Describing his first road trip with Lolita across the USA, Humbert Humbert (the narrator and main character in VN's novel Lolita, 1955) mentions early spring mountains with young-elephant lanugo along their spines:
We inspected the world’s largest stalagmite in a cave where three southeastern states have a family reunion; admission by age; adults one dollar, pubescents sixty cents. A granite obelisk commemorating the Battle of Blue Licks, with old bones and Indian pottery in the museum nearby, Lo a dime, very reasonable. The present log cabin boldly simulating the past log cabin where Lincoln was born. A boulder, with a plaque, in memory of the author of “Trees” (by now we are in Poplar Cove, N. C., reached by what my kind, tolerant, usually so restrained tour book angrily calls “a very narrow road, poorly maintained,” to which, though no Kilmerite, I subscribe). From a hired motor-boat operated by an elderly, but still repulsively handsome White Russian, a baron they said (Lo’s palms were damp, the little fool), who had known in California good old Maximovich and Valeria, we could distinguish the inaccessible “millionaires’ colony” on an island, somewhere off the Georgia coast. We inspected further: a collection of European hotel picture post cards in a museum devoted to hobbies at a Mississippi resort, where with a hot wave of pride I discovered a colored photo of my father’s Mirana, its striped awnings, its flag flying above the retouched palm trees. “So what?” said Lo, squinting at the bronzed owner of an expensive car who had followed us into the Hobby House. Relics of the cotton era. A forest in Arkansas and, on her brown shoulder, a raised purple-pink swelling (the work of some gnat) which I eased of its beautiful transparent poison between my long thumbnails and then sucked till I was gorged on her spicy blood. Bourbon Street (in a town named New Orleans) whose sidewalks, said the tour book, “may [I liked the “may”] feature entertainment by pickaninnies who will [I liked the “will” even better] tap-dance for pennies” (what fun), while “its numerous small and intimate night clubs are thronged with visitors” (naughty). Collections of frontier lore. Ante-bellum homes with iron-trellis balconies and hand-worked stairs, the kind down which movie ladies with sun-kissed shoulders run in rich Technicolor, holding up the fronts of their flounced skirts with both little hands in that special way, and the devoted Negress shaking her head on the upper landing. The Menninger Foundation, a psychiatric clinic, just for the heck of it. A patch of beautifully eroded clay; and yucca blossoms, so pure, so waxy, but lousy with creeping white flies. Independence, Missouri, the starting point of the Old Oregon Trail; and Abiliene, Kansas, the home of the Wild Bill Something Rodeo. Distant mountains. Near mountains. More mountains; bluish beauties never attainable, or ever turning into inhabited hill after hill; south-eastern ranges, altitudinal failures as alps go; heart and sky-piercing snow-veined gray colossi of stone, relentless peaks appearing from nowhere at a turn of the highway; timbered enormities, with a system of neatly overlapping dark firs, interrupted in places by pale puffs of aspen; pink and lilac formations, Pharaonic, phallic, “too prehistoric for words” (blasé Lo); buttes of black lava; early spring mountains with young-elephant lanugo along their spines; end-of-the-summer mountains, all hunched up, their heavy Egyptian limbs folded under folds of tawny moth-eaten plush; oatmeal hills, flecked with green round oaks; a last rufous mountain with a rich rug of lucerne at its foot. (2.2)
In the Russian Lolita (1967) VN renders 'young-elephant' as slonyonok (diminutive of slon, 'elephant'):
Нами были осмотрены многие достопримечательности (слоновое слово!): величайший в мире сталагмит, находящийся в знаменитой пещере, где три юго-восточных штата празднуют географическую встречу (плата за осмотр в зависимости от возраста: с мужчин – один доллар; с едва опушившихся девочек – шестьдесят центов); гранитный обелиск в память баталии под Блю-Ликс, с древними костями и индейскими горшками в музее по соседству (гривенник с Лолиточки – очень недорого); вполне современная изба, смело подделывающаяся под былую избу, где родился Линкольн; скала с металлической доской в память автора стихотворения «Деревья» (мы заехали тут в Тополёвый Дол, Северная Каролина, куда ведёт дорога, которую мой добрый, терпимый, обычно столь сдержанный гид, гневно называет «весьма узкой и запущенной», под чем я, хоть и не будучи поклонником поэта Кильмера, готов подписаться). С борта нанятой моторной лодки, которой управлял пожилой, но всё ещё отталкивающе красивый русский белогвардеец и даже, говорили, барон (у моей дурочки сразу вспотели ладошки), знавший в бытность свою в Калифорнии любезного Максимовича и его Валерию, нам было дано разглядеть недоступную Колонию Миллионеров на острове в некотором расстоянии от берега штата Георгии. Далее, мы осмотрели: собрание европейских отельных открыток в миссиссипийском музее, посвящённом коллекционерским причудам, где с горячим приливом гордости я выискал цветную фотографию отцовской «Мираны», её полосатые маркизы, её флаг, развевающийся над ретушированными пальмами. «Ну и что?» рассеянно отозвалась Лолита, а сама искоса поглядывала на бронзово-загорелого хозяина дорогой машины, последовавшего за нами в этот «музей причуд». Реликвии хлопковой эры. Лес в Арканзасе, и на её смуглом плече розово-лиловое вздутьё (работа комара или мухи), которое я сжал между длинными ногтями первых пальцев, чтобы выдавить из него чудный прозрачный яд, а потом долго высасывал, пока не насытился вдоволь её пряной кровью. Улица Бурбона (в городе Новый Орлеан), где тротуары, по словам путеводителя, могут (интересная возможность) служить подмостком для негритят, которые нет-нет (интересный слог) да и спляшут чечётку за несколько пенни (вот весело!), между тем как его многочисленные маленькие интимные ночные кабачки битком набиты посетителями (ишь, шалуны!). Образцы пограничного фольклора. Усадьбы времён до гражданской войны с железными балконами и ручной работы лестницами – теми лестницами, по которым в роскошном цветном кино актрисочка с солнцем обласканными плечами сбегает, подобрав обеими ручками – преграциозно – перёд юбки с воланами (а на верхней площадке преданная, непременно чернокожая, служанка качает головой). Меннингерский Институт, психиатрическая клиника (посещённая чисто из лихости). Участок глинистой почвы в изумительном узоре эрозии, а вокруг цветы юкки, такие чистые, восковые, но отвратительно кишащие какой-то белой молью. Индепенденс, Миссури, где начинался в старину Орегонский Путь; и Абилин, Канзас, где происходят состязания ковбоев под эгидой какого-то «Дикого Билля». Отдалённые горы. Близкие горы. Ещё горы: синеватые красавицы, недосягаемые или вечно превращающиеся, одна за другой, в обитаемые холмы; горы восточных штатов – неудачницы, в рассуждении Альп, недоростки; западные колоссы, пронзающие сердце и небо: их серые в снеговых жилах, непреклонные вершины, внезапно появляющиеся при повороте шоссе; заросшие лесом громады, под тёмной черепицей аккуратно заходящих одна за другую ёлок, местами прерванной дымчато-бледным осинником; горные формации розовой и лиловой окраски; фараонические, фаллические, «чересчур допотопные» (по выражению блазированной Ло); сопки из чёрной лавы; апрельские горы с шёрсткой по хребту, вроде как у слонёнка; горы сентябрьские, сидящие сидьмя, с тяжёлыми египетскими членами, сложенными под опаданиями изношенного жёлтого бархата; белёсые выцветшие горы в зелёных круглых пятнах дубов; одна последняя ярко-рыжая гора с пышным синим ковром люцерны у подножия.
In his poem Slonyonok ("A Baby Elephant," 1920) Nikolay Gumilyov (a Russian poet, leader of the acmeists, 1886-1921) compares his love to a baby elephant that was just born in Berlin or in Paris:
Моя любовь к тебе сейчас — слонёнок,
Родившийся в Берлине иль Париже
И топающий ватными ступнями
По комнатам хозяина зверинца.
Не предлагай ему французских булок,
Не предлагай ему кочней капустных,
Он может съесть лишь дольку мандарина,
Кусочек сахару или конфету.
Не плачь, о нежная, что в тесной клетке
Он сделается посмеяньем черни,
Чтоб в нос ему пускали дым сигары
Приказчики под хохот мидинеток.
Не думай, милая, что день настанет,
Когда, взбесившись, разорвет он цепи
И побежит по улицам и будет,
Как автобус, давить людей вопящих.
Нет, пусть тебе приснится он под утро
В парче и меди, в страусовых перьях,
Как тот, Великолепный, что когда-то
Нес к трепетному Риму Ганнибала.
Right now my love for you is a baby elephant
Born in Berlin or in Paris,
And treading with its cushioned feet
Around the zoo director's house.
Do not offer it French pastries,
Do not offer it cabbage heads,
It can eat only sections of tangerines,
Or lumps of sugar and pieces of candy.
Don't cry, my sweet, because it will be put
Into a narrow cage, become a joke for mobs,
When salesman blow cigar smoke into its trunk
To the cackles of their girl friends.
Don't imagine, my dear, that the day will come
When, infuriated, it will snap its chains
And rush along the streets,
Crushing howling people like a bus.
No, may you dream of it at dawn,
Clad in bronze and brocade and ostrich feathers,
Like that magnificent beast which once
Bore Hannibal to trembling Rome.
(tr. Carl Proffer)
Humbert Humbert was born in 1910, in Paris. When Humbert visits Lolita (now married to Dick Schiller and big with child) in Coalmont, she calls Elphinstone (a little town in the Rockies where she fell ill and was hospitalized) "Elephant:"
“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 hadoh, 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)
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:
“Lolita, or the Confession of a White Widowed Male,” such were the two titles under which the writer of the present note received the strange pages it preambulates. “Humbert Humbert,” their author, had died in legal captivity, of coronary thrombosis, on November 16, 1952, a few days before his trial was scheduled to start. His lawyer, my good friend and relation, Clarence Choate Clark, Esq., now of he District of Columbia bar, in asking me to edit the manuscript, based his request on a clause in his client’s will which empowered my eminent cousin to use the discretion in all matters pertaining to the preparation of “Lolita” for print. Mr. Clark’s decision may have been influenced by the fact that the editor of his choice had just been awarded the Poling Prize for a modest work (“Do the Senses make Sense?”) wherein certain morbid states and perversions had been discussed.
My task proved simpler than either of us had anticipated. Save for the correction of obvious solecisms and a careful suppression of a few tenacious details that despite “H. H.”‘s own efforts still subsisted in his text as signposts and tombstones (indicative of places or persons that taste would conceal and compassion spare), this remarkable memoir is presented intact. Its author’s bizarre cognomen is his own invention; and, of course, this maskthrough which two hypnotic eyes seem to glowhad to remain unlifted in accordance with its wearer’s wish. While “Haze” only rhymes with the heroine’s real surname, her first name is too closely interwound with the inmost fiber of the book to allow one to alter it; nor (as the reader will perceive for himself) is there any practical necessity to do so. References to “H. H.”‘s crime may be looked up by the inquisitive in the daily papers for September-October 1952; its cause and purpose would have continued to come under my reading lamp.
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 settlemen 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 Lolita dies of ague on July 4, 1949, in the Elphinstone hospital. Everything what happens after her death (Lolita's escape from the hospital, Humbert's affair with Rita, Lolita's marriage and pregnancy, and the murder of Clare Quilty) was invented by Humbert (whose "real" name is John Ray, Jr.). "The capital town of the book," Gray Star brings to mind Gumilyov's poem Sinyaya zvezda ("The Blue Star," 1917) included in his posthumous collection K siney zvezde ("To the Blue Star," 1923):
Я вырван был из жизни тесной,
Из жизни скудной и простой,
Твоей мучительной, чудесной,
Неотвратимой красотой.
И умер я… и видел пламя,
Невиданное никогда:
Пред ослеплёнными глазами
Светилась синяя звезда.
Преображая дух и тело,
Напев вставал и падал вновь,
То говорила и звенела
Твоя поющей лютней кровь.
И запах огненней и слаще
Всего, что в жизни я найду,
И даже лилии, стоящей
В высоком ангельском саду.
И вдруг из глуби осиянной
Возник обратно мир земной,
Ты птицей раненой нежданно
Затрепетала предо мной.
Ты повторяла: «Я страдаю», —
Но что же делать мне, когда
Я наконец так сладко знаю,
Что ты — лишь синяя звезда.
Your tormenting, wonderful,
inevitable beauty
ripped me out of my thin,
miserable, puling life,
And I died. And I saw
a flame no one ever saw
before; my eyes went black, but I saw
a dark-blue star.
A song: soft, then loud, then soft:
body and soul melting:
that was your blood, ringing, speaking,
singing like a lyre.
And I knew a scent sweeter, heavier
with fire than anything on this earth —
a scent sweeter than lilies
in the gardens of Heaven.
And then this earth, this flat earth
came back, out of shimmering, brilliant depths —
you fluttered,
unforeseen, like a wounded bird,
Saying over and over, “I’m suffering.”
— Yes, but what can I do when, at last,
I understand, smiling, that all you are
is a dark-blue star?
(tr. Burton Raffel & Alla Burago)
After her death Lolita is turned by her maker into a blue bird (as suggested by Gerard de Vries). Gumilyov died (was executed by the Bolsheviks) on August 27, 1921, at the age of thirty-five. The two main characters in Ray Bradbury's story Marionettes Inc. (1949), friends Braling and Smith, are about thirty-five:
They walked slowly down the street at about ten in the evening, talking calmly. They were both about thirty-five, both eminently sober.
The action in Ray Bradbury's story takes place in 1990. This means that Braling and Smith were born around 1955. In the Russian Lolita John Ray's Foreword to Humbert's manuscript is dated August 5, 1955:
Джон Рэй, д-р философии
Видворт, Массачусетс
5 августа 1955 года
On August 5, 1955, Carmen Miranda, Portuguese-born Brazilian samba singer and actress (Down Argentine Way, 1940), died of a heart attack at 46. In Ray Bradbury's Marionettes Inc. Brailing has a ticket for Rio (a city on the Atlantic coast of Brazil):
He drew forth a long blue ticket.
‘Why, it’s a ticket for Rio on the Thursday rocket!’
‘Yes, I’m finally going to make it.’
Clare Quilty (a playwright and pornographer whom Humbert murders for abducting Lolita from the Elphinstone hospital) offers 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)