According to John Ray, Jr. (in VN's novel Lolita, 1955, 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.
Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan on 16 November 1581 is a painting by Ilya Repin (a Russian realist painter, 1844-1930) made between 1883 and 1885. The Tsar Ivan IV (surnamed the Terrible, 1530-1584) is a character in Mikhail Pogodin's tragedy (highly praised by Pushkin) Marfa, Posadnitsa Novgorodskaya ("Martha, Novgorod Governor's Wife," 1830). A Russian historian (and a close friend of Gogol), Mikhail Pogodin (1800-1875) was born a hundred years before Nikolay Pogodin (a Soviet playwright, 1900-1962), the author of Kremlyovskie kuranty (The Chimes of the Kremlin, 1940), a play set in 1920 featuring a scene in which Lenin talks with an old Jewish watchmaker engaged in repairing the Kremlin chimes so they can play the Internationale. A descendant of the Don Cossacks, Nikolay Stukalov (who assumed the penname Pogodin) was born on November 16, 1900. The surname Pogodin comes from pogoda (weather). In mid-August 1947, on the porch of The Enchanted Hunters (a hotel in Briceland where Humbert and Lolita spend their first night together), a stranger tells Humbert "the weather is getting better:"
I left the loud lobby and stood outside, on the white steps, looking at the hundreds of powdered bugs wheeling around the lamps in the soggy black night, full of ripple and stir. All I would do - all I would dare do - would amount to such a trifle… Suddenly I was aware that in the darkness next to me there was somebody sitting in a chair on the pillared porch. I could not really see him but what gave him away was the rasp of a screwing off, then a discreet gurgle, then the final note of a placid screwing on. I was about to move away when his voice addressed me:
“Where the devil did you get her?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said: the weather is getting better.”
“Seems so.”
“Who’s the lassie?”
“My daughter.”
“You lie - she’s not.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said: July was hot. Where’s her mother?”
“Dead.”
“I see. Sorry. By the way, why don’t you two lunch with me tomorrow. That dreadful crowd will be gone by then.”
“We’ll be gone too. Good night.”
“Sorry. I’m pretty drunk. Good night. That child of yours needs a lot of sleep. Sleep is a rose, as the Persians say. Smoke?”
“Not now.”
He struck a light, but because he was drunk, or because the wind was, the flame illumined not him but another person, a very old man, one of those permanent guests of old hotelsand his white rocker. Nobody said anything and the darkness returned to its initial place. Then I heard the old-timer cough and deliver himself of some sepulchral mucus. (1.28)
The stranger (Clare Quilty, a playwright and pornographer whom Humbert murders for abducting Lolita from the Elphinstone hospital) tells Humbert that his child needs a lot of sleep and that sleep is a rose, as the Persians say. "Mother of Tehran," Ray is one of the oldest cities in Iran (formerly, Persia). In the Russian Lolita (1967), Quilty's words "the weather is getting better" become dozhd' perestal (it stopped raining):
Я покинул шумный холл и вышел наружу; некоторое время я стоял на белых ступенях, глядя на карусель белесых ночных мотыльков, вертевшихся вокруг фонаря в набухшей сыростью черноте зыбкой беспокойной ночи, и думал: все, что сделаю, все, что посмею сделать, будет, в сущности, такая малость... Вдруг я почуял в сумраке, невдалеке от меня, чье-то присутствие: кто-то сидел в одном из кресел между колоннами перрона. Я, собственно, не мог его различить в темноте, но его выдал винтовой скрежет открываемой фляжки, за которым последовало скромное булькание, завершившееся звуком мирного завинчивания. Я уже собирался отойти, когда ко мне обратился незнакомый голос:
"Как же ты ее достал?"
"Простите?"
"Говорю: дождь перестал".
"Да, кажется".
"Я где-то видал эту девочку".
"Она моя дочь". "Врешь - не дочь".
"Простите?" "Я говорю: роскошная ночь. Где ее мать?"
"Умерла".
"Вот оно что. Жаль. Скажите, почему бы нам не пообедать завтра втроем? К тому времени вся эта сволочь разъедется".
"Я с ней тоже уеду. Спокойной ночи".
"Жаль. Я здорово пьян. Спокойной ночи. Этой вашей девочке нужно много сна. Сон - роза, как говорят в Персии. Хотите папиросу?"
"Спасибо, сейчас не хочу".
Он чиркнул спичкой, но оттого, что он был пьян, или оттого, что пьян был ветер, пламя осветило не его, а какогo-то глубокого старца (одного из тех, кто проводит остаток жизни в таких старых гостиницах) и его белую качалку. Никто ничего не сказал, и темнота вернулась на прежнее место. Затем я услышал, как гостиничный старожил раскашлялся и с могильной гулкостью отхаркнулся.
The author of Dark Age, Clare Quilty told to the interviewer from the Briceland Gazette "give me rain, rain, rain on the shingle roof for roses and inspiration every time:"
A curious urge to relive my stay there with Lolita had got hold of me. I was entering a phase of existence where I had given up all hope of tracing her kidnapper and her. I now attempted to fall back on old settings in order to save what still could be saved in the way of souvenir, souvenir que me veux-tu? Autumn was ringing in the air. To a post card requesting twin beds Professor Hamburg got a prompt expression of regret in reply. They were full up. They had one bathless basement room with four beds which they thought I would not want. Their note paper was headed:
The Enchanted Hunters
Near Churches
No Dogs
All legal beverages
I wondered if the last statement was true. All? Did they have for instance sidewalk grenadine? I also wondered if a hunter, enchanted or otherwise, would not need a pointer more than a pew, and with a spasm of pain I recalled a scene worthy of a great artist: petite nymphe accroupie; but that silky cocker spaniel had perhaps been a baptized one. No - I felt I could not endure the throes of revisiting that lobby. There was a much better possibility of retrievable time elsewhere in soft, rich-colored, autumnal Briceland. Leaving Rita in a bar, I made for the town library. A twittering spinster was only too glad to help me disinter mid-August 1947 from the bound Briceland Gazette, and presently, in a secluded nook under a naked light, I was turning the enormous and fragile pages of a coffin-black volume almost as big as Lolita.
Reader! Bruder! What a foolish Hamburg that Hamburg was! Since his supersensitive system was loath to face the actual scene, he thought he could at least enjoy a secret part of it - which reminds one of the tenth or twentieth soldier in the raping queue who throws the girl’s black shawl over her white face so as not to see those impossible eyes while taking his military pleasure in the sad, sacked village. What I lusted to get was the printed picture that had chanced to absorb my trespassing image while the Gazette’s photographer was concentrating on Dr. Braddock and his group. Passionately I hoped to find preserved the portrait of the artist as a younger brute. An innocent camera catching me on my dark way to Lolita’s bed - what a magnet for Mnemosyne! I cannot well explain the true nature of that urge of mine. It was allied, I suppose, to that swooning curiosity which impels one to examine with a magnifying glass bleak little figures - still life practically, and everybody about to throw up - at an early morning execution, and the patient’s expression impossible to make out in the print. Anyway, I was literally gasping for breath, and one corner of the book of doom kept stabbing me in the stomach while I scanned and skimmed… Brute Force and Possessed were coming on Sunday, the 24th, to both theatres. Mr. Purdom, independent tobacco auctioneer, said that ever since 1925 he had been an Omen Faustum smoker. Husky Hank and his petite bride were to be the guests of Mr. and Mrs. Reginald G. Gore, 58 Inchkeith Ave. The size of certain parasites is one sixth of the host. Dunkerque was fortified in the tenth century. Misses’ socks, 39 c. Saddle Oxfords 3.98. Wine, wine, wine, quipped the author of Dark Age who refused to be photographed, may suit a Persian bubble bird, but I say give me rain, rain, rain on the shingle roof for roses and inspiration every time. Dimples are caused by the adherence of the skin to the deeper tissues. Greeks repulse a heavy guerrilla assault - and, ah, at last, a little figure in white, and Dr. Braddock in black, but whatever spectral shoulder was brushing against his ample form - nothing of myself could I make out. (2.26)
Dr. Braddock brings to mind Ray Bradbury, an American writer (1920-2012) best known for his novel Fahrenheit 451 (1953) and his short-story collections The Martian Chronicles (1950). While in Pogodin there is Godin (Gaston Godin, Humbert's chess partner at Beardsley), in brain and in grain there is rain. Describing his life with Rita (a girl whom he picked up one depraved May evening somewhere between Montreal and New York), Humbert mentions Rita’s brother, the mayor and boaster of Grainball:
She was twice Lolita’s age and three quarters of mine: a very slight, dark-haired, pale-skinned adult, weighing a hundred and five pounds, with charmingly asymmetrical eyes, and angular, rapidly sketched profile, and a most appealing ensellure to her supple back - I think she had some Spanish or Babylonian blood. I picked her up one depraved May evening somewhere between Montreal and New York, or more narrowly, between Toylestown and Blake, at a darkishly burning bar under the sign of the Tigermoth, where she was amiably drunk: she insisted we had gone to school together, and she placed her trembling little hand on my ape paw. My senses were very slightly stirred but I decided to give her a try; I did - and adopted her as a constant companion. She was so kind, was Rita, such a good sport, that I daresay she would have given herself to any pathetic creature or fallacy, an old broken tree or a bereaved porcupine, out of sheer chumminess and compassion.
When I first met her she had but recently divorced her third husband - and a little more recently had been abandoned by her seventh cavalier servant - the others, the mutables, were too numerous and mobile to tabulate. Her brother was - and no doubt still is - a prominent, pasty-faced, suspenders-and-painted-tie-wearing politician, mayor and boaster of his ball-playing, Bible-reading, grain-handling home town. For the last eight years he had been paying his great little sister several hundred dollars per month under the stringent condition that she would never never enter great little Grainball City. She told me, with wails of wonder, that for some God-damn reason every new boy friend of hers would first of all take her Grainball-ward: it was a fatal attraction; and before she knew what was what, she would find herself sucked into the lunar orbit of the town, and would be following the flood-lit drive that encircled it “going round and round,” as she phrased it, “like a God-damn mulberry moth.” (2.26)
Rita's brother seems to be a cross between Khlestakov (a boaster whom everybody mistakes for an inspector traveling incognito) and the Town Mayor, the characters in Gogol's Revizor ("The Inspector," 1836). In her Zapiski (“Memoirs,” 1900-02) Marfa Sabinin (a pianist and caring nurse, 1831-1892) describes her only meeting with Gogol in the summer of 1845 in Weimar:
«17 (29) июня <...> узнали, что приехали и были у отца Николай Васильевич Гоголь и граф Александр Петрович Толстой. На другой день они пришли к отцу, и я в первый и последний раз видела знаменитого писателя. Он был небольшого роста и очень худощав; его узкая голова имела своеобразную форму — френолог бы сказал, что выдаются религиозность и упрямство. Светлые волосы висели прямыми прядями вокруг головы. Лоб его, как будто подавшийся назад, всего больше выступал над глазами, которые были длинноватые и зорко смотрели; нос сгорбленный, очень длинный и худой, а тонкие губы имели сатирическую улыбку. Гоголь был очень нервный, движения его были живые и угловатые, и он не сидел долго на одном месте: встанет, скажет что-нибудь, пройдется несколько раз по комнате и опять сядет. Он приехал в Веймар, чтобы поговорить с моим отцом о своем желании поступить в монастырь. Видя его болезненное состояние, следствием которого было ипохондрическое настроение духа, отец отговаривал его и убедил не принимать окончательного решения. Вообще Гоголь мало говорил, оживлялся только когда говорил, а то все сидел в раздумье. Он попросил меня сыграть ему Шопена; помню только, что я играла ему. Моей матери он подарил хромолитографию — вид Брюлевской террасы; она наклеила этот вид в свой альбом и попросила Гоголя подписаться под ним. Он долго ходил по комнате, наконец сел к столу и написал: „Совсем забыл свою фамилию; кажется, был когда-то Гоголем“. Он исповедовался вечером накануне своего отъезда, и исповедь его длилась очень долго. После Св. Причастия он и его спутник сейчас же отправились в дальнейший путь в Россию, пробыв в Веймаре пять дней.»
According to Marfa Sabinin, a phrenologist would have said that a peculiar form of Gogol’s narrow head indicates Gogol’s religiousity and obstinacy. Phrenology is a pseudoscience founded by Franz Joseph Gall (1758-1828), a German neuroanatomist, physiologist, and pioneer in the study of the localization of mental functions in the brain. Brain + Gall = grain + ball = Grainball.