In VN’s novel Lolita (1955) Lolita is sent by her mother to Camp Q where she is debauched by Charlie Holmes, the camp-mistress's son:
Next day they drove downtown to buy things needed for the camp: any wearable purchase worked wonders with Lo. She seemed her usual sarcastic self at dinner. Immediately afterwards, she went up to her room to plunge into the comic books acquired for rainy days at Camp Q (they were so thoroughly sampled by Thursday that she left them behind). I too retired to my lair, and wrote letters. My plan now was to leave for the seaside and then, when school began, resume my existence in the Haze household; for I knew already that I could not live without the child. On Tuesday they went shopping again, and I was asked to answer the phone if the camp mistress rang up during their absence. She did; and a month or so later we had occasion to recall our pleasant chat. That Tuesday, Lo had her dinner in her room. She had been crying after a routine row with her mother and, as had happened on former occasions, had not wished me to see her swollen eyes: she had one of those tender complexions that after a good cry get all blurred and inflamed, and morbidly alluring. I regretted keenly her mistake about my private aesthetics, for I simply love that tinge of Botticellian pink, that raw rose about the lips, those wet, matted eyelashes; and, naturally, her bashful whim deprived me of many opportunities of specious consolation. There was, however, more to it than I thought. As we sat in the darkness of the verandah (a rude wind had put out her red candles), Haze, with a dreary laugh, said she had told Lo that her beloved Humbert thoroughly approved of the whole camp idea “and now,” added Haze, “the child throws a fit; pretext: you and I want to get rid of her; actual reason: I told her we would exchange tomorrow for plainer stuff some much too cute night things that she bullied me into buying for her. You see, she sees herself as a starlet; I see her as a sturdy, healthy, but decidedly homely kid. This, I guess, is at the root of our troubles.”
On Wednesday I managed to waylay Lo for a few seconds: she was on the landing, in sweatshirt and green-stained white shorts, rummaging in a trunk. I said something meant to be friendly and funny but she only emitted a snort without looking at me. Desperate, dying Humbert patted her clumsily on her coccyx, and she struck him, quite painfully, with one of the late Mr. Haze’s shoetrees. “Doublecrosser,” she said as I crawled downstairs rubbing my arm with a great show of rue. She did not condescend to have dinner with Hum and mum: washed her hair and went to bed with her ridiculous books. And on Thursday quiet Mrs. Haze drove her to Camp Q. (1.15)
“Let us switch to Camp Q,” I said. And presently I got the whole story.
Barbara Burke, a sturdy blond, two years older than Lo and by far the camp’s best swimmer, had a very special canoe which she shared with Lo “because I was the only other girl who could make Willow Island” (some swimming test, I imagine). Through July, every morning - mark, reader, every blessed morning - Barbara and Lo would be helped to carry the boat to Onyx or Eryx (two small lakes in the wood) by Charlie Holmes, the camp mistress’ son, aged thirteen and the only human male for a couple of miles around (excepting an old meek stone-deaf handyman, and a farmer in an old Ford who sometimes sold the campers eggs as farmers will); every morning, oh my reader, the three children would take a short cut through the beautiful innocent forest brimming with all the emblems of youth, dew, birdsongs, and at one point, among the luxuriant undergrowth, Lo would be left as sentinel, while Barbara and the boy copulated behind a bush.
At first, Lo had refused “to try what it was like,” but curiosity and camaraderie prevailed, and soon she and Barbara were doing it by turns with the silent, coarse and surly but indefatigable Charlie, who had as much sex appeal as a raw carrot but sported a fascinating collection of contraceptives which he used to fish out of a third nearby lake, a considerably larger and more populous one, called Lake Climax, after the booming young factory town of that name. Although conceding it was “sort of fun” and “fine for the complexion,” Lolita, I am glad to say, held Charlie’s mind and manners in the greatest contempt. Nor had her temperament been roused by that filthy fiend. In fact, I think he had rather stunned it, despite the “fun.” (1.32)
Q in the camp's name is a qui pro quo (Lat., "who instead of whom," a bummel). Quo vadis? ("Whither goest thou?") are St. Peter's first words to the risen Christ during their encounter along the Appian Way. To Peter's question Quo vadis, Domine Christ replies: Romam eo iterum crucifigi ("I am going to Rome to be crucified again"). Peter then gains the courage to continue his ministry and returns to the city, where he is martyred by being crucified upside-down. Emperor Nero (r. 54-68 AD) blamed Christians for the Great Fire of Rome in 64 AD. In June, 1947, thirty-seven-year-old Humbert Humbert meets twelve-year-old Dolores Haze and falls in love with her, because on the eve McCoo's house was destroyed by fire. In September, 1952, when Humbert visits Lolita (now married to Dick Schiller) in Coalmont, she tells him that Duk Duk Ranch where she stayed with Clare Quilty (the playwright who abducted Lolita from the Elphinstone hospital) and his friends had burned to the ground:
There was not much else to tell. That winter 1949, Fay and she had found jobs. For almost two years she had - oh, 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)
After murdering Quilty, Humbert wonders if some surgeon of genius might not alter his own career, and perhaps the whole destiny of mankind, by reviving quilted Quilty and remembers St. Thomas (the apostle who refused to believe the resurrected Jesus had appeared to the ten other apostles until he could see and feel Jesus's crucifiction wounds):
The rest is a little flattish and faded. Slowly I drove downhill, and presently found myself going at the same lazy pace in a direction opposite to Parkington. I had left my raincoat in the boudoir and Chum in the bathroom. No, it was not a house I would have liked to live in. I wondered idly if some surgeon of genius might not alter his own career, and perhaps the whole destiny of mankind, by reviving quilted Quilty, Clare Obscure. Not that I cared; on the whole I wished to forget the whole messand when I did learn he was dead, the only satisfaction it gave me, was the relief of knowing I need not mentally accompany for months a painful and disgusting convalescence interrupted by all kinds of unmentionable operations and relapses, and perhaps an actual visit from him, with trouble on my part to rationalize him as not being a ghost. Thomas had something. It is strange that the tactile sense, which is so infinitely less precious to men than sight, becomes at critical moment our main, if not only, handle to reality. I was all covered with Quilty - with the feel of that tumble before the bleeding. (2.36)
Quo Vadis: A Narrative of the Time of Nero (1895-96) is a historical novel by Henryk Sienkiewicz (a Polish writer, 1846-1916). Humbert's first wife Valechka (née Valeria Zborovski) is the daughter of a Polish doctor.
The name of the camp-mistress of Camp Q, Shirley Holmes, hints at Sherlock Holmes (the main character in various stories by Conan Doyle). According to Dr. Watson, Holmes is ignorant of the Copernican Theory (Nicolaus Copernicus, 1473-1543, was a Polish mathematician and astronomer) and of the composition of the Solar System:
His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know next to nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the naivest way who he might be and what he had done. My surprise reached a climax, however, when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of the Copernican Theory and of the composition of the Solar System. That any civilized human being in this nineteenth century should not be aware that the earth travelled round the sun appeared to be to me such an extraordinary fact that I could hardly realize it. (A Study in Scarlet)
The number 342 that reappears in Lolita three times (342 Lawn Street is the address of the Haze house in Ramsdale; 342 is Humbert Humbert's and Lolita's room in The Enchanted Hunters; between July 5 and November 18, 1949, Humbert registers, if not actually stays, at 342 hotels, motels and tourist homes) seems to hint at Earth, Mars and Venus (the third, the fourth and the second planets of the Solar System).
On the other hand, the number 342 makes one think of Lenin's book Shag vperyod, dva shaga nazad ("One Step Forward, Two Steps Back," 1904). The Russian title of Sienkiewicz's novel Quo Vadis, Kamo graydeshi, brings to mind Kamo (accented on the ultima), the nom de guerre of Simon Arshaki Ter-Petrosyan (1882-1922), a Bolshevik who is best known for his central role in the 1907 Tiflis bank robbery and who died after being hit by a truck while riding a bicycle in Tiflis. Humbert's wife Charlotte (Lolita's mother) dies under the wheels of a truck because of a neighbor's hysterical dog. For Lolita's fourteenth birthday (January 1, 1949) Humbert gives her a bicycle:
January was humid and warm, and February fooled the forsythia: none of the townspeople had ever seen such weather. Other presents came tumbling in. For her birthday I bought her a bicycle, the doe-like and altogether charming machine already mentioned and added to this a History of Modern American Painting: her bicycle manner, I mean her approach to it, the hip movement in mounting, the grace and so on, afforded me supreme pleasure; but my attempt to refine her pictorial taste was a failure; she wanted to know if the guy noon-napping on Doris Lee's hay was the father of the pseudo-voluptuous hoyden in the foreground, and could not understand why I said Grant Wood or Peter Hurd was good, and Reginald Marsh or Frederick Waugh awful. (1.12)
Quo vadis? (Peter's words to Christ) brings to mind Paul Gauguin's painting D'où venons-nous ? Que sommes-nous ? Où allons-nous ? (Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?). The painting was created in Tahiti (an island in the Pacific) in 1897-98. In an attempt to save his life Quilty tries to seduce Humbert with his collection of erotica and mentions the in folio de-luxe Bagration Island by the explorer and psychoanalyst Melanie Weiss:
“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)
Like Prince Pyotr Bagration (the general who was felled in the battle of Borodino), Stalin (Iosif Dzhugashvili, 1878-1953) hailed from Georgia. It was Stalin who nicknamed Simon Ter-Petrosyan "Kamo." Saint Peter's original name was Simeon or Simon. Iosif (Joseph) was the name of Virgin Mary's husband, the carpenter.
Kamo (accented on the first syllable) is an obsolete Russian word for "where." Ter-Petrosyan (who spoke Russian badly) was nicknamed Kamo, because he could not pronounce komu (the Russian word for "whom") and said kamo instead. Komu na Rusi zhit' khorosho? ("Who Lives Happily in Russia?", 1866-77) is an epic in four parts by Nekrasov. In Chapter Four of VN's novel Dar ("The Gift," 1937), Zhizn' Chernyshevskogo ("The Life of Chernyshevski"), Fyodor Godunov-Cherdyntsev compares Chernyshevski (a radical critic) to Christ and Nekrasov to Saint Peter:
Проследим и другую, тему "ангельской ясности". Она в дальнейшем развивается так: Христос умер за человечество, ибо любил человечество, которое я тоже люблю, за которое умру тоже. "Будь вторым Спасителем", советует ему лучший друг, -- и как он вспыхивает, робкий! слабый! (почти гоголевский восклицательный знак мелькает в его "студентском" дневнике). Но "Святой Дух" надобно заменить "Здравым Смыслом". Ведь бедность порождает порок; ведь Христу следовало сперва каждого обуть и увенчать цветами, а уж потом проповедовать нравственность. Христос второй прежде всего покончит с нуждой вещественной (тут поможет изобретенная нами машина). И странно сказать, но... что-то сбылось, -- да, что-то как будто сбылось. Биографы размечают евангельскими вехами его тернистый путь (известно, что чем левее комментатор, тем питает большую слабость к выражениям вроде "Голгофа революции"). Страсти Чернышевского начались, когда он достиг Христова возраста. Вот, в роли Иуды, -- Всеволод Костомаров; вот, в роли Петра -- знаменитый поэт, уклонившийся от свидания с узником. Толстый Герцен, в Лондоне сидючи, именует позорный столб "товарищем Креста". И в некрасовском стихотворении -- опять о Распятии, о том, что Чернышевский послан был "рабам (царям) земли напомнить о Христе". Наконец, когда он совсем умер, и тело его обмывали, одному из его близких эта худоба, эта крутизна рёбер, тёмная бледность кожи и длинные пальцы ног, смутно напомнили "Снятие со Креста", Рембрандта, что-ли.
Let us follow another theme—that of “angelic clarity.” This is how it develops subsequently: Christ died for mankind because he loved mankind, which I also love, for which I shall also die. “Be a second Savior,” his best friend advises him—and how he glows—oh, timid! Oh, weak! (an almost Gogolian exclamation mark appears fleetingly in his student diary). But the “Holy Ghost” must be replaced by “Common Sense.” Is not poverty the mother of vice? Christ should first have shod everybody and crowned them with flowers and only then have preached morality. Christ the Second would begin by putting an end to material want (aided here by the machine which we have invented). And strange to say, but… something came true—yes, it was as if something came true. His biographers mark his thorny path with evangelical signposts (it is well known that the more leftist the Russian commentator the greater is his weakness for expressions like “the Golgotha of the revolution”). Chernyshevski’s passions began when he reached Christ’s age. Here the role of Judas was filled by Vsevolod Kostomarov; the role of Peter by the famous poet Nekrasov, who declined to visit the jailed man. Corpulent Herzen, ensconced in London, called Chernyshevski’s pillory column “The companion piece of the Cross.” And in a famous Nekrasov iambic there was more about the Crucifixion, about the fact that Chernyshevski had been “sent to remind the earthly kings of Christ.” Finally, when he was completely dead and they were washing his body, that thinness, that steepness of the ribs, that dark pallor of the skin and those long toes vaguely reminded one of his intimates of “The Removal from the Cross”—by Rembrandt, is it?
In VN's novel Boris Shchyogolev (Fyodor's landlord, Zina Mertz's step-father) tells Fyodor that, if he had time, he would have written a novel about a man who falls in love with a little girl and marries her mother:
Однажды, заметив исписанные листочки на столе у Федора Константиновича, он сказал, взяв какой-то новый, прочувствованный тон: "Эх, кабы у меня было времячко, я бы такой роман накатал... Из настоящей жизни. Вот представьте себе такую историю: старый пес, - но еще в соку, с огнем, с жаждой счастья, - знакомится с вдовицей, а у нее дочка, совсем еще девочка, - знаете, когда еще ничего не оформилось, а уже ходит так, что с ума сойти. Бледненькая, легонькая, под глазами синева, - и конечно на старого хрыча не смотрит. Что делать? И вот, недолго думая, он, видите ли, на вдовице женится. Хорошо-с. Вот, зажили втроем. Тут можно без конца описывать - соблазн, вечную пыточку, зуд, безумную надежду. И в общем - просчет. Время бежит-летит, он стареет, она расцветает, - и ни черта. Пройдет, бывало, рядом, обожжет презрительным взглядом. А? Чувствуете трагедию Достоевского? Эта история, видите ли, произошла с одним моим большим приятелем, в некотором царстве, в некотором самоварстве, во времена царя Гороха. Каково?" - и Борис Иванович, обрати в сторону темные глаза, надул губы и издал меланхолический лопающийся звук.
Once, when he had noticed some written-up sheets of paper on Fyodor’s desk, he said, adopting a new heartfelt tone of voice: “Ah, if only I had a tick or two, what a novel I’d whip off! From real life. Imagine this kind of thing: an old dog—but still in his prime, fiery, thirsting for happiness—gets to know a widow, and she has a daughter, still quite a little girl—you know what I mean—when nothing is formed yet but already she has a way of walking that drives you out of your mind—A slip of a girl, very fair, pale, with blue under the eyes—and of course she doesn’t even look at the old goat. What to do? Well, not long thinking, he ups and marries the widow. Okay. They settle down the three of them. Here you can go on indefinitely—the temptation, the eternal torment, the itch, the mad hopes. And the upshot—a miscalculation. Time flies, he gets older, she blossoms out—and not a sausage. Just walks by and scorches you with a look of contempt. Eh? D’you feel here a kind of Dostoevskian tragedy? That story, you see, happened to a great friend of mine, once upon a time in fairyland when Old King Cole was a merry old soul,” and Boris Ivanovich, turning his dark eyes away, pursed his lips and emitted a melancholy, bursting sound. (Chapter Three)
In the Russian Lolita (1967) Camp Q becomes Lager' Ku or Lager' Kuvshinka (kuvshinka is Russian for "nenuphar, water lily"), and Cue (Quilty's nickname) becomes Ku. Lager' Ku and Ku for Kuil'ty (Quilty in the Russian spelling) bring to mind Kuda, kuda vy udalilis' (Whither, ah! whither are ye fled), in Pushkin's Eugene Onegin (Six: XXI: 3) the first line of Lenski's last poem:
Стихи на случай сохранились,
Я их имею; вот они:
«Куда, куда вы удалились,
Весны моей златые дни?
Что день грядущий мне готовит?
Его мой взор напрасно ловит,
В глубокой мгле таится он.
Нет нужды; прав судьбы закон.
Паду ли я, стрелой пронзенный,
Иль мимо пролетит она,
Всё благо: бдения и сна
Приходит час определенный;
Благословен и день забот,
Благословен и тьмы приход!
«Блеснет заутра луч денницы
И заиграет яркий день;
А я, быть может, я гробницы
Сойду в таинственную сень,
И память юного поэта
Поглотит медленная Лета,
Забудет мир меня; но ты
Придешь ли, дева красоты,
Слезу пролить над ранней урной
И думать: он меня любил,
Он мне единой посвятил
Рассвет печальный жизни бурной!..
Сердечный друг, желанный друг,
Приди, приди: я твой супруг!..»
The verses chanced to be preserved;
I have them; here they are:
Whither, ah! whither are ye fled,
my springtime's golden days?
“What has the coming day in store for me?
In vain my gaze attempts to grasp it;
in deep gloom it lies hidden.
It matters not; fate's law is just.
Whether I fall, pierced by the dart, or whether
it flies by — all is right:
of waking and of sleep
comes the determined hour;
blest is the day of cares,
blest, too, is the advent of darkness!
“The ray of dawn will gleam tomorrow,
and brilliant day will scintillate;
whilst I, perhaps — I shall descend
into the tomb's mysterious shelter,
and the young poet's memory
slow Lethe will engulf;
the world will forget me; but thou,
wilt thou come, maid of beauty,
to shed a tear over the early urn
and think: he loved me,
to me alone he consecrated
the doleful daybreak of a stormy life!...
Friend of my heart, desired friend, come,
come: I'm thy spouse!”
Luch dennitsy (the ray of dawn) reminds one of John Ray, Jr. (the author of the Foreword to Humbert's manuscript).