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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 most

of 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 a

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.29The door of the lighted bathroom stood ajar; in addition to that, askeleton glow came though the Venetian blind from the outside arclights;these intercrossed rays penetrated the darkness of the bedroom and revealedthe following situation. Clothed in one of her old nightgowns, my Lolita lay on her side withher back to me, in the middle of the bed. Her lightly veiled body and barelimbs formed a Z. She had put both pillows under her dark tousled head; aband of pale light crossed her top vertebrae. I seemed to have shed my clothes and slipped into pajamas with the kindof fantastic instantaneousness which is implied when in a cinematographicscene the process of changing is cut; and I had already placed my knee onthe edge of the bed when Lolita turned her head and stared at me though thestriped shadows. Now this was something the intruder had not expected. The wholepill-spiel (a rather sordid affair, entre nous soit dit) had had forobject a fastness of sleep that a whole regiment would not have disturbed,and here she was staring at me, and thickly calling me "Barbara." Barbara,wearing my pajamas which were much too tight for her, remained poisedmotionless over the little sleep-talker. Softly, with a hopeless sigh, Dollyturned away, resuming her initial position. For at least two minutes Iwaited and strained on the brink, like that tailor with his homemadeparachute forty years ago when about to jump from the Eiffel Tower. Herfaint breathing had the rhythm of sleep. Finally I heaved myself onto mynarrow margin of bed, stealthily pulled at the odds and ends of sheets piledup to the south of my stone-cold heels--and Lolita lifted her head and gapedat me. As I learned later from a helpful pharmaceutist, the purple pill didnot even belong to the big and noble family of barbiturates, and though itmight have induced sleep in a neurotic who believed it to be a potent drug,it was too mild a sedative to affect for any length of time a wary, albeitweary, nymphet. Whether the Ramsdale doctor was a charlatan or a shrewd oldrogue, does not, and did not, really matter. What mattered, was that I hadbeen deceived. When Lolita opened her eyes again, I realized that whether ornot the drug might work later in the night, the security I had relied uponwas a sham one. Slowly her head turned away and dropped onto her unfairamount of pillow. I lay quite still on my brink, peering at her rumpledhair, at the glimmer of nymphet flesh, where half a haunch and half ashoulder dimly showed, and trying to gauge the depth of her sleep by the

bring my ravenous bulk so close to her that I felt the aura of her bareshoulder like a warm breath upon my cheek. And then, she sat up, gasped,muttered with insane rapidity something about boats, tugged at the sheetsand lapsed back into her rich, dark, young unconsciousness. As she tossed,within that abundant flow of sleep, recently auburn, at present lunar, herarm struck me across the face. For a second I held her. She freed herselffrom the shadow of my embrace--doing this not consciously, not violently,not with any personal distaste, but with the neutral plaintive murmur of achild demanding its natural rest. And again the situation remained the same:Lolita with her curved spine to Humbert, Humbert resting his head on hishand and burning with desire and dyspepsia. The latter necessitated a trip to the bathroom for a draft of waterwhich is the best medicine I know in my case, except perhaps milk withradishes; and when I re-entered the strange pale-striped fastness whereLolita's old and new clothes reclined in various attitudes of enchantment onpieces of furniture that seemed vaguely afloat, my impossible daughter satup and in clear tones demanded a drink, too. She took the resilient and coldpaper cup in her shadowy hand and gulped down its contents gratefully, herlong eyelashes pointing cupward, and then, with an infantile gesture thatcarried more charm than any carnal caress, little Lolita wiped her lipsagainst my shoulder. She fell back on her pillow (I had subtracted minewhile she drank) and was instantly asleep again. I had not dared offer her a second helping of the drug, and had notabandoned hope that the first might still consolidate her sleep. I startedto move toward her, ready for any disappointment, knowing I had better waitbut incapable of waiting. My pillow smelled of her hair. I moved toward myglimmering darling, stopping or retreating every time I thought she stirredor was about to stir. A breeze from wonderland had begun to affect mythoughts, and now they seemed couched in italics, as if the surfacereflecting them were wrinkled by the phantasm of that breeze. Time and againmy consciousness folded the wrong way, my shuffling body entered the sphereof sleep, shuffled out again, and once or twice I caught myself driftinginto a melancholy snore. Mists of tenderness enfolded mountains of longing.Now and then it seemed to me that the enchanted prey was about to meethalfway the enchanted hunter, that her haunch was working its way toward meunder the soft sand of a remote and fabulous beach; and then her dimpleddimness would stir, and I would know she was farther away from me than ever. If I dwell at some length on the tremors and groupings of that distantnight, it is because I insist upon proving that I am not, and never was, andnever could have been, a brutal scoundrel. The gentle and dreamy regionsthough which I crept were the patrimonies of poets--not crime'sprowling ground. Had I reached my goal, my ecstasy would have been all

again, and gradually the odd sense of living in a brand new, mad new dreamworld, where everything was permissible, came over me as I realized what shewas suggesting. I answered I did not know what game she and Charlie hadplayed. "You mean you have never--?"--her features twisted into a stare ofdisgusted incredulity. "You have never--" she started again. I took time outby nuzzling her a little. "Lay off, will you," she said with a twangy whine,hastily removing her brown shoulder from my lips. (It was very curious theway she considered--and kept doing so for a long time--all caresses exceptkisses on the mouth or the stark act of love either "romantic slosh" or"abnormal".) "You mean," she persisted, now kneeling above me, "you never did itwhen you were a kid?" "Never," I answered quite truthfully. "Okay," said Lolita, "here is where we start." However, I shall not bore my learned readers with a detailed account ofLolita's presumption. Suffice it to say that not a trace of modesty did Iperceive in this beautiful hardly formed young girl whom modernco-education, juvenile mores, the campfire racket and so forth had utterlyand hopelessly depraved. She saw the stark act merely as part of ayoungster's furtive world, unknown to adults. What adults did for purposesof procreation was no business of hers. My life was handled by little Lo inan energetic, matter-of-fact manner as if it were an insensate gadgetunconnected with me. While eager to impress me with the world of tough kids,she was not quite prepared for certain discrepancies between a kid's lifeand mine. Pride alone prevented her from giving up; for, in my strangepredicament, I feigned supreme stupidity and had her have her way--at leastwhile I could still bear it. But really these are irrelevant matters; I amnot concerned with so-called "sex" at all. Anybody can imagine thoseelements of animality. A greater endeavor lures me on: to fix once for allthe perilous magic of nymphets.30I have to tread carefully. I have to speak in a whisper. Oh you,veteran crime reporter, you grave old usher, you once popular policeman, nowin solitary confinement after gracing that school crossing for years, youwretched emeritus read to by a boy! It would never do, would it, to have youfellows fall madly in love with my Lolita! had I been a painter, had themanagement of The Enchanted Hunters lost its mind one summer day andcommissioned me to redecorate their dining room with murals of my ownmaking, this is what I might have thought up, let me list some fragments: There would have been a lake. There would have been an arbor inflame-flower. There would have been nature studies--a tiger pursuing a birdof paradise, a choking snake sheathing whole the flayed trunk of a shoat.There would have been a sultan, his face expressing great agony (belied, asit were, by his molding caress), helping a callypygean slave child to climba column of onyx. There would have been those luminous globules of gonadalglow that travel up the opalescent sides of juke boxes. There would have

been all kinds of camp activities on the part of the intermediate group,Canoeing, Coranting, Combing Curls in the lakeside sun. There would havebeen poplars, apples, a suburban Sunday. There would have been a fire opaldissolving within a ripple-ringed pool, a last throb, a last dab of color,stinging red, smearing pink, a sigh, a wincing child.31I am trying to describe these things not to relive them in my presentboundless misery, but to sort out the portion of hell and the portion ofheaven in that strange, awful, maddening world--nymphet love. The beastlyand beautiful merged at one point, and it is that borderline I would like tofix, and I feel I fail to do so utterly. Why? The stipulation of the Roman law, according to which a girl may marryat twelve, was adopted by the Church, and is still preserved, rathertacitly, in some of the United States. And fifteen is lawful everywhere.There is nothing wrong, say both hemispheres, when a brute of forty, blessedby the local priest and bloated with drink, sheds his sweat-drenched fineryand thrusts himself up to the hilt into his youthful bride. "In suchstimulating temperate climates [says an old magazine in this prison library]as St. Louis, Chicago and Cincinnati, girls mature about the end of theirtwelfth year." Dolores Haze was born less than three hundred miles fromstimulating Cincinnati. I have but followed nature. I am nature's faithfulhound. Why then this horror that I cannot shake off? Did I deprive her ofher flower? Sensitive gentlewomen of the jury, I was not even her firstlover.32She told me the way she had been debauched. We ate flavorless mealybananas, bruised peaches and very palatable potato chips, and dieKleine told me everything. Her voluble but disjointed account wasaccompanied by many a droll moue. As I think I have already observed,I especially remember one wry face on an "ugh!" basis: jelly-mouth distendedsideways and eyes rolled up in a routine blend of comic disgust, resignationand tolerance for young frailty. Her astounding tale started with an introductory mention of hertent-mate of the previous summer, at another camp, a "very select" one asshe put it. That tent-mate ("quite a derelict character," "half-crazy," buta "swell kid") instructed her in various manipulations. At first, loyal Lorefused to tell me her name. "Was it Grace Angel?" I asked. She shook her head. No, it wasn't it was the daughter of a big shot.He-- "Was it perhaps Rose Carmine?" "No, of course not. Her father--" "Was it, then, Agnes Sheridan perchance?" She swallowed and shook her head--and then did a double take. "Say, how come you know all those kids?" I explained. "Well," she said. "They are pretty bad, some of that school bunch, butnot that bad. If you have to know, her name was Elizabeth Talbot, she goesnow to a swanky private school, her father is an executive." I recalled with a funny pang the frequency with which poor Charlotteused to introduce into party chat such elegant tidbits as "when my daughter

blocks south. Oh, she ate all right. She even laid aside her magazine toeat, but a queer dullness had replaced her usual cheerfulness. I knew littleLo could be very nasty, so I braced myself and grinned, and waited for asquall. I was unbathed, unshaven, and had had no bowel movement. My nerveswere a-jangle. I did not like the way my little mistress shrugged hershoulders and distended her nostrils when I attempted casual small talk. HadPhyllis been in the know before she joined her parents in Maine? I askedwith a smile. "Look," said Lo making a weeping grimace, "let us get off thesubject." I then tried--also unsuccessfully, no matter how I smacked mylips--to interest her in the road map. Our destination was, let me remind mypatient reader whose meek temper Lo ought to have copied, the gay town ofLepingville, somewhere near a hypothetical hospital. That destination was initself a perfectly arbitrary one (as, alas, so many were to be), and I shookin my shoes as I wondered how to keep the whole arrangement plausible, andwhat other plausible objectives to invent after we had taken in all themovies in Lepingville. More and more uncomfortable did Humbert Feel. It wassomething quite special, that feeling: an oppressive, hideous constraint asif I were sitting with the small ghost of somebody I had just killed. As she was in the act of getting back into the car, an expression ofpain flitted across Lo's face. It flitted again, more meaningfully, as shesettled down beside me. No doubt, she reproduced it that second time for mybenefit. Foolishly, I asked her what was the matter. "Nothing, you brute,"she replied. "You what?" I asked. She was silent. Leaving Briceland.Loquacious Lo was silent. Cold spiders of panic crawled down my back. Thiswas an orphan. This was a lone child, an absolute waif, with whom aheavy-limbed, foul-smelling adult had had strenuous intercourse three timesthat very morning. Whether or not the realization of a lifelong dream hadsurpassed all expectation, it had, in a sense, overshot its mark--andplunged into a nightmare. I had been careless, stupid, and ignoble. And letme be quite frank: somewhere at the bottom of that dark turmoil I felt thewrithing of desire again, so monstrous was my appetite for that miserablenymphet. Mingled with the pangs of guilt was the agonizing through that hermood might prevent me from making love to her again as soon as I found anice country road where to park in peace. In other words, poor HumbertHumbert was dreadfully unhappy, and while steadily and inanely drivingtoward Lepingville, he kept racking his brains for some quip, under thebright wing of which he might dare turn to his seatmate. It was she,however, who broke the silence: "Oh, a squashed squirrel," she said. "What a shame." "Yes, isn't it?" (eager, hopeful Hum). "Let us stop at the next gas station," Lo continued. "I want to go tothe washroom." "We shall stop wherever you want," I said. And then as a lovely,lonely, supercilious grove (oaks, I thought; American trees at that stage

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