Describing his life with Rita, Humbert Humbert (the narrator and main character in VN's novel Lolita, 1955) mentions a blond, almost albino, young fellow with white eyelashes and large transparent ears, whom he and Rita found sleeping in their hotel room bed:
She was twice Lolita’s age and three quarters of mine: a very slight, dark-haired, pale-skinned adult, weighing a hundred and five pounds, with charmingly asymmetrical eyes, and angular, rapidly sketched profile, and a most appealing ensellure to her supple back - I think she had some Spanish or Babylonian blood. I picked her up one depraved May evening somewhere between Montreal and New York, or more narrowly, between Toylestown and Blake, at a darkishly burning bar under the sign of the Tiger-moth, where she was amiably drunk: she insisted we had gone to school together, and she placed her trembling little hand on my ape paw. My senses were very slightly stirred but I decided to give her a try; I did – and adopted her as a constant companion. She was so kind, was Rita, such a good sport, that I daresay she would have given herself to any pathetic creature or fallacy, an old broken tree or a bereaved porcupine, out of sheer chumminess and compassion.
When I first met her she had but recently divorced her third husband – and a little more recently had been abandoned by her seventh cavalier servant – the others, the mutables, were too numerous and mobile to tabulate. Her brother was – and no doubt still is – a prominent, pasty-faced, suspenders-and-painted-tie-wearing politician, mayor and boaster of his ball-playing, Bible-reading, grain-handling home town. For the last eight years he had been paying his great little sister several hundred dollars per month under the stringent condition that she would never never enter great little Grainball City. She told me, with wails of wonder, that for some God-damn reason every new boy friend of hers would first of all take her Grainball-ward: it was a fatal attraction; and before she knew what was what, she would find herself sucked into the lunar orbit of the town, and would be following the flood-lit drive that encircled it “going round and round,” as she phrased it, “like a God-damn mulberry moth.”
She had a natty little coupé; and in it we traveled to California so as to give my venerable vehicle a rest. Her natural speed was ninety. Dear Rita! We cruised together for two dim years, from summer 1950 to summer 1952, and she was the sweetest, simplest, gentles, dumbest Rita imaginable. In comparison to her, Valechka was a Schlegel, and Charlotte a Hegel. There is no earthly reason why I should dally with her in the margin of this sinister memoir, but let me say (hi, Rita - wherever you are, drunk or hangoverish, Rita, hi!) that she was the most soothing, the most comprehending companion that I ever had, and certainly saved me from the madhouse. I told her I was trying to trace a girl and plug that girl’s bully. Rita solemnly approved of the plan - and in the course of some investigation she undertook on her own (without really knowing a thing), around San Humbertino, got entangled with a pretty awful crook herself; I had the devil of a time retrieving her - used and bruised but still cocky. Then one day she proposed playing Russian roulette with my sacred automatic; I said you couldn’t, it was not a revolver, and we struggled for it, until at last it went off, touching off a very thin and very comical spurt of hot water from the hole it made in the wall of the cabin room; I remember her shrieks of laughter.
The oddly prepubescent curve of her back, her ricey skin, her slow languorous columbine kisses kept me from mischief. It is not the artistic aptitudes that are secondary sexual characters as some shams and shamans have said; it is the other way around: sex is but the ancilla of art. One rather mysterious spree that had interesting repercussions I must notice. I had abandoned the search: the fiend was either in Tartary or burning away in my cerebellum (the flames fanned by my fancy and grief) but certainly not having Dolores Haze play champion tennis on the Pacific Coast. One afternoon, on our way back East, in a hideous hotel, the kind where they hold conventions and where labeled, fat, pink men stagger around, all first names and business and booze - dear Rita and I awoke to find a third in our room, a blond, almost albino, young fellow with white eyelashes and large transparent ears, whom neither Rita nor I recalled having ever seen in our sad lives. Sweating in thick dirty underwear, and with old army boots on, he lay snoring on the double bed beyond my chaste Rita. One of his front teeth was gone, amber pustules grew on his forehead. Ritochka enveloped her sinuous nudity in my raincoat - the first thing at hand; I slipped on a pair of candy-striped drawers; and we took stock of the situation. Five glasses had been used, which in the way of clues, was an embarrassment of riches. The door was not properly closed. A sweater and a pair of shapeless tan pants lay on the floor. We shook their owner into miserable consciousness. He was completely amnesic. In an accent that Rita recognized as pure Brooklynese, he peevishly insinuated that somehow we had purloined his (worthless) identity. We rushed him into his clothes and left him at the nearest hospital, realizing on the way that somehow or other after forgotten gyrations, we ewer in Grainball. Half a year later Rita wrote the doctor for news. Jack Humbertson as he had been tastelessly dubbed was still isolated from his personal past. Oh Mnemosyne, sweetest and most mischievous of muses!
I would not have mentioned this incident had it not started a chain of ideas that resulted in my publishing in the Cantrip Review an essay on “Mimir and Memory,” in which I suggested among other things that seemed original and important to that splendid review’s benevolent readers, a theory of perceptual time based on the circulation of the blood and conceptually depending (to fill up this nutshell) on the mind’s being conscious not only of matter but also of its own self, thus creating a continuous spanning of two points (the storable future and the stored past). In result of this venture - and in culmination of the impression made by my previous travaux I was called from New York, where Rita and I were living in a little flat with a view of gleaming children taking shower baths far below in a fountainous arbor of Central Park, to Cantrip College, four hundred miles away, for one year. I lodged there, in special apartments for poets and philosophers, from September 1951 to June 1952, while Rita whom I preferred not to display vegetated - somewhat indecorously, I am afraid - in a roadside inn where I visited her twice a week. Then she vanished - more humanly than her predecessor had done: a month later I found her in the local jail. She was très digne, had had her appendix removed, and managed to convince me that the beautiful bluish furs she had been accused of stealing from a Mrs. Roland MacCrum had really been a spontaneous, if somewhat alcoholic, gift from Roland himself. I succeeded in getting her out without appealing to her touchy brother, and soon afterwards we drove back to Central Park West, by way of Briceland, where we had stopped for a few hours the year before. (2.26)
Albino is an anagram of Albion (the oldest known name for the island of Great Britain). Vision of the Daughters of Albion (1793) is a poem by William Blake (an English poet, painter and engraver, 1757-1827), the author of The Tyger (1794). According to Humbert Humbert, he picked up Rita in May 1950 somewhere between Montreal and New York, or more narrowly, between Toylestown and Blake, at a darkishly burning bar under the sign of the Tiger-moth. On the other hand, Doch' Albiona ("A Daughter of Albion," 1883) is a humorous story by Chekhov (a Russian writer, 1860-1904) about the imperturbable English governess of an unceremonius Russian landowner's children. The characters in Chekhov's story Volodya bol'shoy i Volodya malen'kiy ("The Two Volodyas," 1893) include Rita, a young woman who can drink any amount of alcohol, never gets drunk and who tells tastelessly obscene anecdotes. In Chekhov's humorous story Zabyl!! ("Fotgot!!", 1882) the old man with poor memory cannot remember what notes his piano playing daughter asked him to buy in a music shop. After leaving the shop in despair he manages to remember the piece of music that his daughter wanted so badly, and it turns out to by Liszt's Hungarian Rapsody No. 2 (1851). It is deeply rooted in Romani (Gypsy) musical traditions. An American movie actress, Rita Hayworth (Margarita Carmen Cansino, 1918-87) was born in Brooklyn, New York, the oldest child of two dancers. Her father, Eduardo Cansino, was of Spanish Roma/Gitano descent from Castilleja de la Cuesta, a little town near Seville, Spain. Her mother, Volga Margaret Hayworth (1897-1945), was an American dancer and vaudevillian of Irish and English descent who had performed with the Ziegfeld Follies.
Chekhov's story Zabyl!! brings to mind Sovsem zabyl svoyu familiyu, kazhetsya byl kogda-to Gogolem ("I have completely forgotten my surname; it seems that I was once Gogol"), the inscription made by Gogol in the album of Marfa Sabinin's mother. In her Zapiski (“Memoirs,” 1900-02) Marfa Sabinin (the pianist, 1831-1892, Franz Liszt's best pupil) describes her only meeting with Gogol in the summer of 1845 (when the memoirist was fourteen) in Weimar:
«17 (29) июня <...> узнали, что приехали и были у отца Николай Васильевич Гоголь и граф Александр Петрович Толстой. На другой день они пришли к отцу, и я в первый и последний раз видела знаменитого писателя. Он был небольшого роста и очень худощав; его узкая голова имела своеобразную форму — френолог бы сказал, что выдаются религиозность и упрямство. Светлые волосы висели прямыми прядями вокруг головы. Лоб его, как будто подавшийся назад, всего больше выступал над глазами, которые были длинноватые и зорко смотрели; нос сгорбленный, очень длинный и худой, а тонкие губы имели сатирическую улыбку. Гоголь был очень нервный, движения его были живые и угловатые, и он не сидел долго на одном месте: встанет, скажет что-нибудь, пройдется несколько раз по комнате и опять сядет. Он приехал в Веймар, чтобы поговорить с моим отцом о своем желании поступить в монастырь. Видя его болезненное состояние, следствием которого было ипохондрическое настроение духа, отец отговаривал его и убедил не принимать окончательного решения. Вообще Гоголь мало говорил, оживлялся только когда говорил, а то все сидел в раздумье. Он попросил меня сыграть ему Шопена; помню только, что я играла ему. Моей матери он подарил хромолитографию — вид Брюлевской террасы; она наклеила этот вид в свой альбом и попросила Гоголя подписаться под ним. Он долго ходил по комнате, наконец сел к столу и написал: „Совсем забыл свою фамилию; кажется, был когда-то Гоголем“. Он исповедовался вечером накануне своего отъезда, и исповедь его длилась очень долго. После Св. Причастия он и его спутник сейчас же отправились в дальнейший путь в Россию, пробыв в Веймаре пять дней.»
Gogol asked Marfa Sabinin to play Chopin for him. The author of Noch' pered Rozhdestvom ("The Christmas Eve," 1832), Strashnaya mest' ("A Horrible Vengence," 1832) and Nos ("The Nose," 1835; the amnesiac stranger whom Humbert and Rita found snoring in their bed seems to be someone's raun-away male organ), Gogol died in Moscow on March 4, 1852, at age 42. The author of Marche funèbre ("Funeral March," 1837), Chopin died in Paris on October 17, 1849, at age 39. According to John Ray, Jr. (the author of the Foreword to Humbert's manuscript), Mrs. “Richard F. Schiller” (Lolita's married name) outlived Humbert (who died in legal captivity, of coronary thrombosis, on November 16, 1952, a few days before his trial was scheduled to start) by forty days and died in childbed, giving birth to a stillborn girl, on Christmas Day 1952, in Gray Star, a settlement in the remotest Northwest:
For the benefit of old-fashioned readers who wish to follow the destinies of the “real” people beyond the “true” story, a few details may be given as received from Mr. “Windmuller,” or “Ramsdale,” who desires his identity suppressed so that “the long shadow 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 publshed 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.).