In the Russian Lolita (1967) Gumbert Gumbert (Humbert Humbert in Russian spelling) calls Clare Quilty (a playwright and pornographer whom Gumbert murders for abducting Lolita from the Elphinstone hospital) Klariy Novus:
Я выстрелил. На этот раз пуля попала во что-то твердое, а именно в спинку черной качалки, стоявшей в углу (и несколько похожей на скиллеровскую), причем она тотчас пришла в действие, закачавшись так шибко и бодро, что человек, который вошел бы в комнату, был бы изумлён двойным чудом: движением одинокой качалки, ходуном ходящей в углу, и зияющей пустотой кресла, в котором только что находилась моя фиолетовая мишень. Перебирая пальцами поднятых рук, молниеносно крутя крупом, он мелькнул в соседнее зальце, и в следующее мгновение мы с двух сторон тянули друг у друга, тяжело дыша, дверь, ключ от которой я проглядел. Я опять победил, и с ещё большей прытью Кларий Новус сел за рояль и взял несколько уродливо-сильных, в сущности истерических, громовых аккордов: его брыла вздрагивали, его растопыренные руки напряженно ухали, а ноздри испускали тот судорожный храп, которого не было на звуковой дорожке нашей кинодраки. Продолжая мучительно напевать в нос, он сделал тщетную попытку открыть ногой морского вида сундучок, подле рояля. Следующая моя пуля угодила ему в бок, и он стал подыматься с табурета все выше и выше, как в сумасшедшем доме старик Нижинский, как "Верный Гейзер" в Вайоминге, как какой-то давний кошмар мой, на феноменальную высоту, или так казалось, и, разрывая воздух, ещё сотрясаясь от тёмной сочной музыки, откинув голову, с воем, он одну руку прижал ко лбу, а другой схватился за подмышку, как будто его ужалил шершень; после чего спустился опять на землю и опять, приняв образ толстого мужчины в халате, улепетнул в холл.
Feu. This time I hit something hard. I hit the back of a black rocking chair, not unlike Dolly Schiller’s - my bullet hit the inside surface of its back whereupon it immediately went into a rocking act, so fast and with such zest that any one coming into the room might have been flabbergasted by the double miracle: that chair rocking in a panic all by itself, and the armchair, where my purple target had just been, now void of all life content. Wiggling his fingers in the air, with a rapid heave of his rump, he flashed into the music room and the next second we were tugging and gasping on both sides of the door which had a key I had overlooked. I won again, and with another abrupt movement Clare the Impredictable sat down before the piano and played several atrociously vigorous, fundamentally hysterical, plangent chords, his jowls quivering, his spread hands tensely plunging, and his nostrils emitting the soundtrack snorts which had been absent from our fight. Still singing those impossible sonorities, he made a futile attempt to open with his foot a kind of seaman’s chest near the piano. My next bullet caught him somewhere in the side, and he rose from his chair higher and higher, like old, gray, mad Nijinski, like Old Faithful, like some old nightmare of mine, to a phenomenal altitude, or so it seemed, as he rent the airstill shaking with the rich black musichead thrown back in a howl, hand pressed to his brow, and with his other hand clutching his armpit as if stung by a hornet, down he came on his heels and, again a normal robed man, scurried out into the hall. (2.35)
To the staff of the Elphinstone hospital Quilty tells that he is Lolita's uncle. The characters in VN's story Scenes from the Life of a Double Monster (1950) include Uncle Novus:
We feared our grandfather and loathed Uncle Novus. Presumably, after a dull forlorn fashion (knowing nothing of life, but being dimly aware that Uncle Novus was endeavoring to cheat Grandfather) we felt we should try to do something in order to prevent a showman from trundling us around in a moving prison, like apes or eagles; or perhaps we were prompted merely by the thought that this was our last chance to enjoy by ourselves our small freedom and do what we were absolutely forbidden to do; go beyond a certain picket fence, open a certain gate.
On the other hand, Klariy Novus seems to hint at Petroniy novyi (new Petronius), as in VN's poem Nochnoe puteshestvie ("The Night Journey," 1931) Chenstone (Vivian Calmbrood's fellow traveler) calls Johnson (a satire on Georgiy Ivanov, 1894-1958, the author of an offensive review of Sirin's novels and stories):
Бедняга! Он скрипит костями,
бренча на лире жестяной,
он клонится к могильной яме
адамовою головой.
И вообще: поэты много
о смерти ныне говорят;
венок и выцветшая тога -
обыкновенный их наряд.
Ущерб, закат... Петроний новый
с полуулыбкой на устах,
с последней розой бирюзовой
в изящно сложенных перстах,
садится в ванну. Все готово.
Уж вольной смерти близок час.
Но погоди! Чем резать жилу,
не лучше ль обратиться к мылу,
не лучше ль вымыться хоть раз?"
VN's penname, Vivian Calmbrood bings to mind Vivian Darkbloom, Clare Quilty's coauthor who has written a memoir, My Cue, after her friend's death. New Petronius's vytsvetshaya toga (faded toga) brings to mind Humbert's flavid toga in a poem that Humbert makes Quilty read aloud before murdering him:
I decided to inspect the pistol - our sweat might have spoiled something - and regain my wind before proceeding to the main item in the program. To fill in the pause, I proposed he read his own sentence - in the poetical form I had given it. The term “poetical justice” is one that may be most happily used in this respect. I handed him a neat typescript.
“Yes,” he said, “splendid idea. Let me fetch my reading glasses” (he attempted to rise).
“No.”
“Just as you say. Shall I read out loud?”
“Yes.”
“Here goes. I see it’s in verse.
Because you took advantage of a sinner
because you took advantage
because you took
because you took advantage of my disadvantage…
“That’s good, you know. That’s damned good.”
…when I stood Adam-naked
before a federal law and all its stinging stars
“Oh, grand stuff!”
…Because you took advantage of a sin
when I was helpless moulting moist and tender
hoping for the best
dreaming of marriage in a mountain state
aye of a litter of Lolitas…
“Didn’t get that.”
Because you took advantage of my inner
essential innocence
because you cheated me
“A little repetitious, what? Where was I?”
Because you cheated me of my redemption
because you took
her at the age when lads
play with erector sets
“Getting smutty, eh?”
a little downy girl still wearing poppies
still eating popcorn in the colored gloam
where tawny Indians took paid croppers
because you stole her
from her wax-browed and dignified protector
spitting into his heavy-lidded eye
ripping his flavid toga and at dawn
leaving the hog to roll upon his new discomfort
the awfulness of love and violets
remorse despair while you
took a dull doll to pieces
and threw its head away
because of all you did
because of all I did not
you have to die
“Well, sir, this is certainly a fine poem. Your best as far as I’m concerned.”
He folded and handed it back to me. (2.35)