In his pocket diary that he kept at Ramsdale as Charlotte's lodger Humbert Humbert (the narrator and main character in VN’s novel Lolita, 1955) calls himself "Humbert the Hoarse:"
Saturday. For some days already I had been leaving the door ajar, while I wrote in my room; but only today did the trap work. With a good deal of additional fidgeting, shuffling, scraping - to disguise her embarrassment at visiting me without having been called - Lo came in and after pottering around, became interested in the nightmare curlicues I had penned on a sheet of paper. Oh no: they were not the outcome of a belle-lettrist’s inspired pause between two paragraphs; they were the hideous hieroglyphics (which she could not decipher) of my fatal lust. As she bent her brown curls over the desk at which I was sitting, Humbert the Hoarse put his arm around her in a miserable imitation of blood-relationship; and still studying, somewhat shortsightedly, the piece of paper she held, my innocent little visitor slowly sank to a half-sitting position upon my knee. Her adorable profile, parted lips, warm hair were some three inches from my bared eyetooth; and I felt the heat of her limbs through her rough tomboy clothes. All at once I knew I could kiss her throat or the wick of her mouth with perfect impunity. I knew she would let me do so, and even close her eyes as Hollywood teaches. A double vanilla with hot fudge - hardly more unusual than that. I cannot tell my learned reader (whose eyebrows, I suspect, have by now traveled all the way to the back of his bald head), I cannot tell him how the knowledge came to me; perhaps my ape-ear had unconsciously caught some slight change in the rhythm of her respiration - for now she was not really looking at my scribble, but waiting with curiosity and composure - oh, my limpid nymphet! - for the glamorous lodger to do what he was dying to do. A modern child, an avid reader of movie magazines, an expert in dream-slow close-ups, might not think it too strange, I guessed, if a handsome, intensely virile grown-up friend - too late. The house was suddenly vibrating with voluble Louise’s voice telling Mrs. Haze who had just come home about a dead something she and Leslie Tomson had found in the basement, and little Lolita was not one to miss such a tale. (1.11)
In the Russian Lolita (1967) "Humbert the Hoarse" becomes Khumbert Khriplyi:
Суббота. Вот уже несколько дней, как оставляю дверь приоткрытой, когда у себя работаю; но только сегодня уловка удалась. Со многими ужимками, шлепая и шаркая туфлями (с целью скрыть смущение, что вот посетила меня без зова), Ло вошла и, повертевшись там и сям, стала рассматривать кошмарные завитушки, которыми я измарал лист бумаги. О нет — то не было следствием вдохновенной паузы эссеиста между двумя параграфами; то была гнусная тайнопись (которую понять она не могла) моего рокового вожделения. Ее русые локоны склонились над столом, у которого я сидел, и Хумберт Хриплый обнял ее одной рукой — жалкое подражание кровному родству. Держа лист и продолжая его изучать чуть-чуть близорукими глазами, моя наивная маленькая гостья медленно полуприсела ко мне на колено. Ее прелестный профиль, приоткрытые губы, теплые волосы были в каких-нибудь трех вершках от моего ощеренного резца, и сквозь грубоватую ткань мальчишеской одежды я чувствовал жар ее тела. Вдруг я ясно понял, что могу поцеловать ее в шею или в уголок рта с полной безнаказанностью — понял, что она мне это позволит и даже прикроет при этом глаза по всем правилам Холливуда. Это так же просто, как двойная порция сливочного мороженого с горячим шоколадным соусом. Не могу объяснить моему ученому читателю (брови которого, вероятно, так полезли вверх, что уже доехали до затылка через всю плешь), каким образом я это понял; может быть, звериным чутьем я уловил легчайшую перемену в ритме ее дыхания, ибо теперь она уже не столько разглядывала мою мазню — о моя прозрачная нимфетка! — сколько ждала с тихим любопытством, чтобы произошло именно то, чего досмерти хотелось обаятельному квартиранту. Дитя нашего времени, жадное до киножурналов, знающее толк в снятых крупным планом, млеющих, медлящих кадрах, она, наверное, не нашла бы ничего странного в том, чтобы взрослый друг, статный красавец — Поздно! Весь дом вдруг загудел от голоса говорливой Луизы, докладывающей госпоже Гейз, которая только-что вернулась, о каком-то мертвом зверьке, найденном ею и Томсоном (соседским шофером) в подвале — и, конечно, моя Лолиточка не могла пропустить такой интересный случай.
Khumbert Khriplyi brings to mind Khripun, udavlennik, fagot (A hoarse-voiced bassoon all buttoned-up), as in Griboedov's play in verse Gore ot uma ("Woe from Wit," 1824) Chatski calls Colonel Skalozub:
Дождусь её и вынужу признанье:
Кто наконец ей мил? Молчалин? Скалозуб?
Молчалин прежде был так глуп!..
Жалчайшее созданье!
Уж разве поумнел?.. А тот —
Хрипун, удавленник, фагот,
Созвездие манёвров и мазурки!
Судьба любви, играть ей в жмурки.
А мне…
I'll wait till she confides to me.
Whom does she care for? Molchalin! Skalozub! Who is it?
Molchalin used to be so stupid,
A miserable creature, it was plain to see.
He hasn't grown any wiser. And the other one
Is rough and hoarse, a husky man.
A constellaton of mazurkas and manouvres. Love
Is doomed to play the blind man's bluff.
And I... (Act III, scene 1; transl. A. Vagapov)
The surname Skalozub is an anagram of zuboskal (scoffer; mocker). A similar transposition of syllables in Kinbote (one of the three main characters in VN's novel Pale Fire, 1962, Shade’s mad commentator who imagines that he is Charles the Beloved, the last self-exiled king of Zembla) gives Botkine (the surname Botkin in French spelling):
Professor Pardon now spoke to me: "I was under the impression that you were born in Russia, and that your name was a kind of anagram of Botkin or Botkine?"
Kinbote: "You are confusing me with some refugee from Nova Zembla” [sarcastically stressing the "Nova"]. (note to Line 894)
According to Skalozub, he was in His Highness’ Novozemlyansk regiment of musketeers:
Хлёстова (сидя)
Вы прежде были здесь… в полку… в том… гренадёрском?
Скалозуб (басом)
В Его Высочества, хотите вы сказать,
Новоземлянском мушкетёрском.
Хлёстова
Не мастерица я полки-та различать.
Скалозуб
А форменные есть отлички:
В мундирах выпушки, погончики, петлички.
Mme K h l y o s t o v (sitting)
You were here... in the regiment of . . . grenadiers?
S k a l o z u b (in a bass voice)
You mean, His Highness’ Novozemlyansk regiment of musketeers?
Mme K h l y o s t o v
I’m not skilled in distinguishing regiments.
S k a l o z u b
There is a difference in uniforms,
The shoulder loops, the tabs and shirts. (Act Three, scene 12)
In a dialogue with the stranger on the porch of The Enchanted Hunters (a hotel in Briceland where Humbert and Lolita spend their first night together) Humbert twice repeats the phrase “I beg your pardon” (cf. Professor Pardon, a character in PF):
Suddenly I was aware that in the darkness next to me there was somebody sitting in a chair on the pillared porch. I could not 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 was about 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 lot of 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 those permanent guests of old hotels - and his white rocker. Nobody said anything and the darkness returned to its initial place. Then I heard the old-timer cough and deliver himself of some sepulchral mucus. (1.28)
In the first of the two stanzas of his poem On Translating "Eugene Onegin" (1955) written after the meter and rhyme scheme of the EO stanza VN mentions the parasites who are pardoned, if he (VN) has Pushkin’s pardon:
What is translation? On a platter
A poets pale and glaring head,
A parrot's screech, a monkey's chatter,
And profanation of the dead.
The parasites you were so hard on
Are pardoned if I have your pardon,
O, Pushkin, for my stratagem:
I traveled down your secret stem,
And reached the root, and fed upon it;
Then, in a language newly learned,
I grew another stalk and turned
Your stanza patterned on a sonnet,
Into my honest roadside prose--
All thorn, but cousin to your rose.
According to Kinbote, Sybil Shade (the poet’s wife) used to call him “the monstrous parasite of a genius:”
From the very first I tried to behave with the utmost courtesy toward my friend's wife, and from the very first she disliked and distrusted me. I was to learn later that when alluding to me in public she used to call me "an elephantine tick; a king-sized botfly; a macaco worm; the monstrous parasite of a genius." I pardon her--her and everybody. (note to Line 247)
Sybil Shade brings to mind Humbert's Aunt Sybil:
I was born in 1910, in Paris. My father was a gentle, easy-going person, a salad of racial genes: a Swiss citizen, of mixed French and Austrian descent, with a dash of the Danube in his veins. I am going to pass around in a minute some lovely, glossy-blue picture-postcards. He owned a luxurious hotel on the Riviera. His father and two grandfathers had sold wine, jewels and silk, respectively. At thirty he married an English girl, daughter of Jerome Dunn, the alpinist, and granddaughter of two Dorset parsons, experts in obscure subjects – paleopedology and Aeolian harps, respectively. My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and, save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which, if you can still stand my style (I am writing under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges.
My mother’s elder sister, Sybil, whom a cousin of my father’s had married and then neglected, served in my immediate family as a kind of unpaid governess and housekeeper. Somebody told me later that she had been in love with my father, and that he had lightheartedly taken advantage of it one rainy day and forgotten it by the time the weather cleared. I was extremely fond of her, despite the rigidity - the fatal rigidity - of some of her rules. Perhaps she wanted to make of me, in the fullness of time, a better widower than my father. Aunt Sybil had pink-rimmed azure eyes and a waxen complexion. She wrote poetry. She was poetically superstitious. She said she knew she would die soon after my sixteenth birthday, and did. Her husband, a great traveler in perfumes, spent most of his time in America, where eventually he founded a firm and acquired a bit of real estate.
I grew, a happy, healthy child in a bright world of illustrated books, clean sand, orange trees, friendly dogs, sea vistas and smiling faces. Around me the splendid Hotel Mirana revolved as a kind of private universe, a whitewashed cosmos within the blue greater one that blazed outside. From the aproned pot-scrubber to the flanneled potentate, everybody liked me, everybody petted me. Elderly American ladies leaning on their canes listed towards me like towers of Pisa. Ruined Russian princesses who could not pay my father, bought me expensive bonbons. He, mon cher petit papa, took me out boating and biking, taught me to swim and dive and water-ski, read to me Don Quixote and Les Miserables, and I adored and respected him and felt glad for him whenever I overheard the servants discuss his various lady-friends, beautiful and kind beings who made much of me and cooed and shed precious tears over my cheerful motherlessness. (1.2)