During her second road trip with Humbert Humbert (the narrator and main character in VN's novel Lolita, 1955) across the USA, Lolita falls ill and on Tuesday, 28 June 1949, is hospitalized in Elphinstone (a small town in the Rocky Mountains). Visiting Lolita at the hospital, Humbert Humbert asks her if the staff is feeding her well:
The two-room cabin we had ordered at Silver Spur Court, Elphinstone, turned out to belong to the glossily browned pine-log kind that Lolita used to be so fond of in the days of our carefree first journey; oh, how different things were now! I am not referring to Trapp or Trapps. After allwell, really… After all, gentlemen, it was becoming abundantly clear that all those identical detectives in prismatically changing cars were figments of my persecution mania, recurrent images based on coincidence and chance resemblance. Soyons logiques, crowed the cocky Gallic part of my brain - and proceeded to rout the notion of a Lolita-maddened salesman or comedy gangster, with stooges, persecuting me, and hoaxing me, and otherwise taking riotous advantage of my strange relations with the law. I remember humming my panic away. I remember evolving even an explanation of the “Birdsley” telephone call… But if I could dismiss Trapp, as I had dismissed my convulsions on the lawn at Champion, I could do nothing with the anguish of knowing Lolita to be so tantalizingly, so miserably unattainable and beloved on the very even of a new era, when my alembics told me she should stop being a nymphet, stop torturing me.
An additional, abominable, and perfectly gratuitous worry was lovingly prepared for me in Elphinstone. Lo had been dull and silent during the last lap - two hundred mountainous miles uncontaminated by smoke-gray sleuths or zigzagging zanies. She hardly glanced at the famous, oddly shaped, splendidly flushed rock which jutted above the mountains and had been the take-off for nirvana on the part of a temperamental show girl. The town was newly built, or rebuilt, on the flat floor of a seven-thousand-foot-high valley; it would soon bore Lo, I hoped, and we would spin on to California, to the Mexican border, to mythical bays, saguaro desserts, fatamorganas. José Lizzarrabengoa, as you remember, planned to take his Carmen to the Etats Unis. I conjured up a Central American tennis competition in which Dolores Haze and various Californian schoolgirl champions would dazzlingly participate. Good-will tours on that smiling level eliminate the distinction between passport and sport. Why did I hope we would be happy abroad? A change of environment is the traditional fallacy upon which doomed loves, and lungs, rely.
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 temperature - even 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 vertebrae - and 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 eyes - of 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 waste - like 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 theme - that 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 hospital - and Aurora had hardly “warmed her hands,” as the pickers of lavender say 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.
This was Tuesday, and Wednesday or Thursday, splendidly reacting like the darling she was to some “serum” (sparrow’s sperm or dugong’s dung), she was much better, and the doctor said that in a couple of days she would be “skipping” again.
Of the eight times I visited her, the last one alone remains sharply engraved on my mind. It had been a great feat to come for I felt all hollowed out by the infection that by then was at work on me too. None will know the strain it was to carry that bouquet, that load of love, those books that I had traveled sixty miles to buy: Browning’s Dramatic Works, The history of Dancing, Clowns and Columbines, The Russian Ballet, Flowers of the Rockies, the Theatre Guild Anthology, Tennis - by Helen Wills, who had won the National Junior Girl Singles at the age of fifteen. As I was staggering up to the door of my daughter’s thirteen-dollar-a day private room, Mary Lore, the beastly young part-time nurse who had taken an unconcealed dislike to me, emerged with a finished breakfast tray, placed it with a quick crash on a chair in the corridor, and, fundament jigging, shot back into the room - probably to warn her poor little Dolores that the tyrannical old father was creeping up on crepe soles, with books and bouquet: the latter I had composed of wild flowers and beautiful leaves gathered with my own gloved hands on a mountain pass at sunrise (I hardly slept at all that fateful week).
Feeding my Carmencita well? Idly I glanced at the tray. On a yolk-stained plate there was a crumpled envelope. It had contained something, since one edge was torn, but there was no address on itnothing at all, save a phony armorial design with “Ponderosa Lodge” in green letters; thereupon I performed a chassé-croisé with Mary, who was in the act of bustling out again - wonderful how fast they move and how little they do, those rumpy young nurses. She glowered at the envelope I had put back, uncrumpled.
“You better not touch,” she said, nodding directionally. “Could burn your fingers.”
Below my dignity to rejoin. All I said was:
“Je croyais que c’était un bill - not a billet doux .” Then, entering the sunny room, to Lolita: “Bonjour, mon petit. ”
“Dolores,” said Mary Lore, entering with me, past me, though me, the plump whore, and blinking, and starting to fold very rapidly a white flannel blanket as she blinked: “Dolores, your pappy thinks you are getting letters from my boy friend. It’s me (smugly tapping herself on the small glit cross she wore) gets them. And my pappy can parlay-voo as well as yours.”
She left the room. Dolores, so rosy and russet, lips freshly painted, hair brilliantly brushed, bare arms straightened out on neat coverleat, lay innocently beaming at me or nothing. On the bed table, next to a paper napkin and a pencil, her topaz ring burned in the sun.
“What gruesome funeral flowers,” she said. “Thanks all the same. But do you mind very much cutting out the French? It annoys everybody.”
Back at the usual rush came the ripe young hussy, reeking of urine and garlic, with the Desert News , which her fair patient eagerly accepted, ignoring the sumptuously illustrated volumes I had brought.
“My sister Ann,” said Mary (topping information with afterthought), “works at the Ponderosa place.”
Poor Bluebeard. Those brutal brothers. Est-ce que tu ne m’aimes plus, ma Carmen? She never had. At the moment I knew my love was as hopeless as ever - and I also knew the two girls were conspirators, plotting in Basque, or Zemfirian, against my hopeless love. I shall go further and say that Lo was playing a double game since she was also fooling sentimental Mary whom she had told, I suppose, that she wanted to dwell with her fun-loving young uncle and not with cruel melancholy me. And another nurse whom I never identified, and the village idiot who carted cots and coffins into the elevator, and the idiotic green love birds in a cage in the waiting roomall were in the plot, the sordid plot. I suppose Mary thought comedy father Professor Humbertoldi was interfering with the romance between Dolores and her father-substitute, roly-poly Romeo (for you were rather lardy, you know, Rom, despite all that “snow” and “joy juice”).
My throat hurt. I stood, swallowing, at the window and stared at the mountains, at the romantic rock high up in the smiling plotting sky.
“My Carmen,” I said (I used to call her that sometimes), “we shall leave this raw sore town as soon as you get out of bed.”
“Incidentally, I want all my clothes,” said the gitanilla, humping up her knees and turning to another page.
“…Because, really,” I continued, “there is no point in staying here.”
“There is no point in staying anywhere,” said Lolita.
I lowered myself into a cretonne chair and, opening the attractive botanical work, attempted, in the fever-humming hush of the room, to identify my flowers. This proved impossible. Presently a musical bell softly sounded somewhere in the passage.
I do not think they had more than a dozen patients (three or four were lunatics, as Lo had cheerfully informed me earlier) in that show place of a hospital, and the staff had too much leisure. However - likewise for reasons of show - regulations were rigid. It is also true that I kept coming at the wrong hours. Not without a secret flow of dreamy malice, visionary Mary (next time it will be une belle dame toute en bleu floating through Roaring Gulch) plucked me by the sleeve to lead me out. I looked at her hand; it dropped. As I was leaving, leaving voluntarily, Dolores Haze reminded me to bring her next morning… She did not remember where the various things she wanted were… “Bring me,” she cried (out of sight already, door on the move, closing, closed), “the new gray suitcase and Mother’s trunk”; but by next morning I was shivering, and boozing, and dying nit he motel bed she had used for just a few minutes, and the best I could do under the circular and dilating circumstances was to send the two bags over with the widow’s beau, a robust and kindly trucker. I imagined Lo displaying her treasures to Mary… No doubt, I was a little delirious - and on the following day I was still a vibration rather than a solid, for when I looked out the bathroom window at the adjacent lawn, I saw Dolly’s beautiful young bicycle propped up there on its support, the graceful front wheel looking away from me, as it always did, and a sparrow perched on the saddle - but it was the landlady’s bike, and smiling a little, and shaking my poor head over my fond fancies, I tottered back to my bed, and lay as quiet as a saint
Saint , forsooth! While brown Dolores,
On a patch of sunny green
With Sanchicha reading stories
In a movie magazine
which was represented by numerous specimens wherever Dolores landed, and there was some great national celebration in town judging by the firecrackers, veritable bombs, that exploded all the time, and at five minutes to two p. m. I heard the sound of whistling lips nearing the half-opened door of my cabin, and then a thump upon it.
It was big Frank. He remained framed in the opened door, one hand on its jamb, leaning forward a little.
Howdy. Nurse Lore was on the telephone. She wanted to know was I better and would I come today?
At twenty paces Frank used to look a mountain of health; at five, as now, he was a ruddy mosaic of scarshad been blown through a wall overseas; but despite nameless injuries he was able to man a tremendous truck, fish, hunt, drink, and buoyantly dally with roadside ladies. That day, either because it was such a great holiday, or simply because he wanted to divert a sick man, he had taken off the glove he usually wore on his left hand (the one pressing against the side of the door) and revealed to the fascinated sufferer not only an entire lack of fourth and fifth fingers, but also a naked girl, with cinnabar nipples and indigo delta, charmingly tattooed on the back of his crippled hand, its index and middle digit making her legs while his wrist bore her flower-crowned head. Oh, delicious… reclining against the woodwork, like some sly fairy.
I asked him to tell Mary Lore I would stay in bed all day and would get into touch with my daughter sometime tomorrow if I felt probably Polynesian.
He noticed the direction of my gaze and made her right hip twitch amorously.
“Okey-dokey,” big Frank sang out, slapped the jamb, and whistling, carried my message away, and I went on drinking, and by morning the fever was gone, and although I was as limp as a toad, I put on the purple dressing gown over my maize yellow pajamas, and walked over to the office telephone. Everything was fine. A bright voice informed me that yes, everything was fine, my daughter had checked out the day before, around two, her uncle, Mr. Gustave, had called for her with a cocker spaniel pup and a smile for everyone, and a black Caddy Lack, and had paid Dolly’s bill in cash, and told them to tell me I should not worry, and keep warm, they were at Grandpa’s ranch as agreed.
Elphinstone was, and I hope still is, a very cute little town. It was spread like a maquette, you know, with its neat greenwool trees and red-roofed houses over the valley floor and I think I have alluded earlier to its model school and temple and spacious rectangular blocks, some of which were, curiously enough, just unconventional pastures with a mule or a unicorn grazing in the young July morning mist. Very amusing: at one gravelgroaning sharp turn I sideswiped a parked car but said to myself telestically - and, telepathically (I hoped), to its gesticulating owner - that I would return later, address Bird School, Bird, New Bird, the gin kept my heart alive but bemazed my brain, and after some lapses and losses common to dream sequences, I found myself in the reception room, trying to beat up the doctor, and roaring at people under chairs, and clamoring for Mary who luckily for her was not there; rough hands plucked at my dressing gown, ripping off a pocket, and somehow I seem to have been sitting on a bald brown-headed patient, whom I had mistaken for Dr. Blue, and who eventually stood up, remarking with a preposterous accent: “Now, who is neurotic, I ask?” and then a gaunt unsmiling nurse presented me with seven beautiful, beautiful books and the exquisitely folded tartan lap robe, and demanded a receipt; and in the sudden silence I became aware of a policeman in the hallway, to whom my fellow motorist was pointing me out, and meekly I signed the very symbolic receipt, thus surrendering my Lolita to all those apes. But what else could I do? One simple and stark thought stood out and this was: “Freedom for the moment is everything.” One false move - and I might have been made to explain a life of crime. So I simulated a coming out of a daze. To my fellow motorist I paid what he thought was fair. To Dr. Blue, who by then was stroking my hand, I spoke in tears of the liquor I bolstered too freely a tricky but not necessarily diseased heart with. To the hospital in general I apologized with a flourish that almost bowled me over, adding however that I was not on particularly good terms with the rest of the Humbert clan. To myself I whispered that I still had my gun, and was still a free man - free to trace the fugitive, free to destroy my brother. (2.22)
According to Humbert Humbert, he had hardly slept at all that fateful week. Lolita spends in the Elphinstone hospital six days (June 28 - July 4, 1949). In Ilf and Petrov's novel Dvenadtsat' stuliev ("The Twelve Chairs," 1928), Vorobyaninov is made by Ostap Bender beg for alsms in Pyatigorsk (a Caucasian resort) and repeat in three languages (French, German and Russian) the phrase "I have not eaten for six days:"
Остап строго посмотрел на Ипполита Матвеевича.
— Время, — сказал он, — которое мы имеем, — это деньги, которых мы не имеем. Киса, мы должны делать карьеру. Сто пятьдесят тысяч рублей и ноль ноль копеек лежат перед нами. Нужно только двадцать рублей, чтобы сокровище стало нашим. Тут не надо брезговать никакими средствами. Пан или пропал. Выбираю пана, хотя он и явный поляк.
Остап задумчиво обошел кругом Воробьянинова.
— Снимите пиджак, предводитель, поживее, — сказал он неожиданно.
Остап принял из рук удивленного Ипполита Матвеевича пиджак, бросил его наземь и принялся топтать пыльными штиблетами.
— Что вы делаете? — завопил Воробьянинов. — Этот пиджак я ношу уже пятнадцать лет, и он все как новый!
— Не волнуйтесь! Он скоро не будет как новый! Дайте шляпу! Теперь посыпьте брюки пылью и оросите их нарзаном. Живо!
Ипполит Матвеевич через несколько минут стал грязным до отвращения.
— Теперь вы дозрели и приобрели полную возможность зарабатывать деньги честным трудом.
— Что же я должен делать? — слезливо спросил Воробьянинов.
— Французский язык знаете, надеюсь?
— Очень плохо. В пределах гимназического курса.
— Гм… Придется орудовать в этих пределах. Сможете ли вы сказать по-французски следующую фразу: «Господа, я не ел шесть дней»?
— Мосье, — начал Ипполит Матвеевич, запинаясь, — мосье, гм, гм… же не, что ли, же не манж па… шесть, как оно: ен, де, труа, катр, сенк… сис… сис… жур. Значит, же не манж па сис жур.
— Ну и произношение у вас, Киса! Впрочем, что от нищего требовать! Конечно, нищий в Европейской России говорит по-французски хуже, чем Мильеран. Ну, Кисуля, а в каких пределах вы знаете немецкий язык?
— Зачем мне это все? — воскликнул Ипполит Матвеевич.
— Затем, — сказал Остап веско, — что вы сейчас пойдете к «Цветнику», станете в тени и будете на французском, немецком и русском языках просить подаяние, упирая на то, что вы бывший член Государственной думы от кадетской фракции. Весь чистый сбор поступит монтеру Мечникову. Поняли?
Ипполит Матвеевич преобразился. Грудь его выгнулась, как Дворцовый мост в Ленинграде, глаза метнули огонь, и из ноздрей, как показалось Остапу, повалил густой дым. Усы медленно стали приподниматься.
— Ай-яй-яй, — сказал великий комбинатор, ничуть не испугавшись, — посмотрите на него. Не человек, а какой-то конек-горбунок!
— Никогда, — принялся вдруг чревовещать Ипполит Матвеевич, — никогда Воробьянинов не протягивал руки.
— Так протянете ноги, старый дуралей! — закричал Остап. — Вы не протягивали руки?
— Не протягивал.
— Как вам понравится этот альфонсизм? Три месяца живет на мой счет. Три месяца я кормлю его, пою и воспитываю, и этот альфонс становится теперь в третью позицию и заявляет, что он… Ну! Довольно, товарищ! Одно из двух: или вы сейчас же отправитесь к «Цветнику» и приносите к вечеру десять рублей, или я вас автоматически исключаю из числа пайщиков-концессионеров. Считаю до пяти. Да или нет? Раз…
— Да, — пробормотал предводитель.
— В таком случае повторите заклинание.
— Мосье, же не манж па сис жур. Гебен зи мир битте этвас копек ауф дем штюк брод. Подайте что-нибудь бывшему депутату Государственной думы.
— Еще раз. Жалостнее!
Ипполит Матвеевич повторил.
— Ну, хорошо. У вас талант к нищенству заложен с детства. Идите. Свидание у источника в полночь. Это, имейте в виду, не для романтики, а просто — вечером больше подают.
— А вы, — спросил Ипполит Матвеевич, — куда пойдете?
— Обо мне не беспокойтесь. Я действую, как всегда, в самом трудном месте.
Друзья разошлись.
Ostap looked severely at Ippolit Matveyevich.
"The time we have," he said, "is the money we don't have. Pussy, we must decide on a career. A hundred and fifty thousand roubles, zero zero kopeks awaits us. We only need twenty roubles for the treasure to be ours. We must not be squeamish. It's sink or swim. I choose swim."
Ostap walked around Ippolit Matveyevich thoughtfully.
"Off with your jacket, marshal," he said suddenly, "and make it snappy."
He took the jacket from the surprised Vorobyaninov, threw it on the ground, and began stamping on it with his dusty boots.
"What are you doing?" howled Vorobyaninov. "I've been wearing that jacket for fifteen years, and it's as good as new."
"Don't get excited, it soon won't be. Give me your hat. Now, sprinkle your trousers with dust and pour some mineral water over them. Be quick about it."
In a few moments Ippolit Matveyevich was dirty to the point of revulsion.
"Now you're all set and have every chance of earning honest money."
"What am I supposed to do?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich tearfully.
"You know French, I hope? "
"Not very well. What I learned at school."
"Hm . . . then we'll have to operate with what you learned at school. Can you say in French, 'Gentleman, I haven't eaten for six days'?"
"M'sieu," began Ippolit Matveyevich, stuttering, "m'sieu . . . er . . . je ne mange .. , that's right, isn't it? Je ne mange pas . . . er How do you say 'six'? Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six. It's: 'Je ne mange pas six jours' " "What an accent, Pussy! Anyway, what do you expect from a beggar. Of course a beggar in European Russia wouldn't speak French as well as Milerand. Right, pussy, and how much German do you know?"
"Why all this?" exclaimed Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Because," said Ostap weightily, "you're now going to the Flower Garden, you're going to stand in the shade and beg for alms in French, German and Russian, emphasizing the fact that you are an ex-member of the Cadet faction of the Tsarist Duma. The net profit will go to Mechnikov. Understand?"
Ippolit Matveyevich was transfigured. His chest swelled up like the Palace bridge in Leningrad, his eyes flashed fire, and his nose seemed to Ostap to be pouring forth smoke. His moustache slowly began to rise.
"Dear me," said the smooth operator, not in the least alarmed. "Just look at him! Not a man, but a dragon."
"Never," suddenly said Ippolit Matveyevich, "never has Vorobyaninov held out his hand."
"Then you can stretch out your feet, you silly old ass!" shouted Ostap. "So you've never held out your hand?"
"No, I have not."
"Spoken like a true gigolo. You've been living off me for the last three months. For three months I've been providing you with food and drink and educating you, and now you stand like a gigolo in the third position and say . . . Come off it, Comrade! You've got two choices. Either you go right away to the Flower Garden and bring back ten roubles by nightfall, or else I'm automatically removing you from the list of shareholders in the concession. I'll give you five to decide yes or no. One. . ."
"Yes," mumbled the marshal.
"In that case, repeat the words."
"M'sieu, je ne mange pas six jours. Geben Sie mir bitte etwas Kopek fur ein Stuck Brot. Give something to an ex-member of the Duma." "Once again. Make it more heart-rending."
Ippolit Matveyevich repeated the words.
"All right. You have a latent talent for begging. Off you go.
The rendezvous is at midnight here by the spring. That's not for romantic reasons, mind you, but simply because people give more in the evening."
"What about you?" asked Vorobyaninov. "Where are you going?"
"Don't worry about me. As usual, I shall be where things are most difficult."
The friends went their ways. (Chapter Thirty-Six. "A View of the Malachite Puddle")
The surname Vorobyaninov comes from vorobey (sparrow). A little later in the same chapter of Ilf and Petrov's novel Avessalom Iznuryonkov (a professional humorist) is compared to vorobyshek (a little sparrow):
В то время как великий комбинатор ловко торговал видом на малахитовую лужу, Ипполит Матвеевич, сгорбясь и погрязая в стыде, стоял под акацией и, не глядя на гуляющих, жевал три врученных ему фразы:
— Мсье, же не манж па… Гебен зи мир битте… Подайте что-нибудь депутату Государственной думы…
Подавали не то чтобы мало, но как-то невесело. Однако, играя на чистом парижском произношении слова «манж» и волнуя души бедственным положением бывшего члена Госдумы, удалось нахватать медяков рубля на три.
Под ногами гуляющих трещал гравий. Оркестр с небольшими перерывами исполнял Штрауса, Брамса и Грига. Светлая толпа, лепеча, катилась мимо старого предводителя и возвращалась вспять. Тень Лермонтова незримо витала над гражданами, вкушавшими мацони на веранде буфета. Пахло одеколоном и нарзанными газами.
— Подайте бывшему члену Государственной думы, — бормотал предводитель.
— Скажите, вы в самом деле были членом Государственной думы? — раздалось над ухом Ипполита Матвеевича. — И вы действительно ходили на заседания? Ах! Ах! Высокий класс!
Ипполит Матвеевич поднял лицо и обмер. Перед ним прыгал, как воробышек, толстенький Авессалом Владимирович Изнуренков. Он сменил коричневый лодзинский костюм на белый пиджак и серые панталоны с игривой искоркой. Он был необычайно оживлен и иной раз подскакивал вершков на пять от земли. Ипполита Матвеевича Изнуренков не узнал и продолжал засыпать его вопросами:
— Скажите, вы в самом деле видели Родзянко? Пуришкевич в самом деле был лысый? Ах! Ах! Какая тема! Высокий класс!
While the smooth operator was briskly selling a view of the malachite puddle, Ippolit Matveyevich, hunching his shoulders and wallowing in shame, stood under an acacia and, avoiding the eyes of the passers-by, mumbled his three phrases.
"M'sieu, je ne mange pas six jours. . . . Geben Sle Mir. . ."
People not only gave little, they somehow gave unwillingly. However, by exploiting his purely Parisian pronunciation of the word mange and pulling at their heart-strings by his desperate position as an ex-member of the Tsarist Duma, he was able to pick up three roubles in copper coins.
The gravel crunched under the feet of the holidaymakers. The orchestra played Strauss, Brahms and Grieg with long pauses in between. Brightly coloured crowds drifted past the old marshal, chattering as they went, and came back again. Lermontov's spirit hovered unseen above the citizens trying matsoni on the verandah of the buffet. There was an odour of eau-de-Cologne and sulphur gas.
"Give to a former member of the Duma," mumbled the marshal.
"Tell me, were you really a member of the State Duma?" asked a voice right by Ippolit Matveyevich's ear. "And did you really attend meetings? Ah! Ah! First rate!"
Ippolit Matveyevich raised his eyes and almost fainted. Hopping about in front of him like a sparrow was Absalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov. He had changed his brown Lodz suit for a white coat and grey trousers with a playful spotted pattern. He was in unusual spirits and from time to time jumped as much as five or six inches off the ground. Iznurenkov did not recognize Ippolit Matveyevich and continued to shower him with questions.
"Tell me, did you actually see Rodzyanko? Was Purishkevich really bald? Ah! Ah! What a subject! First rate!" (ibid.)
A member of the State Duma (Russian parliament), Vladimir Purishkevich (1870-1920) was one of Rasputin's murderers. His baldness brings to mind a bald brown-headed patient, whom Humbert Humbert had mistaken for Dr. Blue, and who eventually stood up, remarking with a preposterous accent: “Now, who is neurotic, I ask?” Describing Lolita's hospitalization and his stay at Silver Spur Court, Elphinstone, Humbert Humbert mentions some "serum" (sparrow's sperm or dugong's dung) to which Lolita splendidly reacted and a sparrow that perched on the saddle of the landlady's bike. The surname of Vorobyaninov's mother-in-law, Mme Petukhov (who concealed her late daughter's diamonds in the ubholstery of a Hambs chair), comes from petukh (cock, rooster). In the Russian Lolita (1967), Gumbert Gumbert uses the phrase kukarekala i petushilas' ("crowed the cocky Gallic part of my brain" in the original):
Двухкомнатный коттедж, вперед задержанный нами, под знаком Серебряной Шпоры, в Эльфинстоне (не дай Бог никому услышать их стон), оказался принадлежащим к лакированной, смугло-сосновой, избяной породе, которая так нравилась Лолите в дни нашей первой беззаботной поездки. Ах, все теперь изменилось... Я говорю не о Траппе или Траппах... В конце концов... ну, сами понимаете... В конце концов, господа, становилось достаточно ясно, что все эти идентичные детективы в призматически меняющихся автомобилях были порождением моей мании преследования, повторными видениями, основанными на совпадениях и случайном сходстве. Soyons logiques, кукарекала и петушилась галльская часть моего рассудка, прогоняя всякую мысль, что какой-нибудь очарованный Лолитой коммивояжер или гангстер из кинокомедии и его приспешники травят меня, надувают меня и разными другими уморительными способами пользуются моим странным положением перед законом. Помнится, я что-то напевал, заглушая панику. Мне даже удалось выработать теорию, объясняющую подложный вызов из "Бурдолея"... Но если я мог не думать о Траппе, как я не думал о недавних своих конвульсиях на газоне в Чампионе, я никак не мог поладить с другой мукой: знать, что Лолита так близка и вместе с тем так горестно недостижима, и так любить ее, так любить как раз накануне новой эры, когда по моим волховским исчислениям она бы должна была перестать быть нимфеткой, перестать терзать меня... (2.22)
The opening chapter of Ilf and Petrov's novel, "Bezenchuk and the Nymphs," brings to mind Humbert Humbert's nymphets (sexually attractive little girls). A district town where Bender meets Vorobyaninov (the former marshal of nobility), Stargorod ('Oldton'), makes one think of Gray Star, a settlement in the remotest Northwest where, according to John Ray, Jr. (the author of the foreword to Humbert Humbert's manuscript), Mrs. “Richard F. Schiller” (Lolita's married name) died in childbed, giving birth to a stillborn girl, on Christmas Day 1952:
For the benefit of old-fashioned readers who wish to follow the destinies of “real” people beyond the “true” story, a few details may be given as received from Mr. “Windmuller,” of “Ramsdale,” who desires his identity suppressed so that “the long shadows of this sorry and sordid business” should not reach the community to which he is proud to belong. His daughter, “Louise,” is by now a college sophomore. “Mona Dahl” is a student in Paris. “Rita” has recently married the proprietor of a hotel in Florida. Mrs. “Richard F. Schiller” died in childbed, giving birth to a stillborn girl, on Christmas Day 1952, in Gray Star, a settlement in the remotest Northwest. ‘Vivian Darkbloom’ has written a biography, ‘My Cue,’ to be published shortly, and critics who have perused the manuscript call it her best book. The caretakers of the various cemeteries involved report that no ghosts walk.
But it seems that, actually, Lolita dies of ague in the Elphinstone hospital on July 4, 1949, and everything what happens after her sudden death (Lolita's escape from the hospital with Quilty, Humbert's affair with Rita, Lolita's marriage and pregnancy, and the murder of Clare Quilty) was invented by Humbert Humbert (whose "real" name is John Ray, Jr.). Conan Doyle's story The Captain of the Polestar (1883) ends with an afternote by Dr. John M'Alister Ray, senior. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (a British writer, 1859-1930) is the author of novels and short stories about the private detective Sherlock Holmes. The characters in Lolita include Shirley Holmes, the camp mistress of Camp Q, mother of Charlie Holmes (Lolita's first lover who, according to Mrs. Chatfield, has just been killed in Korea). In Ilf and Petrov's novel Zolotoy telyonok ("The Little Golden Calf," 1931) Ostap Bender produces from his midwife bag a poster of his stage performance. Bender's program includes experiments after the method of Sherlock Holmes:
Остап вынул из автомобиля свой акушерский саквояж и положил его на траву.
— Моя правая рука, — сказал великий комбинатор, похлопывая саквояж по толстенькому колбасному боку. — Здесь все, что только может понадобиться элегантному гражданину моих лет и моего размаха.
Бендер присел над чемоданчиком, как бродячий китайский фокусник над своим волшебным мешком, и одну за другой стал вынимать различные вещи. Сперва он вынул красную нарукавную повязку, на которой золотом было вышито слово «Распорядитель». Потом на траву легла милицейская фуражка с гербом города Киева, четыре колоды карт с одинаковой рубашкой и пачка документов с круглыми сиреневыми печатями.
Весь экипаж «Антилопы-Гну» с уважением смотрел на саквояж. А оттуда появлялись все новые предметы.
— Вы — голуби, — говорил Остап, — вы, конечно, никогда не поймете, что честный советский паломник-пилигрим вроде меня не может обойтись без докторского халата.
Кроме халата, в саквояже оказался и стетоскоп.
— Я не хирург, — заметил Остап. — Я невропатолог, я психиатр. Я изучаю души своих пациентов. И мне почему-то всегда попадаются очень глупые души.
Затем на свет были извлечены: азбука для глухонемых, благотворительные открытки, эмалевые нагрудные знаки и афиша с портретом самого Бендера в шальварах и чалме. На афише было написано:
Приехал жрец
(Знаменитый бомбейский брамин — йог)
—сын Крепыша—
Любимец Рабиндраната Тагора
Иоканаан Марусидзе
(Заслуженный артист союзных республик)
Номера по опыту Шерлока Холмса.
Индийский факир. — Курочка-невидимка. —
Свечи с Атлантиды. — Адская палатка. —
Пророк Самуил отвечает на вопросы публики. —
Материализация духов
и раздача слонов.
Входные билеты от 50 к. до 2 р. (Chapter Six. "The Antelope Gnu Car")
Materializatsiya dukhov i razdacha slonov (The Materialization of Spirits and Giveaway of Elephants) at the end of Bender's program brings to mind "Elephant," as Lolita (now married to Dick Schiller and big with child) calls Elphinstone:
“Sit down,” she said, audibly striking her flanks with her palms. I relapsed into the black rocker.
“So you betrayed me? Where did you go? Where is he now?”
She took from the mantelpiece a concave glossy snapshot. Old woman in white, stout, beaming, bowlegged, very short dress; old man in his shirtsleeves, drooping mustache, watch chain. Her in-laws. Living with Dick’s brother’s family in Juneau.
“Sure you don’t want to smoke?”
She was smoking herself. First time I saw her doing it. Streng verboten under Humbert the Terrible. Gracefully, in a blue mist, Charlotte Haze rose from her grave. I would find him through Uncle Ivory if she refused.
“Betrayed you? No.” She directed the dart of her cigarette, index rapidly tapping upon it, toward the hearth exactly as her mother used to do, and then, like her mother, oh my God, with her fingernail scratched and removed a fragment of cigarette paper from her underlip. No. She had not betrayed me. I was among friends. Edusa had warned her that Cue liked little girls, had been almost jailed once, in fact (nice fact), and he knew she knew. Yes… Elbow in palm, puff, smile, exhaled smoke, darting gesture. Waxing reminiscent. He saw - smiling - through everything and everybody, because he was not like me and her but a genius. A great guy. Full of fun. Had rocked with laughter when she confessed about me and her, and said he had thought so. It was quite safe, under the circumstances, to tell him…
Well, Cue - they all called him Cue
Her camp five years ago. Curious coincidence… took her to a dude ranch about a day’s drive from Elephant (Elphinstone). Named? Oh, some silly name - Duk Duk Ranch - you know just plain silly - but it did not matter now, anyway, because the place had vanished and disintegrated. Really, she meant, I could not imagine how utterly lush that ranch was, she meant it had everything but everything, even an indoor waterfall. Did I remember the red-haired guy we (“we” was good) had once had some tennis with? Well, the place really belonged to Red’s brother, but he had turned it over to Cue for the summer. When Cue and she came, the others had them actually go through a coronation ceremony and then - a terrific ducking, as when you cross the Equator. You know.
Her eyes rolled in synthetic resignation.
“Go on, please.”
Well. The idea was he would take her in September to Hollywood and arrange a tryout for her, a bit part in the tennis-match scene of a movie picture based on a play of his - Golden Guts - and perhaps even have her double one of its sensational starlets on the Klieg-struck tennis court. Alas, it never came to that.
“Where is the hog now?”
He was not a hog. He was a great guy in many respects. But it was all drink and drugs. And, of course, he was a complete freak in sex matters, and his friends were his slaves. I just could not imagine (I, Humbert, could not imagine!) what they all did at Duk Duk Ranch. She refused to take part because she loved him, and he threw her out.
“What things?”
“Oh, weird, filthy, fancy things. I mean, he had two girls and tow boys, and three or four men, and the idea was for all of us to tangle in the nude while an old woman took movie pictures.” (Sade’s Justine was twelve at the start.)
“What things exactly?”
“Oh, things… Oh, I really I” - she uttered the “I” as a subdued cry while she listened to the source of the ache, and for lack of words spread the five fingers of her angularly up-and-down-moving hand. No, she gave it up, she refused to go into particulars with that baby inside her.
That made sense.
“It is of no importance now,” she said pounding a gray cushing with her fist and then lying back, belly up, on the divan. “Crazy things, filthy things. I said no, I’m just not going to [she used, in all insouciance really, a disgusting slang term which, in a literal French translation, would be souffler] your beastly boys, because I want only you. Well, he kicked me out.”
There was not much else to tell. That winter 1949, Fay and she had found jobs. For almost two years she had - oh, just drifted, oh, doing some restaurant work in small places, and then she had met Dick. No, she did not know where the other was. In New York, she guessed. Of course, he was so famous she would have found him at once if she had wanted. Fay had tried to get back to the Ranch - and it just was not there any more - it had burned to the ground, nothing remained, just a charred heap of rubbish. It was so strange, so strange. (2.29)
A playwright and pornographer whom Humbert Humbert murders for abducting Lolita from the Elphinstone hospital, Clare Quilty offers Humbert Humbert an old-fashioned rencontre, sword or pistol, in Rio or elsewhere:
“Now look here, Mac,” he said. “You are drunk and I am a sick man. Let us postpone the matter. I need quiet. I have to nurse my impotence. Friends are coming in the afternoon to take me to a game. This pistol-packing farce is becoming a frightful nuisance. We are men of the world, in everything - sex, free verse, marksmanship. If you bear me a grudge, I am ready to make unusual amends. Even an old-fashioned rencontre, sword or pistol, in Rio or elsewhere - is not excluded. My memory and my eloquence are not at their best today, but really, my dear Mr. Humbert, you were not an ideal stepfather, and I did not force your little protégé to join me. It was she made me remove her to a happier home. This house is not as modern as that ranch we shared with dear friends. But it is roomy, cool in summer and winter, and in a word comfortable, so, since I intend retiring to England or Florence forever, I suggest you move in. It is yours, gratis. Under the condition you stop pointing at me that [he swore disgustingly] gun. By the way, I do not know if you care for the bizarre, but if you do, I can offer you, also gratis, as house pet, a rather exciting little freak, a young lady with three breasts, one a dandy, this is a rare and delightful marvel of nature. Now, soyons raisonnables. You will only wound me hideously and then rot in jail while I recuperate in a tropical setting. I promise you, Brewster, you will be happy here, with a magnificent cellar, and all the royalties from my next playI have not much at the bank right now but I propose to borrowyou know, as the Bard said, with that cold in his head, to borrow and to borrow and to borrow. There are other advantages. We have here a most reliable and bribable charwoman, a Mrs. Vibrissa - curious name - who comes from the village twice a week, alas not today, she has daughters, granddaughters, a thing or two I know about the chief of police makes him my slave. I am a playwright. I have been called the American Maeterlinck. Maeterlinck-Schmetterling, says I. Come on! All this is very humiliating, and I am not sure I am doing the right thing. Never use herculanita with rum. Now drop that pistol like a good fellow. I knew your dear wife slightly. You may use my wardrobe. Oh, another thing - you are going to like this. I have an absolutely unique collection of erotica upstairs. Just to mention one item: the in folio de-luxe Bagration Island by the explorer and psychoanalyst Melanie Weiss, a remarkable lady, a remarkable work - drop that gun - with photographs of eight hundred and something male organs she examined and measured in 1932 on Bagration, in the Barda Sea, very illuminating graphs, plotted with love under pleasant skies - drop that gun - and moreover I can arrange for you to attend executions, not everybody knows that the chair is painted yellow” (2.35)
In The Little Golden Calf, Rio de Janeiro is Ostap Bender's cherished dream. Like Humbert Humbert (who claims that he writes Lolita in confinement and that he plans to use his notes in court), Ostap Bender constantly appeals to ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Ilf and Petrov are the authors of Odnoetazhnaya Amerika (1937), a travelogue based on the authors' road trip across the USA and translated into English as Little Golden America. Goluboy being the Russian word for "blue," Dr. Blue (the chief physician at the Elphinstone hospital) brings to mind goluboy vorishka (the bashful chiseler), a charecter in The Twelve Chairs who appears with his wife in the same chapter of Ilf and Petrov's novel:
В буфете, освещенном лампами, сидел голубой воришка Альхен со своей супругой Сашхен. Щеки ее по-прежнему были украшены николаевскими полубакенбардами. Альхен застенчиво ел шашлык по-карски, запивая его кахетинским № 2, а Сашхен, поглаживая бакенбарды, ждала заказанной осетрины.
После ликвидации второго дома собеса (было продано все, включая даже туальденоровый колпак повара и лозунг: «Тщательно пережевывая пищу, ты помогаешь обществу») Альхен решил отдохнуть и поразвлечься. Сама судьба хранила этого сытого жулика. Он собирался в этот день поехать в Провал, но не успел. Это спасло его. Остап выдоил бы из робкого завхоза никак не меньше тридцати рублей.
In the lamp-lit buffet sat Alchen and his wife, Saschchen. Her cheeks were still adorned with sideburns. Alchen was bashfully eating shishkebab, washing it down with Kahetinsky wine no. 2, while Sashchen, stroking her sideburns, waited for the sturgeon she had ordered.
After the liquidation of the second pensioners' home (everything had been sold, including the cook's cap and the slogan, "By carefully masticating your food you help society"), Alchen had decided to have a holiday and enjoy himself. Fate itself had saved the full-bellied little crook. He had decided to see the Drop that day, but did not have time. Ostap would certainly not have let him get away for less than thirty roubles. (Chapter Thirty-Six. "A View of the Malachite Puddle")