21My habit of being silent when displeased or, more exactly, the cold andscaly quality of my displeased silence, used to frighten Valeria out of herwits. She used to whimper and wail, saying "Ce qui me rend folle, c'estque je ne sais ю quoi tu penses quand tu es comme гa." I tried beingsilent with Charlotte--and she just chirped on, or chucked my silence underthe chin. An astonishing woman! I would retire to my former room, now aregular "studio," mumbling I had after all a learned opus to write, andcheerfully Charlotte went on beautifying the home, warbling on the telephoneand writing letters. From my window, through the lacquered shiver of poplarleaves, I could see her crossing the street and contentedly mailing herletter to Miss Phalen's sister. The week of scattered showers and shadows which elapsed after our lastvisit to the motionless sands of Hourglass Lake was one of the gloomiest Ican recall. Then came two or three dim rays of hope--before the ultimatesunburst. It occurred to me that I had a fine brain in beautiful working orderand that I might as well use it. If I dared not meddle with my wife's plansfor her daughter (getting warmer and browner every day in the fair weatherof hopeless distance), I could surely devise some general means to assertmyself in a general way that might be later directed toward a particularoccasion. One evening, Charlotte herself provided me with an opening. "I have a surprise for you," she said looking at me with fond eyes overa spoonful of soup. "In the fall we two are going to England." I swallowed my spoonful, wiped my lips with pink paper (Oh, thecool rich linens of Mirana Hotel!) and said: "I have also a surprise for you, my dear. We two are not going toEngland." "Why, what's the matter?" she said, looking--with more surprise than Ihad counted upon--at my hands (I was involuntarily folding and tearing andcrushing and tearing again the innocent pink napkin). My smiling face sether somewhat at ease, however. "The matter is quite simple," I replied. "Even in the most harmoniousof households, as ours is, not all decisions are taken by the femalepartner. There are certain things that the husband is there to decide. I canwell imagine the thrill that you, a healthy American gal, must experience atcrossing the Atlantic on the same ocean liner with Lady Bumble--or SamBumble, the Frozen Meat King, or a Hollywood harlot. And I doubt not thatyou and I would make a pretty ad for the Traveling Agency when portrayedlooking--you, frankly starry-eyed, I, controlling my envious admiration--atthe Palace Sentries, or Scarlet Guards, or Beaver Eaters, or whatever theyare called. But I happen to be allergic to Europe, including merry oldEngland. As you well know, I have nothing but very sad associations with theOld and rotting World. No colored ads in your magazines will change thesituation." "My darling," said Charlotte. "I really--" "No, wait a minute. The present matter is only incidental. I amconcerned with a general trend. When you wanted me to spend my afternoonssunbathing on the Lake instead of doing my work, I gladly gave in and becamea bronzed glamour boy for your sake, instead of remaining a scholar and,well, an educator. When you lead me to bridge and bourbon with the charmingFarlows, I meekly follow. No, please, wait. When you decorate your home, Ido not interfere with your schemes. When you decide--when you decide allkinds of matters, I may be in complete, or in partial, let us say,disagreement--but I say nothing. I ignore the particular. I cannot ignorethe general. I love being bossed by you, but every game has its rules. I amnot cross. I am not cross at all. Don't do that. But I am one half of thishousehold, and have a small but distinct voice." She had come to my side and had fallen on her knees and was slowly, butvery vehemently, shaking her head and clawing at my trousers. She said shehad never realized. She said I was her ruler and her god. She said Louisehad gone, and let us make love right away. She said I must forgive her orshe would die. This little incident filled me with considerable elation. I told herquietly that it was a matter not of asking forgiveness, but of changingone's ways; and I resolved to press my advantage and spend a good deal oftime, aloof and moody, working at my book--or at least pretending to work. The "studio bed" in my former room had long been converted into thesofa it had always been at heart, and Charlotte had warned me since the verybeginning of our cohabitation that gradually the room would be turned into aregular "writer's den." A couple of days after the British Incident, I wassitting in a new and very comfortable easy chair, with a large volume in mylap, when Charlotte rapped with her ring finger and sauntered in. Howdifferent were her movements from those of my Lolita, when she usedto visit me in her dear dirty blue jeans, smelling of orchards innymphetland; awkward and fey, and dimly depraved, the lower buttons of hershirt unfastened. Let me tell you, however, something. Behind the brashnessof little Haze, and the poise of big Haze, a trickle of shy life ran thattasted the same, that murmured the same. A great French doctor once told myfather that in near relatives the faintest gastric gurgle has the same"voice." So Charlotte sauntered in. She felt all was not well between us. I hadpretended to fall asleep the night before, and the night before that, assoon as we had gone to bed, and had risen at dawn. Tenderly, she inquired if she were not "interrupting." "Not at the moment," I said, turning volume C of the Girls'Encyclopedia around to examine a picture printed "bottom-edge" asprinters say. Charlotte went up to a little table of imitation mahogany with adrawer. She put her hand upon it. The little table was ugly, no doubt, butit had done nothing to her. "I have always wanted to ask you," she said (businesslike, notcoquettish), "why is this thing locked up? Do you want it in this room? It'sso abominably uncouth." "Leave it alone," I said. I was Camping in Scandinavia. "Is there a key?" "Hidden." "Oh, Hum . . . " "Locked up love letters." She gave me one of those wounded-doe looks that irritated me so much,and then, not quite knowing if I was serious, or how to keep up theconversation, stood for several slow pages (Campus, Canada, Candid Camera,Candy) peering at the window pane rather than through it, drumming upon itwith sharp almond-and-rose fingernails. Presently (at Canoeing or Canvasback) she strolled up to my chair andsank down, tweedily, weightily, on its arm, inundating me with the perfumemy first wife had used. "Would his lordship like to spend the fallhere?" she asked, pointing with her little finger at an autumn viewin a conservative Eastern State. "Why?" (very distinctly and slowly). Sheshrugged. (Probably Harold used to take a vacation at that time. Openseason. Conditional reflex on her part.) "I think I know where that is," she said, still pointing. "There is ahotel I remember, Enchanted Hunters, quaint, isn't it? And the food is adream. And nobody bothers anybody." She rubbed her cheek against my temple. Valeria soon got over that. "Is there anything special you would like for dinner, dear? John andJean will drop in later." I answered with a grunt. She kissed me on my underlip, and, brightlysaying she would bake a cake (a tradition subsisted from my lodging daysthat I adored her cakes), left me to my idleness. Carefully putting down the open book where she had sat (it attempted tosend forth a rotation of waves, but an inserted pencil stopped the pages), Ichecked the hiding place of the key: rather self-consciously it lay underthe old expensive safety razor I had used before she bought me a much betterand cheaper one. Was it the perfect hiding place--there, under the razor, inthe groove of its velvet-lined case? The case lay in a small trunk where Ikept various business papers. Could I improve upon this? Remarkable howdifficult it is to conceal things--especially when one's wife keepsmonkeying with the furniture.22I think it was exactly a week after our last swim that the noon mailbrought a reply from the second Miss Phalen. The lady wrote she had justreturned to St. Algebra from her sister's funeral. "Euphemia had never beenthe same after breaking that hip." As to the matter of Mrs. Humbert'sdaughter, she wished to report that it was too late to enroll her this year;but that she, the surviving Phalen, was practically certain that if Mr. andMrs. Humbert brought Dolores over in January, her admittance might bearranged. Next day, after lunch, I went to see "our" doctor, a friendly fellowwhose perfect bedside manner and complete reliance on a few patented drugsadequately masked his ignorance of, and indifference to, medical science.The fact that Lo would have to come back to Ramsdale was a treasure ofanticipation. For this event I wanted to be fully prepared. I had in factbegun my campaign earlier, before Charlotte made that cruel decision ofhers. I had to be sure when my lovely child arrived, that very night, andthen night after night, until St. Algebra took her away from me, I wouldpossess the means of putting two creatures to sleep so thoroughly thatneither sound nor touch should rouse them. Throughout most of July I hadbeen experimenting with various sleeping powders, trying them out onCharlotte, a great taker of pills. The last dose I had given her (shethought it was a tablet of mild bromides--to anoint her nerves) had knockedher out for four solid hours. I had put the radio at full blast. I hadblazed in her face an olisbos-like flashlight. I had pushed her, pinchedher, prodded her--and nothing had disturbed the rhythm of her calm andpowerful breathing. However, when I had done such a simple thing as kissher, she had awakened at once, as fresh and strong as an octopus (I barelyescaped). This would not do, I thought; had to get something still safer. Atfirst, Dr. Byron did not seem to believe me when I said his lastprescription was no match for my insomnia. He suggested I try again, and fora moment diverted my attention by showing me photographs of his family. Hehad a fascinating child of Dolly's age; but I saw through his tricks andinsisted he prescribe the mightiest pill extant. He suggested I play golf,but finally agreed to give me something that, he said, "would really work";and going to a cabinet, he produced a vial of violet-blue capsules bandedwith dark purple at one end, which, he said, had just been placed on themarket and were intended not for neurotics whom a draft of water could calmif properly administered, but only for great sleepless artists who had todie for a few hours in order to live for centuries. I love to fool doctors,and though inwardly rejoicing, pocketed the pills with a skeptical shrug.Incidentally, I had had to be careful with him. Once, in another connection,a stupid lapse on my part made me mention my last sanatorium, and I thoughtI saw the tips of his ears twitch. Being not at all keen for Charlotte oranybody else to know that period of my past, I had hastily explained that Ihad once done some research among the insane for a novel. But no matter; theold rogue certainly had a sweet girleen. I left in great spirits. Steering my wife's car with one finger, Icontentedly rolled homeward. Ramsdale had, after all, lots of charm. Thecicadas whirred; the avenue had been freshly watered. Smoothly, almostsilkily, I turned down into our steep little street. Everything was somehowso right that day. So blue and green. I knew the sun shone because myignition key was reflected in the windshield; and I knew it was exactly halfpast three because the nurse who came to massage Miss Opposite everyafternoon was tripping down the narrow sidewalk in her white stockings andshoes. As usual, Junk's hysterical setter attacked me as I rolled downhill,and as usual, the local paper was lying on the porch where it had just beenhurled by Kenny. The day before I had ended the regime of aloofness I had imposed uponmyself, and now uttered a cheerful homecoming call as I opened the door ofthe living room. With her ream-white nape and bronze bun to me, wearing theyellow blouse and maroon slacks she had on when I first met her, Charlottesat at the corner bureau writing a letter. My hand still on the doorknob, Irepeated my hearty cry. Her writing hand stopped. She sat still for amoment; then she slowly turned in her chair and rested her elbow on itscurved back. Her face, disfigured by her emotion, was not a pretty sight asshe stared at my legs and said: "The Haze woman, the big bitch, the old cat, the obnoxious mamma,the--the old stupid Haze is no longer your dupe. She has--she has . . ." My fair accuser stopped, swallowing her venom and her tears. WhateverHumbert Humbert said--or attempted to say--is inessential. She went on: "You're a monster. You're a detestable, abominable, criminal fraud. Ifyou come near--I'll scream out the window. Get back!" Again, whatever H.H. murmured may be omitted, I think. "I am leaving tonight. This is all yours. Only you'll never, never seethat miserable brat again. Get out of this room." Reader, I did. I went up to the ex-semi-studio. Arms akimbo, I stoodfor a moment quite still and self-composed, surveying from the threshold theraped little table with its open drawer, a key hanging from the lock, fourother household keys on the table top. I walked across the landing into theHumberts' bedroom, and calmly removed my diary from under her pillow into mypocket. Then I started to walk downstairs, but stopped half-way: she wastalking on the telephone which happened to be plugged just outside the doorof the living room. I wanted to hear what she was saying: she canceled anorder for something or other, and returned to the parlor. I rearranged myrespiration and went through the hallway to the kitchen. There, I opened abottle of Scotch. She could never resist Scotch. Then I walked into thedining room and from there, through the half-open door, contemplatedCharlotte's broad back. "You are ruining my life and yours," I said quietly. "Let us becivilized people. It is all your hallucination. You are crazy, Charlotte.The notes you found were fragments of a novel. Your name and hers were putin by mere chance. Just because they came handy. Think it over. I shallbring you a drink." She neither answered nor turned, but went on writing in a scorchingscrawl whatever she was writing. A third letter, presumably (two in stampedenvelopes were already laid out on the desk). I went back to the kitchen. I set out two glasses (to St. Algebra? to Lo?) and opened therefrigerator. It roared at me viciously while I removed the ice from itsheart. Rewrite. Let her read it again. She will not recall details. Change,forge. Write a fragment and show it to her or leave it lying around. Why dofaucets sometimes whine so horribly? A horrible situation, really. Thelittle pillow-shaped blocks of ice--pillows for polar teddy bear,Lo--emitted rasping, crackling, tortured sounds as the warm water loosenedthem in their cells. I bumped down the glasses side by side. I poured in thewhiskey and a dram of soda. She had tabooed my pin. Bark and bang went theicebox. Carrying the glasses, I walked through the dining room and spokethrough the parlor door which was a fraction ajar, not quite space enoughfor my elbow. "I have made you a drink," I said. She did not answer, the mad bitch, and I placed the glasses on thesideboard near the telephone, which had started to ring. "Leslie speaking. Leslie Tomson," said Leslie Tomson who favored a dipat dawn. "Mrs. Humbert, sir, has been run over and you'd better come quick." I answered, perhaps a bit testily, that my wife was safe and sound, andstill holding the receiver, I pushed open the door and said: "There's this man saying you've been killed, Charlotte." But there was no Charlotte in the living room.23
