. "Don't, daddy, we've been through it a thousand times," Marthe said quietly, and shrugged a chilly shoulder. Her young man offered her a fringed shawl but she, forming the rudiment of a tender smile with one corner of her thin lips, waved away his sensitive hand. ("The first thing I look at in a man is his hands.") He was dressed in the smart black uniform of a telegraph employee and perfumed with violet scent.
"Woe!" repeated the father-in-law forcefully and began to curse Cincinnatus in detail and with relish. Cincinnatus's gaze was drawn to Pauline's green polka-dotted dress: red-haired, cross-eyed, bespectacled, arousing not laughter but sadness with those polka dots and that plumpness, dully moving her fat legs in brown wool stockings and button shoes, she would approach those present and study each, gazing gravely and silently with her small dark eyes, which seemed to meet behind the bridge of her nose. The poor thing had a napkin tied around her neck--evidently they had forgotten to take it off after breakfast. (Chapter Nine)
"Beaver Eaters, or whatever they are called" brings to mind a series of 14 small, detailed etchings created by William Hogarth around 1725 to illustrate John Beaver’s book Roman Military Punishments (1725). One of the etchings is entitled Beheading:
In the Russian Lolita (1967) Gumbert Gumbert calls Beaver Eaters, or whatever they are called, "Bobrovykh Myasoyedov, ili kak ikh tam eshchyo:"
Я не спеша проглотил свою ложку супа, вытер губы розовой бумажкой (О, прохладное, тонкое полотно столового белья в моей "Миране"!) и сказал:
"У меня тоже есть для тебя сюрприз, моя милая. Мы с тобой не едем в Англию".
"Почему? В чем дело?" - спросила она, наблюдая - с большим удивлением, чем я рассчитывал вызвать своим ответом - за моими руками (я невольно складывал, рвал, мял и опять рвал ни в чем не повинную розовую "салфетку"). Впрочем, моя улыбка несколько ее успокоила.
"Дело обстоит очень просто", - сказал я. - "Даже при самом гармоничном браке, как, например, наш, не все решения принимает супруга. Есть вопросы, для решения которых существует муж. Я хорошо могу себе представить волнующее удовольствие, которое тебе, как нормальной американке, должен доставить переезд через океан на том же трансатлантическом пароходе, что леди Бимбом, кузина короля Англии, Билль Бимбом, король мороженного мяса, или голливудская шлюха. И я не сомневаюсь, что мы с тобой представили бы отличную рекламу для туристической конторы: ты с откровенным преклонением, а я, сдерживая завистливое восхищение, смотрим в Лондоне на дворцовую стражу, на этих малиновых гвардейцев, Бобровых Мясоедов, или как их там еще. У меня же, как раз, аллергия к Европе, включая добрую старую Англию. Как тебе хорошо известно, меня ничто, кроме самых грустных воспоминаний, не связывает со Старым, и весьма гнилым, Светом. Никакие цветные объявления в твоих журналах этого не переменят..."
Bobrovykh Myasoyedov brings to mind Grigoriy Myasoyedov (a Russian painter, 1834-1911). For his painting Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan on 16 November 1581 made in 1883-1885 Ilya Repin (a Russian realist painter, 1844-1930) used Grigoriy Myasoyedov, his friend and fellow artist, as the model for Ivan the Terrible, and writer Vsevolod Garshin (1855-1888) for the Tsarevich. According to John Ray, Jr. (the author of the Foreword to Humbert's manuscript), Humbert Humbert had died in legal captivity, of coronary thrombosis, on November 16, 1952, a few days before his trial was scheduled to start:
“Lolita, or the Confession of a White Widowed Male,” such were the two titles under which the writer of the present note received the strange pages it preambulates. “Humbert Humbert,” their author, had died in legal captivity, of coronary thrombosis, on November 16, 1952, a few days before his trial was scheduled to start. His lawyer, my good friend and relation, Clarence Choate Clark, Esq., now of the District of Columbia bar, in asking me to edit the manuscript, based his request on a clause in his client’s will which empowered my eminent cousin to use the discretion in all matters pertaining to the preparation of “Lolita” for print. Mr. Clark’s decision may have been influenced by the fact that the editor of his choice had just been awarded the Poling Prize for a modest work (“Do the Senses make Sense?”) wherein certain morbid states and perversions had been discussed.
John Ray, Jr. (Humbert Humbert's "real" name, as it transpires) makes one think of A Rake's Progress, a series of eight paintings by Hogarth. The canvases were produced in 1732–1734, then engraved in 1734 and published in print form in 1735. The last, eighth, engraving is entitled The Madhouse:
Humbert writes his poem "Wanted" after Lolita's abduction from (or, rather, death in) the Elphinstone hospital in a madhouse near Quebec:
Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze.
Hair: brown. Lips: scarlet.
Age: five thousand three hundred days.
Profession: none, or "starlet".
Where are you hiding, Dolores Haze?
Why are you hiding, darling?
(I Talk in a daze, I walk in a maze
I cannot get out, said the starling).
Where are you riding, Dolores Haze?
What make is the magic carpet?
Is a Cream Cougar the present craze?
And where are you parked, my car pet?
Who is your hero, Dolores Haze?
Still one of those blue-capped star-men?
Oh the balmy days and the palmy bays,
And the cars, and the bars, my Carmen!
Oh Dolores, that juke-box hurts!
Are you still dancin', darlin'?
(Both in worn levis, both in torn T-shirts,
And I, in my corner, snarlin').
Happy, happy is gnarled McFate
Touring the States with a child wife,
Plowing his Molly in every State
Among the protected wild life.
My Dolly, my folly! Her eyes were vair,
And never closed when I kissed her.
Know an old perfume called Soliel Vert?
Are you from Paris, mister?
L'autre soir un air froid d'opéra m'alita;
Son félé -- bien fol est qui s'y fie!
Il neige, le décor s'écroule, Lolita!
Lolita, qu'ai-je fait de ta vie?
Dying, dying, Lolita Haze,
Of hate and remorse, I'm dying.
And again my hairy fist I raise,
And again I hear you crying.
Officer, officer, there they go--
In the rain, where that lighted store is!
And her socks are white, and I love her so,
And her name is Haze, Dolores.
Officer, officer, there they are--
Dolores Haze and her lover!
Whip out your gun and follow that car.
Now tumble out and take cover.
Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze.
Her dream-gray gaze never flinches.
Ninety pounds is all she weighs
With a height of sixty inches.
My car is limping, Dolores Haze,
And the last long lap is the hardest,
And I shall be dumped where the weed decays,
And the rest is rust and stardust. (2.25)