At the end of VN's novel Lolita (1955) Humbert Humbert (the narrator and main character) mentions prophetic sonnets:
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 his unfinished article O Mil'tone i Shatobrianovom perevode poteryannogo raya ("On Milton and Chateaubriand's Translation of Paradise Lost," 1836) Pushkin criticizes Victor Hugo's play Cromwell (1827) and mentions slavnyi prorocheskiy sonet (the famous prophetic sonnet) that Milton wrote to Cromwell:
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».
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 his visits to the Elphinstone hospital, Humbert 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 hospitaland 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, stool-less, 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 Lolita actually dies on July 4, 1949, in the Elphinstone hospital. Everything what happens after Lolita's sudden death (Humbert's affair with Rita, Lolita's marriage and pregnancy, and the murder of Clare Quilty, a playwright and pornographer who abducted Lolita from the Elphinstone hospital) was invented by Humbert Humbert (whose "real" name is John Ray, Jr.). The only character whom Humbert obviously could not invent, is the author of the Foreword to Lolita; it was John Ray, Jr. who chose the pseudonym Humbert Humbert as his mask. An English Christian naturalist and one of the earliest English parson-naturalists, John Ray (1627-1705, until 1670 he wrote his name as John Wray), was a younger contemporary of Oliver Cromwell and John Milton (an English poet, 1608-1674, who served as the Secretary for Foreign Tongues to the Commonwealth Council of State under Oliver Cromwell from 1649 to 1660). Oliver Cromwell brings to mind the title character of Charles Dickens's novel Oliver Twist; or, The Parish Boy's Progress (1838). At this or that twist of his story Humbert feels his slippery self eluding him, gliding into deeper and darker waters than he cares to probe. Oliver Cromwell and Oliver Twist bring to mind Olivier salad (its creation is generally attributed to Lucien Olivier (a Russian chef of Belgian and French descent), also known as Russian salad. Humbert's father was a salad of racial genes:
I was born in 1910, in Paris. My father was a gentle, easy-going person, a salad of racial genes: a Swiss citizen, of mixed French and Austrian descent, with a dash of the Danube in his veins. I am going to pass around in a minute some lovely, glossy-blue picture-postcards. He owned a luxurious hotel on the Riviera. His father and two grandfathers had sold wine, jewels and silk, respectively. At thirty he married an English girl, daughter of Jerome Dunn, the alpinist, and granddaughter of two Dorset parsons, experts in obscure subjects - paleopedology and Aeolian harps, respectively. My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and, save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which, if you can still stand my style (I am writing under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges. (1.2)
In the Russian Lolita (1967) VN renders "ague" as goryachka:
"Вам повезло, что это случилось именно тут", - сказала она, ибо не только доктор Блю считался светилом во всем районе, но Эльфинстоновский госпиталь был оборудован в самом новейшем духе, несмотря на ограниченную вместительность. Словно меня преследовал лесной царь, как в Гетевском "Короле Эльфов" (но на сей раз любитель не мальчиков, а девочек), я с ней поскакал прямо в слепящий закат, пробивавшийся со стороны низменности. Моим проводником была маленькая старушка вроде портативной ведьмы (может быть, одна из кузин Erlkönig'a), которую мне одолжила миссис Гейз и которой я больше никогда в жизни не видал. Я не люблю вас, доктор Блю, а почему вас не люблю, я сам не знаю, доктор Блю. Не сомневаюсь, что его ученость значительно уступала его репутации. Он уверил меня, что у нее "вирусная инфекция", и, когда я упомянул о ее недавней инфлуэнце, сухо сказал, что это другой микроб и что у него уже сорок таких пациентов на руках (все это звучит, конечно, как "горячка" у старых беллетристов). (2.22)
Goryachka (presumably, malaria) nearly killed Pushkin in 1818. Pushkin's best friend at the Lyceum, Baron Anton Delvig (1798-1831) died of gnilaya goryachka (as typhus was then called) on January 26, 1831, a month before Pushkin's wedding with Natalia Goncharov. In his poem on Delvig's death Nikolay Yazykov called Delvig "Dushoy i liroy drevniy grek (an ancient Greek in his soul and in his lyre)." Humbert's childhood love, Annabel Leigh died of typhus in Corfu:
Among some treasures I lost during the wanderings of my adult years, there was a snapshot taken by my aunt which showed Annabel, her parents and the staid, elderly, lame gentleman, a Dr. Cooper, who that same summer courted my aunt, grouped around a table in a sidewalk café. Annabel did not come out well, caught as she was in the act of bending over her chocolat glacé, and her thin bare shoulders and the parting in her hair were about all that could be identified (as I remember that picture) amid the sunny blur into which her lost loveliness graded; but I, sitting somewhat apart from the rest, came out with a kind of dramatic conspicuousness: a moody, beetle-browed boy in a dark sport shirt and well-tailored white shorts, his legs crossed, sitting in profile, looking away. That photograph was taken on the last day of our fatal summer and just a few minutes before we made our second and final attempt to thwart fate. Under the flimsiest of pretexts (this was our very last chance, and nothing really mattered) we escaped from the café to the beach, and found a desolate stretch of sand, and there, in the violet shadow of some red rocks forming a kind of cave, had a brief session of avid caresses, with somebody’s lost pair of sunglasses for only witness. I was on my knees, and on the point of possessing my darling, when two bearded bathers, the old man of the sea and his brother, came out of the sea with exclamations of ribald encouragement, and four months later she died of typhus in Corfu. (1.5)
Annabel died aged thirteen, Lolita is only a year older when she dies in Elphinstone. Annabel died in Corfu, a Greek island in the Ionian Sea, one of the Ionian Islands. John Elphinstone (1722-85) was a senior British naval officer who worked closely with the Russian Navy after 1770, during the period of naval reform under Russian Empress Catherine II. Together with the Scottish-born Samuel Greig (who was known in Russia as Samuil Karlovich Greig) and Admiral Sir Charles Knowles, Elphinstone was a member of the naval staff, headed by Count Alexey Orlov, which defeated the Turkish fleet at the battle of Chesma Bay, near Chios Island, off the far western coast of Turkey.