One of the chapters in VN's novel Lolita (1955) ends in the sentence "But there was no Charlotte in the living room:"
The day before I had ended the regime of aloofness I had imposed upon myself, and now uttered a cheerful homecoming call as I opened the door of the living room. With her ream-white nape and bronze bun to me, wearing the yellow blouse and maroon slacks she had on when I first met her, Charlotte sat at the corner bureau writing a letter. My hand still on the doorknob, I repeated my hearty cry. Her writing hand stopped. She sat still for a moment; then she slowly turned in her chair and rested her elbow on its curved back. Her face, disfigured by her emotion, was not a pretty sight as she stared at my legs and said:
“The Haze woman, the big bitch, the old cat, the obnoxious mamma, the - the old stupid Haze is no longer your dupe. She has - she has…”
My fair accuser stopped, swallowing her venom and her tears. Whatever Humbert Humbert said - or attempted to say - is inessential. She went on:
“You’re a monster. You’re a detestable, abominable, criminal fraud. If you come near - I’ll scream out the window. Get back!”
Again, whatever H.H. murmured may be omitted, I think.
“I am leaving tonight. This is all yours. Only you’ll never, never see that miserable brat again. Get out of this room.”
Reader, I did. I went up to the ex-semi-studio. Arms akimbo, I stood for a moment quite still and self-composed, surveying from the threshold the raped little table with its open drawer, a key hanging from the lock, four other household keys on the table top. I walked across the landing into the Humberts’ bedroom, and calmly removed my diary from under her pillow into my pocket. Then I started to walk downstairs, but stopped half-way: she was talking on the telephone which happened to be plugged just outside the door of the living room. I wanted to hear what she was saying: she canceled an order for something or other, and returned to the parlor. I rearranged my respiration and went through the hallway to the kitchen. There, I opened a bottle of Scotch. She could never resist Scotch. Then I walked into the dining room and from there, through the half-open door, contemplated Charlotte’s broad back.
“You are ruining my life and yours,” I said quietly. “Let us be civilized people. It is all your hallucination. You are crazy, Charlotte. The notes you found were fragments of a novel. Your name and hers were put in by mere chance. Just because they came handy. Think it over. I shall bring you a drink.”
She neither answered nor turned, but went on writing in a scorching scrawl whatever she was writing. A third letter, presumably (two in stamped envelopes were already laid out on the desk). I went back to the kitchen.
I set out two glasses (to St. Algebra? to Lo?) and opened the refrigerator. It roared at me viciously while I removed the ice from its heart. Rewrite. Let her read it again. She will not recall details. Change, forge. Write a fragment and show it to her or leave it lying around. Why do faucets sometimes whine so horribly? A horrible situation, really. The little pillow-shaped blocks of ice - pillows for polar teddy bear, Lo - emitted rasping, crackling, tortured sounds as the warm water loosened them in their cells. I bumped down the glasses side by side. I poured in the whiskey and a dram of soda. She had tabooed my pin. Bark and bang went the icebox. Carrying the glasses, I walked through the dining room and spoke through the parlor door which was a fraction ajar, not quite space enough for my elbow.
“I have made you a drink,” I said.
She did not answer, the mad bitch, and I placed the glasses on the sideboard near the telephone, which had started to ring.
“Leslie speaking. Leslie Tomson,” said Leslie Tomson who favored a dip at dawn. “Mrs. Humbert, sir, has been run over and you’d better come quick.”
I answered, perhaps a bit testily, that my wife was safe and sound, and still holding the receiver, I pushed open the door and said:
“There’s this man saying you’ve been killed, Charlotte.”
But there was no Charlotte in the living room. (1.22)
No nikakoy Sharlotty v gostinoy ne bylo in the Russian Lolita (1967) follows closely the intonation of the last sentence of VN's novel Zashchita Luzhina ("The Luzhin Defense," 1930), No nikakogo Aleksandra Ivanovicha ne bylo (But there was no Aleksandr Ivanovich):
Лужин, заперев дверь, первым делом включил свет. Белым блеском раскрылась эмалевая ванна у левой стены. На правой висел рисунок карандашом: куб, отбрасывающий тень. В глубине, у окна, стоял невысокий комод. Нижняя часть окна была как будто подернута ровным морозом, искристо-голубая, непрозрачная. В верхней части чернела квадратная ночь с зеркальным отливом. Лужин дернул за ручку нижнюю раму, но что-то прилипло или зацепилось, она не хотела открыться. Он на мгновение задумался, потом взялся за спинку стула, стоявшего подле ванны, и перевел взгляд с этого крепкого, белого стула на плотный мороз стекла. Решившись наконец, он поднял стул за ножки и краем спинки, как тараном, ударил. Что-то хрустнуло, он двинул еще раз, и вдруг в морозном стекле появилась черная, звездообразная дыра. Был миг выжидательной тишины. Затем глубоко-глубоко внизу что-то нежно зазвенело и рассыпалось. Стараясь расширить дыру, он ударил еще раз, и клинообразный кусок стекла разбился у его ног. Тут он замер. За дверью были голоса. Кто-то постучал. Кто-то громко позвал его по имени. Потом тишина, я совершенно ясно голос жены: "Милый Лужин, отоприте, пожалуйста". С трудом сдерживая тяжкое свое дыхание, Лужин опустил на пол стул и попробовал высунуться в окно. Большие клинья и углы еще торчали в раме. Что-то полоснуло его по шее, он быстро втянул голову обратно,- нет, не пролезть. В дверь забухал кулак. Два мужских голоса спорили, и среди этого грома извивался шепот жены. Лужин решил больше не бить стекла, слишком оно звонко. Он поднял глаза. Верхняя оконница. Но как до нее дотянуться? Стараясь не шуметь и ничего не разбить, он стал снимать с комода предметы: зеркало, какую-то бутылочку, стакан. Делал он все медленно и хорошо, напрасно его так торопил грохот за дверью, Сняв также и скатерть, он попытался влезть на комод, приходившийся ему по пояс, и это удалось не сразу. Стало душно, он скинул пиджак и тут заметил, что и руки у него в крови, и перед рубашки в красных пятнах. Наконец, он оказался на комоде, комод трещал под его тяжестью. Он быстро потянулся к верхней раме и уже чувствовал, что буханье и голоса подталкивают его, и он не может не торопиться. Подняв руку, он рванул раму, и она отпахнулась. Черное небо. Оттуда, из этой холодной тьмы, донесся голос жены, тихо сказал: "Лужин, Лужин". Он вспомнил, что подальше, полевее, находится окно спальни, из него-то и высунулся этот шепот. За дверью, меж тем, голоса и грохот росли, было там человек двадцать, должно быть,- Валентинов, Турати, старик с цветами, сопевший, крякавший, и еще, и еще, и все вместе чем-то били в дрожащую дверь. Квадратная ночь, однако, была еще слишком высоко. Пригнув колено, Лужин втянул стул на комод. Стул стоял нетвердо, трудно было балансировать, все же Лужин полез. Теперь можно было свободно облокотиться о нижний край черной ночи. Он дышал так громко, что себя самого оглушал, и уже далеко, далеко были крики за дверью, но зато яснее был пронзительный голос, вырывавшийся из окна спальни. После многих усилий он оказался в странном и мучительном положении: одна нога висела снаружи, где была другая - неизвестно, а тело никак не хотело протиснуться. Рубашка на плече порвалась, все лицо было мокрое. Уцепившись рукой за что-то вверху, он боком пролез в пройму окна. Теперь обе ноги висели наружу, и надо было только отпустить то, за что он держался,- и спасен, Прежде чем отпустить, он глянул вниз. Там шло какое-то торопливое подготовление: собирались, выравнивались отражения окон, вся бездна распадалась на бледные и темные квадраты, и в тот миг, что Лужин разжал руки, в тот миг, что хлынул в рот стремительный ледяной воздух, он увидел, какая именно вечность угодливо и неумолимо раскинулась перед ним.
Дверь выбили. "Александр Иванович, Александр Иванович!" - заревело несколько голосов. Но никакого Александра Ивановича не было.
The first thing Luzhin did after locking the door was to turn on the light. Gleaming whitely, an enameled bathtub came into view by the left wall. On the right wall hung a pencil drawing: a cube casting a shadow. At the far end, by the window, stood a small chest. The lower part of the window was of frosted glass, sparkly-blue, opaque. In the upper part, a black rectangle of night was sheened mirror-like. Luzhin tugged at the handle of the lower frame, but something had got stuck or had caught, it did not want to open. He thought for a moment, then took hold of the back of a chair standing by the tub and looked from the sturdy white chair to the solid forest of the window. Making up his mind finally, he lifted the chair by the legs and struck, using its edge as a battering ram. Something cracked, he swung again, and suddenly a black, star-shaped hole appeared in the frosted glass. There was a moment of expectant silence. Then, far below, something tinkled tenderly and disintegrated. Trying to widen the hole, he struck again, and a wedge of glass smashed at his feet. There were voices behind the door. Somebody knocked. Somebody called him loudly by his name and patronymic. Then there was silence and his wife's voice said with absolute clarity: 'Dear Luzhin, open, please.' Restraining his heavy breathing, Luzhin lowered the chair to the floor and tried to thrust himself through the window. Large wedges and corners still stuck out of the frame. Something stung his neck and he quickly drew his head in again — no, he could not get through. A fist slammed against the door. Two men's voices were quarreling and his wife's whisper wriggled through the uproar. Luzhin decided not to smash any more glass, it made too much noise. He raised his eyes. The upper window. But how to reach it? Trying not to make a noise or break anything, he began to take things off the chest; a mirror, a bottle of some sort, a glass. He did everything slowly and thoroughly, it was useless for the rumbling behind the door to hurry him like that. Removing the doily too he attempted to climb up on the chest; it reached to his waist, and he was unable to make it at first. He felt hot and he peeled off his jacket, and here he noticed that his hands were bloodied and that there were red spots on the front of his shirt. Finally he found himself on the chest, which creaked under his weight. He quickly reached up to the upper frame, now feeling that the thumping and the voices were urging him on and that he could not help but hurry. Raising a hand he jerked at the frame and it swung open. Black sky. Thence, out of this cold darkness, came the voice of his wife, saying softly: 'Luzhin, Luzhin.' He remembered that farther to the left was the bedroom window: it was from there this whisper had emerged. Meanwhile the voices and the crashing behind the door had grown in volume, there must have been around twenty people out there — Valentinov. Turati, the old gentleman with the bunch of flowers... They were sniffing and grunting, and more of them came, and all together they were beating with something against the shuddering door. The rectangular night, however, was still too high. Bending one knee, Luzhin hauled the chair onto the chest. The chair was unstable, it was difficult to balance, but still Luzhin climbed up. Now he could easily lean his elbows on the lower edge of the black night. He was breathing so loudly that he deafened himself, and now the cries behind the door were far, far away, but on the other hand the voice from the bedroom window was clearer, was bursting out with piercing force. After many efforts he found himself in a strange and mortifying position: one leg hung outside, and he did not know where the other one was, while his body would in no wise be squeezed through. His shirt had torn at the shoulder, his face was wet. Clutching with one hand at something overhead, he got through the window sideways. Now both legs were hanging outside and he had only to let go of what he was holding on to — and he was saved. Before letting go he looked down. Some kind of hasty preparations were under way there: the window reflections gathered together and leveled themselves out, the whole chasm was seen to divide into dark and pale squares, and at the instant when Luzhin unclenched his hand, at the instant when icy air gushed into his mouth, he saw exactly what kind of eternity was obligingly and inexorably spread out before him. The door was burst in, 'Aleksandr Ivanovich, Aleksandr Ivanovich,' roared several voices. But there was no Aleksandr Ivanovich. (Chapter 14)
Lolita's mother Charlotte dies under the wheels of a truck because of a neighbor's hysterical dog. In The Luzhin Defense, a thought comes to the mind of Luzhin's fiancée "and how was it he had not been run-over yet by a car:"
Пока врач, приехавший на рассвете, осматривал его, в лице у Лужина произошла перемена, веки поднялись, и из-под них выглянули мутные глаза. И только тогда его невеста вышла из того душевного оцепенения, в котором находилась с тех пор, как увидела тело, лежавшее у подъезда. Правда, она с вечера ожидала чего-то страшного, но такого именно ужаса представить себе не могла. Когда вечером Лужин не явился, она позвонила в шахматное кафе, и ей сказали, что уже давно игра кончилась. Тогда она позвонила в гостиницу, и оттуда ей ответили, что Лужин еще не вернулся. Она выходила на улицу, думая, что, быть может, Лужин ждет у запертой двери, и опять звонила в гостиницу, и советовалась с отцом, не известить ли полицию. “Ерунда, – решительно сказал отец. – Мало ли, какие у него есть знакомые. Пошел в гости человек”. Но она отлично знала, что никаких знакомых у Лужина нет и что чем-то бессмысленно его отсутствие. И теперь, глядя на большое, бледное лицо Лужина, она так вся исполнилась мучительной, нежной жалости, что, казалось, не будь в ней этой жалости, не было бы и жизни. Невозможно было думать о том, как валялся на улице этот безобидный человек, как тискали его мягкое тело пьяные люди: невозможно было думать о том, что все приняли его таинственный обморок за рыхлый и грубый сон бражника, и что ждали бравурного храпа от его беспомощной тишины. Такая жалость, такая мука. И этот старенький, чудаковатый жилет, на который нельзя смотреть без слез, и бедная кудря, и белая, голая шея, вся в детских складках… И все это произошло по ее вине, – недосмотрела, недосмотрела. Надо было все время быть рядом с ним, не давать ему слишком много играть, – и как это он до сих пор не попал под автомобиль, и как она не догадалась, что вот он может от шахматной усталости так грохнуться, так онеметь? “Лужин,– сказала она, улыбаясь, словно он мог видеть ее улыбку, – Лужин, все хорошо. Лужин, вы слышите?”
While the doctor, who came at dawn, was examining him, a change occurred in Luzhin's face, his eyelids lifted and dim eyes looked out from beneath them. And only then did his fiancée come out of that numbness of the soul that had possessed her ever since she saw the body lying by the front steps. It is true she had been expecting something terrible, but this precise horror had been beyond her imagination. Last night when Luzhin had not visited them as usual she had called the chess café and had been told that play had finished long ago. Then she called the hotel and they replied that Luzhin had still not returned. She went out onto the street, thinking that perhaps Luzhin was waiting by the locked door, and then called the hotel again, and then consulted her father about notifying the police. 'Nonsense,' her father said decisively. 'There must be plenty of friends of his around. The man's gone to a party.' But she knew perfectly well that Luzhin had no friends and that there was something senseless about his absence.
And now, looking at Luzhin's large, pale face, she so brimmed with aching, tender pity that it seemed as if without this pity inside her there would be no life either. It was impossible to think of this inoffensive man sprawling in the street and his soft body being handled by drunks; she could not bear to think that everybody had taken his mysterious swoon for the flabby, vulgar sleep of a reveler and had expected a devil-may-care snore from his helpless quietude. Such pity, such pain. And this outmoded, eccentric waistcoat that one could not bear to look at without tears, and that poor curl, and the bare, white neck all creased like a child's.... And all this had happened because of her... she had not kept an eye on him, had not kept an eye on him. She should have stayed by him the whole time, not allowed him to play too much... and how was it he had not been run-over yet by a car, and why had she not guessed that at any minute he might topple over, paralyzed by this chess fatigue? ...'Luzhin,' she said smiling, as if he could see her smile. 'Luzhin, everything's all right. Luzhin, do you hear me?' (Chapter 9)
Kurt and Karl (the German revelers in The Luzhin Defense) mistake Luzhin who fainted in the street after his game with Turati for their friend Pulvermacher:
Панель скользнула, поднялась под прямым углом и качнулась обратно. Он разогнулся, тяжело дыша, а его товарищ, поддерживая его и тоже качаясь, повторял: "Гюнтер, Гюнтер, попробуй же идти". Гюнтер выпрямился совсем, и после этой короткой, уже не первой остановки, они оба пошли дальше по ночной пустынной улице, которая то плавно поднималась к звездам, то уходила вниз. Гюнтер, крепкий и крупный, выпил больше товарища: тот, по имени Курт, поддерживал спутника, как мог, хотя пиво громовым дактилем звучало в голове. "Где дру... где дру...- тоскливо силился спросить Гюнтер.- Где дру... гие?" Еще так недавно они все сидели вокруг дубового стола, празднуя пятую годовщину окончания школы, хорошо так пели и с густым звоном чокались, человек тридцать, пожалуй, и все счастливые, трезвые, весь год прекрасно работавшие, а теперь, как только стали расходиться по домам, так сразу- тошнота, и темнота, и безнадежно валкая панель. "Другие там",- сказал Курт с широким жестом, который неприятно призвал к жизни ближайшую стену: она наклонилась и медленно выпрямилась опять. "Разъехались, разошлись",- грустно пояснил Курт. "А впереди нас Карл",- медленно и отчетливо произнес Гюнтер, и упругим пивным ветром обоих качнуло в сторону: они остановились, отступили на шаг и опять пошли дальше. "Я тебе говорю, что там Карл",- обиженно повторил Гюнтер. И действительно, на краю панели сидел с опущенной головой человек. Они не рассчитали шага, и их пронесло мимо. Когда же им удалось подойти, то человек зачмокал губами и медленно повернулся к ним. Да, это был Карл, но какой Карл, - лицо без выражения, большие, опустевшие глаза. "Я просто отдыхаю,- тусклым голосом сказал он. - Сейчас буду продолжать". Вдруг по пустынному асфальту медленно прокатил таксомотор с поднятым флажком. "Остановите его,- сказал Карл.- Пускай он меня отвезет". Автомобиль подъехал. Гюнтер валился на Карла, стараясь ему помочь подняться, Курт тянул чью-то ногу в сером гетре. Шофер все это поощрял добродушными словами, потом слез и тоже стал помогать. Вяло барахтавшееся тело было втиснуто в пройму дверцы, и автомобиль сразу отъехал. "А нам близко",- сказал Курт. Стоявший с ним рядом вздохнул, и Курт, посмотрев на него, увидел, что это Карл, а увезли-то, значит, Гюнтера. "Я помогу тебе, - сказал он виновато. - Пойдем". Карл, глядя перед собой пустыми. детскими глазами, склонился к нему, и оба двинулись, стали переходить на ту сторону по волнующемуся асфальту. "А вот еще", - сказал Курт. На панели, у решетки палисадника лежал согнувшись толстый человек без шляпы. "Это, вероятно, Пульвермахер, - пробормотал Курт. - Ты знаешь, он очень за эти годы изменился". "Это не Пульвермахер, - ответил Карл, садясь на панель рядом. - Пульвермахер лысый". "Все равно,- сказал Курт.- Его тоже надо отвезти". Они попытались приподнять человека за плечи и потеряли равновесие. "Не сломай решетку", - предупредил Карл. "Надо отвезти,- повторил Курт.- Это, может быть, брат Пульвермахера. Он тоже там был".
Человек, по-видимому, спал и спал крепко. Он был в черном пальто с бархатными полосками на отворотах. Полное лицо с тяжелым подбородком и выпуклыми веками лоснилось при свете уличного фонаря. "Подождем таксомотора",- сказал Курт и последовал примеру Карла, который присел на край панели. "Эта ночь кончится",- уверенно сказал он и добавил, взглянув на небо; "Как они крушатся". "Звезды",- объяснил Карл, и оба некоторое время неподвижно глядели ввысь, где в чудесной бледно-сизой бездне дугообразно текли звезды. "Пульвермахер тоже смотрит",- после молчания сказал Курт. "Нет, спит",- возразил Карл, взглянув на полное, неподвижное лицо. "Спит",- согласился Курт.
Скользнул по асфальту свет, и тот же добродушный таксомотор, отвезший Гюнтера куда-то, мягко пристал к панели. "Еще один? - засмеялся шофер. - Можно было и сразу". "Куда же?"- сонно спросил Карл у Курта. "Какой-нибудь адрес... в кармане",- туманно ответил тот. Пошатываясь и непроизвольно кивая, они нагнулись над неподвижным человеком, и то, что пальто его было расстегнуто, облегчило им дальнейшие изыскания. "Бархатный жилет, - сказал Курт. - Бедняга, бедняга..." В первом же кармане они нашли сложенную вдвое открытку, которая расползлась у них в руках, и одна половинка с адресом получателя выскользнула и бесследно пропала. На оставшейся половинке нашелся, однако, еще другой адрес, написанный поперек открытки и жирно подчеркнутый. На обороте была всего одна ровная строчка, слева прерванная, но, даже, если б и удалось приставить отвалившуюся и потерянную половинку, то вряд ли смысл этой строчки стал бы яснее. "Бак берепом",- прочел Курт по системе "реникса", что было простительно. Адрес, найденный на открытке, был сказан шоферу, и затем пришлось втаскивать безжизненное, тяжелое тело в автомобиль, и опять шофер пришел на помощь. На дверце, при свете фонаря, мелькнули крупные шахматные квадраты, - гербовые цвета таксомоторов. Наконец, плотно наполненный автомобиль двинулся.
Карл по дороге уснул. Тело его, и тело неизвестного, и тело Курта, сидевшего на полу, приходили в мягкие, безвольные соприкосновения при каждом повороте, и затем Курт оказался на сидении, а Карл и большая часть неизвестного на полу. Когда автомобиль остановился, и шофер открыл дверцу, то не мог первое время разобрать, сколько людей в автомобиле. Карл проснулся сразу, но человек без шляпы был по-прежнему неподвижен. "Интересно, что вы теперь будете делать с вашим другом",- сказал шофер. "Его, вероятно, ждут",- сказал Курт. Шофер, полагая, что свое дело он выполнил и достаточно за ночь поносил всяких тяжестей, поднял флажок и объявил сумму. "Я заплачу",- сказал Карл. "Нет, я,- сказал Курт.- Я его первый нашел". Этот довод Карла убедил. С трудом опорожненный автомобиль отъехал. Трое людей остались на панели: один из них лежал, приставленный затылком к каменной ступени.
Пошатываясь и вздыхая, Курт и Карл стали посреди мостовой и затем, обратившись к единственному освещенному в доме окну, хрипло крикнули, и тотчас, с неожиданной отзывчивостью, жалюзи, прорезанное светом, дрогнуло и взвилось. Из окна выглянула молодая дама. Не зная, как начать, Курт ухмыльнулся, потом, собравшись с силами, бодро и громко сказал: "Сударыня, мы привезли Пульвермахера". Дама ничего не ответила, и жалюзи с треском опустилось. Было видно, однако, что она осталась у окна. "Мы его нашли на улице",- неуверенно сказал Карл, обращаясь к окну. Жалюзи опять поднялось. "Бархатный жилет",- счел нужным пояснить Курт. Окно опустело, но через минуту темнота за парадной дверью распалась, сквозь стекло появилась освещенная лестница, Мраморная до первой площадки, и, не успела эта новорожденная лестница полностью окаменеть, как уже на ступенях появились быстрые женские ноги. Ключ заиграл в замке, дверь открылась. На панели, спиной к ступеням, лежал полный человек в черном.
The sidewalk skidded, reared up at a right angle and swayed back again. Gunther straightened himself up, breathing heavily, while his comrade, supporting him and also swaying, kept repeating: "Gunther, Gunther, try to walk." Gunther stood up quite straight and after this brief stop, which was not the first, both of them continued farther along the deserted night street, which alternately rose up smoothly to the stars and then sloped down again. Gunther, a big sturdy fellow, had drunk more than his comrade: the latter, Kurt by name, supported Gunther as best he could, although the beer was throbbing thunderously in his head. "Where are ... where are ..." Gunther strove to ask. "Where are the others?" A moment before they had all been sitting around an oaken table, thirty fellows or so, happy, level-headed, hard-working men celebrating the fifth anniversary of their leaving school with a good sing and the sonorous ringing of clinked glasses--whereas now, as soon as they had started to disperse to their homes, they found themselves beset by nausea, darkness, and the hopeless unsteadiness of this sidewalk. "The others are there," said Kurt with a broad gesture, which unpleasantly called into life the nearest wall: it leaned forward and slowly straightened up again. "They've gone, gone," elucidated Kurt sadly. "But Karl is in front of us," said Gunther slowly and distinctly, and a resilient, beery wind caused them both to sway to one side: they halted, took a step backwards and again went on their way. "I'm telling you Karl is there," repeated Gunther sulkily. And truly a man was sitting on the edge of the sidewalk with his head lowered. They miscalculated their impetus and were carried past. When they succeeded in approaching him the man smacked his lips and slowly turned toward them. Yes, it was Karl, but what a Karl--his face blank, his eyes glazed! "I'm just taking a rest," he said in a dull voice. "I'll continue in a minute." Suddenly a taxi with its flag up came rolling slowly over the deserted asphalt. "Stop him," said Karl. "I want him to take me." The car drew up. Gunther kept tumbling over Karl, trying to help him get up, and Kurt tugged at somebody's gray-spatted foot. From his seat the driver encouraged all this good-naturedly and then climbed out and also began to help. The limply floundering body was squeezed through the aperture of the door and the car immediately pulled away. "And we're nearly there," said Kurt. The figure standing next to him sighed and Kurt, looking at him, saw that it was Karl--which meant that the taxi had carried off Gunther instead. "I'll give you a hand," he said guiltily. "Let's go." Looking in front of him with empty, childlike eyes, Karl leaned toward him and they both moved off and started to cross to the other side of the heaving asphalt. "Here's another," said Kurt. A fat man without a hat lay all hunched up on the sidewalk, beside a garden fence. "That's probably Pulvermacher," muttered Kurt. "You know he's changed an awful lot in recent years." "That's not Pulvermacher," replied Karl, sitting down on the sidewalk beside him. "Pulvermacher's bald." "It doesn't matter," said Kurt. "He also has to be taken home." They tried to raise the man by his shoulders and lost their equilibrium. "Don't break the fence," cautioned Karl. "He has to be taken," repeated Kurt. "Perhaps it's Pulvermacher's brother. He was there, too."
The man was evidently sound asleep. He was wearing a black overcoat with strips of velvet on the lapels. His fat face with its heavy chin and convex eyelids was glossy in the light of the streetlamp. "Let's wait for a taxi," said Kurt and followed the example of Karl, who had squatted on the curbing. "This night will come to an end," he said confidently and added, looking at the sky: "How they revolve." "Stars," explained Karl and both sat still, staring upward at the wonderful, pale, nebulous abyss, where the stars flowed in an arc. "Pulvermacher's also looking," said Kurt after a silence. "No, he's sleeping," objected Karl, glancing at the fat, motionless face. "Sleeping," agreed Kurt.
A light glided over the asphalt and the same good-natured taxi that had taken Gunther away somewhere, softly pulled in alongside the sidewalk. "Another one?" laughed the driver. "They could have gone together." "But where?" Karl asked Kurt sleepily. "There must be an address of some kind--let's look in his pockets ..." the latter answered vaguely. Swaying and involuntarily nodding, they bent over the motionless man and the fact that his overcoat was unbuttoned facilitated their further explorations. "Velvet waistcoat," said Kurt. "Poor fellow, poor fellow ..." In the very first pocket they found a postcard folded in two, which parted in their hands, and one half with the receiver's address on it slipped down and vanished without trace. On the remaining half, however, they found another address that had been written across the card and thickly underlined. On the other side there was just a single level line, cut short at the left; but even if it had been possible to place it side by side with the fallen-off and lost half the meaning of this line would hardly have become any clearer. "Bac berepom," read Kurt mistaking the Russian letters for Latin ones, which was excusable. The address found on the postcard was told to the driver and then they had to thrust the heavy, lifeless body into the car, and again the driver came to their aid. On the door large chess squares--the blazon of Berlin taxis--showed in the light of the streetlamp. Finally the jam-packed motorcar moved off.
Karl fell asleep on the way. His body and the unknown's body and the body of Kurt, who was sitting on the floor, came into soft, involuntary contact at every turn and subsequently Kurt finished up on the seat and Karl and most of the unknown fellow on the floor. When the car stopped and the driver opened the door he was unable at first to make out how many people were inside. Karl woke up immediately, but the hatless man was as motionless as before. "I'm curious to know what you'll do with your friend now," said the driver. "They're probably waiting for him," said Kurt. The driver, considering he had done his job and carried enough heavyweights for the night, raised his flag and announced the fare. "I'll pay," said Karl. "No, I will," said Kurt. "I found him first." This argument convinced Karl. The car was emptied with difficulty, and departed. Three people remained on the sidewalk: one of them lying with his head resting against a stone step.
Swaying and sighing, Kurt and Karl moved to the middle of the street and then, addressing themselves to the sole lighted window in the house, shouted hoarsely, and immediately, with unexpected responsiveness, the light-slashed blind trembled and was pulled up. A young woman looked out of the window. Not knowing how to begin, Kurt smirked, then, pulling himself together, said boldly and loudly: "Miss, we've brought Pulvermacher." The woman gave no answer and the blind descended with a rattle. One could see, however, that she stayed by the window. "We found him in the street," said Karl uncertainly, addressing the window. The blind went up again. "A velvet waistcoat," Kurt considered it necessary to explain. The window emptied, but a moment later the darkness behind the front door disintegrated and through the glass appeared an illuminated staircase, marble as far as the first landing, and this newborn staircase had not had time to congeal completely before swift feminine legs appeared on the stairs. A key grated in the lock and the door opened. On the sidewalk with his back to the steps lay a stout man in black. (Chapter 9)
The Pulvermacher chain, or in full as it was sold the Pulvermacher hydro-electric chain, was a type of voltaic battery sold in the second half of the 19th century for medical applications. In Flaubert’s Madame Bovary (1857) Homais is enthusiastic about the hydro-electric Pulvermacher chains and wears one himself:
He by no means gave up his shop. On the contrary, he kept well abreast of new discoveries. He followed the great movement of chocolates; he was the first to introduce "cocoa" and "revalenta" into the Seine-Inferieure. He was enthusiastic about the hydro-electric Pulvermacher chains; he wore one himself, and when at night he took off his flannel vest, Madame Homais stood quite dazzled before the golden spiral beneath which he was hidden, and felt her ardour redouble for this man more bandaged than a Scythian, and splendid as one of the Magi. (Part Three, chapter 11)
To hide her affair with Léon Dupuis from her husband Charles, Emma Bovary pretends to take music lessons from a "Mademoiselle Lempereur" in Rouen. A French scholar, Humbert calls Lolita's piano teacher "Miss Emperor:"
Because it supposedly tied up with her interest in dance and dramatics, I had permitted Lo to take piano lessons with a Miss Emperor (as we French scholars may conveniently call her) to whose blue-shuttered little white house a mile or so beyond Beardsley Lo would spin off twice a week. One Friday night toward the end of May (and a week or so after the very special rehearsal Lo had not had me attend) the telephone in my study, where I was in the act of mopping up Gustave’s - I mean Gaston’s - king’s side, rang and Miss Emperor asked if Lo was coming next Tuesday because she had missed last Tuesday’s and today’s lessons. I said she would by all means - and went on with the game. As the reader may well imagine, my faculties were now impaired, and a move or two later, with Gaston to play, I noticed through the film of my general distress that he could collect my queen; he noticed it too, but thinking it might be a trap on the part of his tricky opponent, he demurred for quite a minute, and puffed and wheezed, and shook his jowls, and even shot furtive glances at me, and made hesitating half-thrusts with his pudgily bunched fingers - dying to take that juicy queen and not daring - and all of a sudden he swooped down upon it (who knows if it did not teach him certain later audacities?), and I spent a dreary hour in achieving a draw. He finished his brandy and presently lumbered away, quite satisfied with this result (mon pauvre ami, je ne vous ai jamais revu et quoiqu’il y ait bien peu de chance que vous voyiez mon livre, permiettez-moi de vous dire que je vous serre la main bien cordialement, et que toutes mes fillettes vous saluent ). I found Dolores Haze at the kitchen table, consuming a wedge of pie, with her eyes fixed on her script. They rose to meet mine with a kind of celestial vapidity. She remained singularly unruffled when confronted with my discovery, and said d’un petit air faussement contrit that she knew she was a very wicked kid, but simply had not been able to resist the enchantment, and had used up those music hours - O Reader, My Reader! - in a nearby public park rehearsing the magic forest scene with Mona. I said “fine”and stalked to the telephone. Mona’s mother answered: “Oh yes, she’s in” and retreated with a mother’s neutral laugh of polite pleasure to shout off stage “Roy calling!” and the very next moment Mona rustled up, and forthwith, in a low monotonous not untender voice started berating Roy for something he had said or done and I interrupted her, and presently Mona was saying in her humbles, sexiest contralto, “yes, sir,” “surely, sir.” “I am alone to blame, sir, in this unfortunate business,” (what elocution! what poise!) “honest, I feel very bad about it” - and so on and so forth as those little harlots say. (2.14)
Humbert's friend and chess partner at Beardsley, Gaston Godin eventually gets involved in a sale histoire, in Naples of all places. Among Luzhin's things that his fiancée finds in his hotel room is a collection of Italian postcards — all blue sky and madonnas and a lilac haze over Vesuvius (an active volcano near Naples):
Как только его перевезли в больницу, она поехала в гостиницу за его вещами, и сначала её не пускали в его номер, и пришлось долго объяснять, и вместе с довольно наглым отельным служащим звонить в санаторию, и потом оплатить за последнюю неделю пребывания Лужина в номере, и не хватило денег, и надо было объяснять, и при этом ей всё казалось, что продолжается измывание над Лужиным, и трудно было сдерживать слёзы. Когда же, отказавшись от грубой помощи отельной горничной, она стала собирать лужинские вещи, то чувство жалости дошло до крайней остроты. Среди его вещей были такие, которые он, должно быть, возил с собой давно-давно, не замечая их и не выбрасывая, – ненужные, неожиданные вещи: холщовый кушак с металлической пряжкой в виде буквы S и с кожаным карманчиком сбоку, ножичек-брелок, отделанный перламутром, пачка итальянских открыток, – всё синева да мадонны, да сиреневый дымок над Везувием; и несомненно петербургские вещи: маленькие счёты с красными и белыми костяшками, настольный календарь с перекидными листочками от совершенно некалендарного года – 1918. Все это почему-то валялось в шкалу, среди чистых, но смятых рубашек, цветные полосы и крахмальные манжеты которых вызывали представление о каких-то давно минувших годах. Там же нашелся шапокляк, купленный в Лондоне, и в нем визитная карточка какого-то Валентинова… Туалетные принадлежности были в таком виде, что она решила их оставить ,– купить ему резиновую губку взамен невероятной мочалки. Шахматы, картонную коробку, полную записей и диаграмм, кипу шахматных журналов она завернула в отдельный пакет: это ему было теперь не нужно. Когда чемодан и сундучок были наполнены и заперты, она еще раз заглянула во все углы и достала из-под постели пару удивительно старых, рваных, потерявших шнурки, желтых башмаков, которые Лужину служили вместо ночных туфель. Она осторожно сунула их обратно под постель.
As soon as he was taken to the hospital she went to the hotel for his things, and at first they would not let her into his room, and this led to long explanations and a telephone call to the hospital by a rather cheeky hotel employee, after which she had to pay Luzhin's bill for the last week, and she did not have enough money and more explanations were necessary, and it seemed to her that the mockery of Luzhin was continuing, and it was difficult to hold back her tears. And when, refusing the coarse help of the hotel chambermaid, she began to gather up Luzhin's things, the feeling of pity rose to an extreme pitch. Among his things were some that he must have been carrying around with him for ages, not noticing them and never throwing them out — unnecessary, unexpected things: a canvas belt with a metallic buckle in the shape of a letter S and with a leather pocket on the side, a miniature penknife for a watch chain, inlaid with mother of pearl, a collection of Italian postcards — all blue sky and madonnas and a lilac haze over Vesuvius; and unmistakably St. Petersburg things: a tiny abacus with red and white counters, a desk calendar with turn-back pages for a completely non-calendar year — 1918. All this was kicking about in a drawer, among some clean but crumpled shirts, whose colored stripes and starched cuffs evoked a picture of long-gone years. There also she found a collapsible opera hat bought in London, and in it the visiting card of somebody named Valentinov.... The toilet articles were in such a state that she resolved to leave them behind — and to buy him a rubber sponge in place of that unbelievable loofah. A chess set, a cardboard box full of notes and diagrams, and a pile of chess magazines she wrapped up in a separate package: he did not need this now. When the valise and small trunk were full and locked, she looked once more into all the corners and retrieved from under the bed a pair of astonishingly old, torn laceless brown shoes that served Luzhin in place of bedroom slippers. Carefully she pushed them back under the bed. (Chapter 9)
Une sale histoire is the French title of Dostoevski's story Skvernyi anekdot ("A Nasty Story," 1862). The professor in the sanatorium forbids Luzhin to be given anything by Dostoevski:
Путешествие Фогга и мемуары Холмса Лужин прочел в два дня и, прочитав, сказал, что это не то, что он хотел,- неполное, что ли, издание. Из других книг ему понравилась "Анна Каренина" - особенно страницы о земских выборах и обед, заказанный Облонским. Некоторое впечатление произвели на него и "Мертвые души", причем он в одном месте неожиданно узнал целый кусок, однажды в детстве долго и мучительно писанный им под диктовку. Кроме так называемых классиков, невеста ему приносила и всякие случайные книжонки легкого поведения - труды галльских новеллистов. Все, что только могло развлечь Лужина, было хорошо- даже эти сомнительные новеллы, которые он со смущением, но с интересом читал. Зато стихи (например, томик Рильке, который она купила по совету приказчика) приводили его в состояние тяжелого недоумения и печали. Соответственно с этим профессор запретил давать Лужину читать Достоевского, который, по словам профессора, производит гнетущее действие на психику современного человека, ибо, как в страшном зеркале...
"Ах, господин Лужин не задумывается над книгой,- весело сказала она.- - А стихи он плохо понимает из-за рифм, рифмы ему в тягость".
Luzhin read Fogg's journey and Holmes' memoirs in two days, and when he had read them he said they were not what he wanted--this was an incomplete edition. Of the other books, he liked Anna Karenin--particularly the pages on the zemstvo elections and the dinner ordered by Oblonski. Dead Souls also made a certain impression on him, moreover in one place he unexpectedly recognized a whole section that he had once taken down in childhood as a long and painful dictation. Besides the so-called classics his fiancée brought him all sorts of frivolous French novels. Everything that could divert Luzhin was good--even these doubtful stories, which he read, though embarrassed, with interest. Poetry, on the other hand (for instance a small volume of Rilke's that she had bought on the recommendation of a salesman) threw him into a state of severe perplexity and sorrow. Correspondingly, the professor forbade Luzhin to be given anything by Dostoevski, who, in the professor's words, had an oppressive effect on the psyche of contemporary man, for as in a terrible mirror--
"Oh, Mr. Luzhin doesn't brood over books," she said cheerfully. "And he understands poetry badly because of the rhymes, the rhymes put him off." (Chapter 10)
As he imagines his future life with Charlotte, Humbert feels a Dostoevskian grin on his lips:
Gentlemen of the jury! I cannot swear that certain motions pertaining to the business in hand - if I may coin an expression - had not drifted across my mind before. My mind had not retained them in any logical form or in any relation to definitely recollected occasions; but I cannot swear - let me repeat - that I had not toyed with them (to rig up yet another expression), in my dimness of thought, in my darkness of passion. There may have been timesthere must have been times, if I know my Humbert - when I had brought up for detached inspection the idea of marrying a mature widow (say, Charlotte Haze) with not one relative left in the wide gray world, merely in order to have my way with her child (Lo, Lola, Lolita). I am even prepared to tell my tormentors that perhaps once or twice I had cast an appraiser’s cold eye at Charlotte’s coral lips and bronze hair and dangerously low neckline, and had vaguely tried to fit her into a plausible daydream. This I confess under torture. Imaginary torture, perhaps, but all the more horrible. I wish I might digress and tell you more of the pavor nocturnus that would rack me at night hideously after a chance term had struck me in the random readings of my boyhood, such as peine forte et dure (what a Genius of Pain must have invented that!) or the dreadful, mysterious, insidious words “trauma,” “traumatic event,” and “transom.” But my tale is sufficiently incondite already.
After a while I destroyed the letter and went to my room, and ruminated, and rumpled my hair, and modeled my purple robe, and moaned through clenched teeth and suddenly - Suddenly, gentlemen of the jury, I felt a Dostoevskian grin dawning (through the very grimace that twisted my lips) like a distant and terrible sun. I imagined (under conditions of new and perfect visibility) all the casual caresses her mother's husband would be able to lavish on his Lolita. I would hold her against me three times a day, every day. All my troubles would be expelled, I would be a healthy man. "To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee and print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss . . ." Well-read Humbert! (1.17)