28Gentlewomen of the jury! Bear with me! Allow me to take just a tiny bitof your precious time. So this was le grand moment. I had left myLolita still sitting on the edge of the abysmal bed, drowsily raising herfoot, fumbling at the shoelaces and showing as she did so the nether side ofher thigh up to the crotch of her panties--she had always been singularlyabsentminded, or shameless, or both, in matters of legshow. This, then, wasthe hermetic vision of her which I had locked in--after satisfying myselfthat the door carried no inside bolt. The key, with its numbered dangler ofcarved wood, became forthwith the weighty sesame to a rapturous andformidable future. It was mine, it was part of my hot hairy fist. In a fewminutes--say, twenty, say half-an-hour, sicher ist sicher as my uncleGustave used to say--I would let myself into that "342" and find my nymphet,my beauty and bride, imprisoned in her crystal sleep. Jurors! If myhappiness could have talked, it would have filled that genteel hotel with adeafening roar. And my only regret today is that I did not quietly depositkey "342" at the office, and leave the town, the country, the continent, thehemisphere,--indeed, the globe--that very same night. Let me explain. I was not unduly disturbed by her self-accusatoryinnuendoes. I was still firmly resolved to pursue my policy of sparing herpurity by operating only in the stealth of night, only upon a completelyanesthetized little nude. Restraint and reverence were still my motto-evenif that "purity" (incidentally, thoroughly debunked by modern science) hadbeen slightly damaged through some juvenile erotic experience, no doubthomosexual, at that accursed camp of hers. Of course, in my old-fashioned,old-world way, I, Jean-Jacques Humbert, had taken for granted, when I firstmet her, that she was as unravished as the stereotypical notion of "normalchild" had been since the lamented end of the Ancient World B.C. and itsfascinating practices. We are not surrounded in our enlightened era by littleslave flowers that can be casually plucked between business and bath as theyused to be in the days of the Romans; and we do not, as dignified Orientalsdid in still more luxurious times, use tiny entertainers fore and aftbetween the mutton and the rose sherbet. The whole point is that the oldlink between the adult world and the child world has been completely severednowadays by new customs and new laws. Despite my having dabbled inpsychiatry and social work, I really knew very little about children. Afterall, Lolita was only twelve, and no matter what concessions I made to timeand place--even bearing in mind the crude behavior of Americanschoolchildren--I still was under the impression that whatever went on amongthose brash brats, went on at a later age, and in a different environment.Therefore (to retrieve the thread of this explanation) the moralist in meby-passed the issue by clinging to conventional notions of whattwelve-year-old girls should be. The child therapist in me (a fake, as mostof them are--but no matter) regurgitated neo-Freudian hash and conjured up adreaming and exaggerating Dolly in the "latency" period of girlhood.Finally, the sensualist in me (a great and insane monster) had no objectionto some depravity in his prey. But somewhere behind the raging bliss,bewildered shadows conferred--and not to have heeded them, this is what Iregret! Human beings, attend! I should have understood that Lolita hadalready proved to be something quite different from innocent Annabel,and that the nymphean evil breathing through every pore of the fey childthat I had prepared for my secret delectation, would make the secrecyimpossible, and the delectation lethal. I should have known (by the signsmade to me by something in Lolita--the real child Lolita or some haggardangel behind her back) that nothing but pain and horror would result fromthe expected rapture. Oh, winged gentlemen of the jury! And she was mine, she was mine, the key was in my fist, my fist was inmy pocket, she was mine. In the course of evocations and schemes to which Ihad dedicated so many insomnias, I had gradually eliminated all thesuperfluous blur, and by stacking level upon level of translucent vision,had evolved a final picture. Naked, except for one sock and her charmbracelet, spread-eagled on the bed where my philter had felled her--so Iforeglimpsed her; a velvet hair ribbon was still clutched in her hand; herhoney-brown body, with the white negative image of a rudimentary swimsuitpatterned against her tan, presented to me its pale breastbuds; in the rosylamplight, a little pubic floss glistened on its plump hillock. The cold keywith its warm wooden addendum was in my pocket. I wandered through various public rooms, glory below, gloom above: forthe look of lust always is gloomy; lust is never quite sure--even when thevelvety victim is locked up in one's dungeon--that some rival devil orinfluential god may still not abolish one's prepared triumph. In commonparlance, I needed a drink; but there was no barroom in that venerable placefull of perspiring philistines and period objects. I drifted to the Men's Room. There, a person in the clerical black--a"hearty party" comme on dit--checking with the assistance of Vienna,if it was still there, inquired of me how I had liked Dr. Boyd's talk, andlooked puzzled when I (King Sigmund the Second) said Boyd was quite a boy.Upon which, I neatly chucked the tissue paper I had been wiping my sensitivefinger tips with into the receptacle provided for it, and sallied lobbyward.Comfortably resting my elbows on the counter, I asked Mr. Potts was he quitesure my wife had not telephoned, and what about that cot? He answered shehad not (she was dead, of course) and the cot would be installed tomorrow ifwe decided to stay on. From a big crowded place called The Hunters' Hallcame a sound of many voices discussing horticulture or eternity. Anotherroom, called The Raspberry Room, all bathed in light, with bright littletables and a large one with "refreshments," was still empty except for ahostess (that type of worn woman with a glassy smile and Charlotte's mannerof speaking); she floated up to me to ask if I was Mr. Braddock, because ifso, Miss Beard had been looking for me. "What a name for a woman," I saidand strolled away. In and out of my heart flowed my rainbow blood. I would give her tillhalf-past-nine. Going back to the lobby, I found there a change: a number ofpeople in floral dresses or black cloth had formed little groups here andthere, and some elfish chance offered me the sight of a delightful child ofLolita's age, in Lolita's type of frock, but pure white, and there was awhite ribbon in her black hair. She was not pretty, but she was a nymphet,and her ivory pale legs and lily neck formed for one memorable moment a mostpleasurable antiphony (in terms of spinal music) to my desire for Lolita,brown and pink, flushed and fouled. The pale child noticed my gaze (whichwas really quite casual and debonair), and being ridiculouslyself-conscious, lost countenance completely, rolling her eyes and puttingthe back of her hand to her cheek, and pulling at the hem of her skirt, andfinally turning her thin mobile shoulder blades to me in specious chat withher cow-like mother. I left the loud lobby and stood outside, on the white steps, looking atthe hundreds of powdered bugs wheeling around the lamps in the soggy blacknight, full of ripple and stir. All I would do--all I would dare do--wouldamount to such a trifle . . . Suddenly I was aware that in the darkness nextto me there was somebody sitting in a chair on the pillared porch. I couldnot really see him but what gave him away was the rasp of a screwing off,then a discreet gurgle, then the final note of a placid screwing on. I wasabout to move away when his voice addressed me: "Where the devil did you get her?" "I beg your pardon?" "I said: the weather is getting better." "Seems so." "Who's the lassie?" "My daughter." "You lie--she's not." "I beg your pardon?" "I said: July was hot. Where's her mother?" "Dead." "I see. Sorry. By the way, why don't you two lunch with me tomorrow.That dreadful crowd will be gone by then." "We'll be gone too. Good night." "Sorry. I'm pretty drunk. Good night. That child of yours needs a lotof sleep. Sleep is a rose, as the Persians say. Smoke?" "Not now." He struck a light, but because he was drunk, or because the wind was,the flame illumined not him but another person, a very old man, one of thosepermanent guests of old hotels--and his white rocker. Nobody said anythingand the darkness returned to its initial place. Then I heard the old-timercough and deliver himself of some sepulchral mucus. I left the porch. At least half an hour in all had elapsed. I ought tohave asked for a sip. The strain was beginning to tell. If a violin stringcan ache, then I was that string. But it would have been unseemly to displayany hurry. As I made my way through a constellation of fixed people in onecorner of the lobby, there came a blinding flash--and beaming Dr. Braddock,two orchid-ornamentalized matrons, the small girl in white, and presumablythe bared teeth of Humbert Humbert sidling between the bridelike lassie andthe enchanted cleric, were immortalized--insofar as the texture and print ofsmall-town newspapers can be deemed immortal. A twittering group hadgathered near the elevator. I again chose the stairs. 342 was near the fireescape. One could still--but the key was already in the lock, and then I wasin the room.
