According to Humbert Humbert (the narrator and main character in VN’s novel Lolita, 1955), Miss Phalen broke her hip in Savannah, Ga., on the very day he arrived in Ramsdale and moved in the Haze house:
The reader has also marked the curious Mirage of the Lake. It would have been logical on the part of Aubrey McFate (as I would like to dub that devil of mine) to arrange a small treat for me on the promised beach, in the presumed forest. Actually, the promise Mrs. Haze had made was a fraudulent one: she had not told me that Mary Rose Hamilton (a dark little beauty in her own right) was to come too, and that the two nymphets would be whispering apart, and playing apart, and having a good time all by themselves, while Mrs. Haze and her handsome lodger conversed sedately in the seminude, far from prying eyes. Incidentally, eyes did pry and tongues did wag. How queer life is! We hasten to alienate the very fates we intended to woo. Before my actual arrival, my landlady had planned to have an old spinster, a Miss Phalen, whose mother had been cook in Mrs. Haze’s family, come to stay in the house with Lolita and me, while Mrs. Haze, a career girl at heart, sought some suitable job in the nearest city. Mrs. Haze had seen the whole situation very clearly: the bespectacled, round-backed Herr Humbert coming with his Central-European trunks to gather dust in his corner behind a heap of old books; the unloved ugly little daughter firmly supervised by Miss Phalen who had already once had my Lo under her buzzard wing (Lo recalled that 1944 summer with an indignant shudder); and Mrs. Haze herself engaged as a receptionist in a great elegant city. But a not too complicated event interfered with that program. Miss Phalen broke her hip in Savannah, Ga., on the very day I arrived in Ramsdale. (1.12)
According to Miss Phalen's sister, "Euphemia had never been the same after breaking that hip:"
I think it was exactly a week after our last swim that the noon mail brought a reply from the second Miss Phalen. The lady wrote she had just returned to St. Algebra from her sister’s funeral. “Euphemia had never been the same after breaking that hip.” As to the matter of Mrs. Humbert’s daughter, she wished to report that it was too late to enroll her this year; but that she, the surviving Phalen, was practically certain that if Mr. and Mrs. Humbert brought Dolores over in January, her admittance might be arranged. (1.22)
Humbert calls Miss Phalen's misfortune "a not too complicated event." In a letter to Humbert (who receives with the same mail a letter from Lolita, now living with her husband in Coalmont, a small mining town) John Farlow (the Ramsdale friend of Lolita's mother Charlotte) mentions the Haze “complications” and says that he had broken his leg:
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. 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. (2.27)
In a letter of July 16 (28), 1844, to Gogol Mikhail Pogodin (a Russian historian and journalist, 1800-1875) says that he had broken his leg in a road accident (on May 16, 1844, at about 9 a.m.) and spent eight weeks in bed lying immobile on his back:
Благодарю тебя за участие. Ты еще не забыл меня! Теперь мне лучше, слава богу, но восемь недель пролежал я неподвижно; с третьего дня начал ворочаться, освобожденный от машины, впрочем, с большою болью и неудобствами в сочленениях ноги. Говорят, что это продолжится не долго. Беда случилась со мной среди мечтаний и самым странным образом.
Я поехал в университет за Шевыревым, который уезжал встречать тело князя Голицына. Еду спокойно на дрожках и думаю: «Теперь я получу на днях увольнение и отправлюсь на воды, с вод в Копенгаген или какой-нибудь угол Варяжского моря писать норман<ский> период; зиму соберу и приведу в порядок все исследования об удельном периоде и на весну поеду в Киев, на Днепр, писать удел<ьный> период; зимой устрою монгольское время и во вторую весну поеду в Сибирь, посмотреть монгольские степи...» Как вдруг дроги пополам, и я упал и переломил себе ногу в самом важном месте! Не загадывай далеко! Меня втащили в соседнюю кондит<ерскую> лавку (16 мая, в 10<-м> часу), и часа три я промучился там сильно. Потом отвезли домой, где встреча была с своими ужасная. После не чувствовал уже никакой сильной боли, кроме времени осмотра. Все посетители были уверены, что перелома нет, а Иноземцев утверждал, что есть; с ним согласились и Пеликан, Альфонский, Севруг. Меня положили в тиски, в картоны, и лежал я до сих пор. Пишу и теперь лежа. Благодарю бога, что послал мне терпение, ни скуки, ни досады — ничего не чувствовал ни на минуту и теперь не понимаю, как могло пройти время так неприметно. А подумать о сумме (8-недельно неподвижен на спине), так берет ужас. Почти уже благодарю бога за это испытание: с одра болезни слышатся такие вещи, каких не услышишь ни с какой кафедры. Читал я Фому Кемпейского, за которого благодарю. Я, разумеется, знал его и прежде, но теперь понял лучше. Удивительно кроткая и любящая душа. Едва ли есть другая книга в мире столь елейная!
Прощай! Я не отвечал на твое письмо, ожидая спокойной минуты, а все еще не получил. Я только что кончил свои дела в университете и упал накануне отставки. Теперь я вольный казак, но не смею думать ни о чем дальше своей койки. Никакой мысли о будущем не входит в голову.
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)
In Pogodin (a surname that comes from pogoda, "weather") there is Godin. Humbert's friend and chess partner at Beardsley, Gaston Godin eventually gets involved in a sale histoire, in Naples of all places:
A word about Gaston Godin. The main reason why I enjoyed - or at least tolerated with relief - his company was the spell of absolute security that his ample person cast on my secret. Not that he knew it; I had no special reason to confide in him, and he was much too self-centered and abstract to notice or suspect anything that might lead to a frank question on his part and a frank answer on mine. He spoke well of me to Beardsleyans, he was my good herald. Had he discovered mes goûts and Lolita’s status, it would have interested him only insofar as throwing some light on the simplicity of my attitude towards him , which attitude was as free of polite strain as it was of ribald allusions; for despite his colorless mind and dim memory, he was perhaps aware that I knew more about him than the burghers of Beardsley did. He was a flabby, dough-faced, melancholy bachelor tapering upward to a pair of narrow, not quite level shoulders and a conical pear-head which had sleek black hair on one side and only a few plastered wisps on the other. But the lower part of his body was enormous, and he ambulated with a curious elephantine stealth by means of phenomentally stout legs. He always wore black, even his tie was black; he seldom bathed; his English was a burlesque. And, nonetheless, everybody considered him to be a supremely lovable, lovably freakish fellow! Neighbors pampered him; he knew by name all the small boys in our vicinity (he lived a few blocks away from me)and had some of them clean his sidewalk and burn leaves in his back yard, and bring wood from his shed, and even perform simple chores about the house, and he would feed them fancy chocolates, with real liqueurs inside - in the privacy of an orientally furnished den in his basement, with amusing daggers and pistols arrayed on the moldy, rug-adorned walls among the camouflaged hot-water pipes. Upstairs he had a studiohe painted a little, the old fraud. He had decorated its sloping wall (it was really not more than a garret) with large photographs of pensive André Gide, Tchaikovsky, Norman Douglas, two other well-known English writers, Nijinsky (all thighs and fig leaves), Harold D. Doublename (a misty-eyed left-wing professor at a Midwestern university) and Marcel Proust. All these poor people seemed about to fall on you from their inclined plane. He had also an album with snapshots of all the Jackies and Dickies of the neighborhood, and when I happened to thumb through it and make some casual remark, Gaston would purse his fat lips and murmur with a wistful pout “Oui, ils sont gentils. ” His brown eyes would roam around the various sentimental and artistic bric-a-brac present, and his own banal toiles (the conventionally primitive eyes, sliced guitars, blue nipples and geometrical designs of the day), and with a vague gesture toward a painted wooden bowl or veined vase, he would say “Prenez donc une de ces poires. La bonne dame d’en face m’en offre plus que je n’en peux savourer. ” Or: “Mississe Taille Lore vient de me donner ces dahlias, belles fleurs que j’exècre .” (Somber, sad, full of world-weariness.)
For obvious reasons, I preferred my house to his for the games of chess we had two or three times weekly. He looked like some old battered idol as he sat with his pudgy hands in his lap and stared at the board as if it were a corpse. Wheezing he would mediate for ten minutes - then make a losing move. Or the good man, after even more thought, might utter: Au roi! With a slow old-dog woof that had a gargling sound at the back of it which made his jowls wabble; and then he would lift his circumflex eyebrows with a deep sigh as I pointed out to him that he was in check himself.
Sometimes, from where we sat in my cold study I could hear Lo’s bare feet practicing dance techniques in the living room downstairs; but Gaston’s outgoing senses were comfortably dulled, and he remained unaware of those naked rhythms - and-one, and-two, and-one, and-two, weight transferred on a straight right leg, leg up and out to the side, and-one, and-two, and only when she started jumping, opening her legs at the height of the jump, and flexing one leg, and extending the other, and flying, and landing on her toes - only then did my pale, pompous, morose opponent rub his head or cheek as if confusing those distant thuds with the awful stabs of my formidable Queen.
Sometimes Lola would slouch in while we pondered the board - and it was every time a treat to see Gaston, his elephant eye still fixed on his pieces, ceremoniously rise to shake hands with her, and forthwith release her limp fingers, and without looking once at her, descend again into his chair to topple into the trap I had laid for him. One day around Christmas, after I had not seen him for a fortnight or so, he asked me “Et toutes vos fillettes, elles vont bien?” from which it became evident to me that he had multiplied my unique Lolita by the number of sartorial categories his downcast moody eye had glimpsed during a whole series of her appearances: blue jeans, a skirt, shorts, a quilted robe.
I am loath to dwell so long on the poor fellow (sadly enough, a year later, during a voyage to Europe, from which he did not return, he got involved in a sale histoire, in Naples of all places!). I would have hardly alluded to him at all had not his Beardsley existence had such a queer bearing on my case. I need him for my defense. There he was devoid of any talent whatsoever, a mediocre teacher, a worthless scholar, a glum repulsive fat old invert, highly contemptuous of the American way of life, triumphantly ignorant of the English language - there he was in priggish New England, crooned over by the old and caressed by the young - oh, having a grand time and fooling everybody; and here was I. (2.6)
In a letter of May 6 (18), 1847, to Gogol Pogodin (who visited Naples many times) mentions Via Toledo (a street in Naples), Posillipo and the Cave of Dogs near Naples:
«Мертвых душ» — в русском языке нет. Есть души ревизские, прописные, убылые, прибылые. «В ворота гостиницы одного губернского города» — столько родительных никогда по-русски не ставится рядом: зависимость их не русская. «В ворота гостиницы въехала» — оборот не русский. «Въехала на двор» — вот как по-русски. Два мужика толкуют о колесе — это хорошо, но не могут они спорить о Москве и Казани, ибо на пространство тысячи верст не могут простираться вероятности. От Толедо может ли колесо доехать до Паузилиппо? А до Собачьей пещеры? Но никто не будет спорить о Флоренции или Милане. С Девичьего колесо может доехать до Тверской, до Лефортова — ну на 10, 15 верст, и т<ак> далее. На досуге по вечерам я хотел было исписать «Мертвые души», но оставил это намерение после твоей последней книги, чтоб мои замечания не были растолкованы отмщением. Теперь ты видишь, почему я подталкивал тебя печатать и почему не делал замечаний, т. е. чтоб не задерживать даром. Писать ты сам никогда и не будешь правильно. Тебе нужен стилист, который бы исправлял безделицы, а язык твой и без правильности имеет такие достоинства высшие, которые заменяют ее с лихвою. Греч и Булгарин правильны, да что же толку!
In the same letter to Gogol Pogodin describes a sale histoire in which a Russian landowner (a certain Khitrov) got involved in the Province of Kaluga:
Вот тебе происшествие, волос становится дыбом, о помещике, которого ты учишь быть Крезом. В Калужской губернии один (Хитров) блудил в продолжение 25 лет со всеми бабами, девками — матерями, дочерьми, сестрами (а был женат и имел семейство). Наконец какая-то вышла из терпения. Придя на работу, она говорит прочим: «Мне мочи нет, барин все пристает ко мне. Долго ль нам мучиться? Управимся с ним». Те обещались. Всех было 9, большею частию молодые, 20, 25, 30 лет. Приезжает барин, привязал лошадь к дереву, подошел к женщине и хлыстнул ее хлыстом. Та бросилась на него, прочие к ней на помощь, повалили барина, засыпали рот землею и схватились за яйца, раздавили их, другие принялись пальцами выковыривать глаза и так задушили его. Потом начали ложиться на мертвого и производить над ним образ действия: как ты лазил по нас! Два старика стояли одаль и не вступались. Когда бабы насытили свою ярость, они подошли, повертели труп: умер, надо вас выручать! Привязали труп к лошади, ударили и пустили по полю. Семейство узнало, но не рассудило донести суду, потому что лишилось бы десяти тягол (оно было небогато), и скрыло.
Лакей, рассердясь на барыню, прислал чрез месяц безыменное письмо к губернатору, и началось следствие. Девять молодых баб осуждены на плети и каторгу, должны оставить мужей и детей. Как скудна твоя книга пред русскими вопросами!
This lecher Khitrov was tortured to death (his testicles were crushed and his eyes were plucked out) by nine young serf wives whom he had abused sexaully.
In the same letter Pogodin asks Gogol not to destroy the manuscripts of the second part of Dead Souls. Nevertheless, in February 1852, Gogol burned the manuscript of the second part of Dead Souls under the intense influence of religious fervor and a fanatical priest, Father Matvey Konstantinovski, who convinced him his writing was sinful and damned his soul, leading to Gogol's subsequent starvation and death just days later. This act, depicted in a famous painting (Samosozhzhenie Gogolya, 1909) by Ilya Repin, was the culmination of Gogol's spiritual crisis, where he sought salvation by destroying his own artistic creation. One of Repin's most famous paintings is Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan on 16 November 1581. 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.
In the Russian Lolita (1967), John Ray's Foreword to Humbert's manuscript is dated August 5, 1955:
Джон Рэй, д-р философии
Видворт, Массачусетс
5 августа 1955 года
A Russian realist painter, Ilya Repin (1844-1930) was born on August 5, 1844. Btw., the tsar Ivan the Terrible (who died on March 28, 1584, while playing chess with his favorite, Prince Bogdan Belski) is a character in Pogodin's tragedy (highly praised by Pushkin) Marfa, Posadnitsa Novgorodskaya ("Martha, Novgorod Governor's Wife," 1830).