Describing the poltergeist phenomena in Shades’ house, Kinbote (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) mentions moskovett, a cold wind that blows on Zemblan eastern shores throughout March:
It appears that in the beginning of 1950, long before the barn incident (see note to line 347), sixteen-year-old Hazel was involved in some appalling "psychokinetic" manifestations that lasted for nearly a month. Initially, one gathers, the poltergeist meant to impregnate the disturbance with the identity of Aunt Maud who had just died; the first object to perform was the basket in which she had once kept her half-paralyzed Skye terrier (the breed called in our country "weeping-willow dog"). Sybil had had the animal destroyed soon after its mistress's hospitalization, incurring the wrath of Hazel who was beside herself with distress. One morning this basket shot out of the "intact" sanctuary (see lines 90-98) and traveled along the corridor past the open door of the study, where Shade was at work; he saw it whizz by and spill its humble contents: a ragged coverlet, a rubber bone, and a partly discolored cushion. Next day the scene of action switched to the dining room where one of Aunt Maud's oils (Cypress and Bat) was found to be turned toward the wall. Other incidents followed, such as short flights accomplished by her scrapbook (see note to line 90) and, of course, all kinds of knockings, especially in the sanctuary, which would rouse Hazel from her, no doubt, peaceful sleep in the adjacent bedroom. But soon the poltergeist ran out of ideas in connection with Aunt Maud and became, as it were, more eclectic. All the banal motions that objects are limited to in such cases, were gone through in this one. Saucepans crashed in the kitchen; a snowball was found (perhaps, prematurely) in the icebox; once or twice Sybil saw a plate sail by like a discus and land safely on the sofa; lamps kept lighting up in various parts of the house; chairs waddled away to assemble in the impassable pantry; mysterious bits of string were found on the floor; invisible revelers staggered down the staircase in the middle of the night; and one winter morning Shade, upon rising and taking a look at the weather, saw that the little table from his study upon which he kept a Bible-like Webster open at M was standing in a state of shock outdoors, on the snow (subliminally this may have participated in the making of lines 5-12).
I imagine, that during that period the Shades, or at least John Shade, experienced a sensation of odd instability as if parts of the everyday, smoothly running world had got unscrewed, and you became aware that one of your tires was rolling beside you, or that your steering wheel had come off. My poor friend could not help recalling the dramatic fits of his early boyhood and wondering if this was not a new genetic variant of the same theme, preserved through procreation. Trying to hide from neighbors these horrible and humiliating phenomena was not the least of Shade's worries. He was terrified, and he was lacerated with pity. Although never able to corner her, that flabby, feeble, clumsy and solemn girl, who seemed more interested than frightened, he and Sybil never doubted that in some extraordinary way she was the agent of the disturbance which they saw as representing (I now quote Jane P.) "an outward extension or expulsion of insanity." They could not do much about it, partly because they disliked modern voodoo-psychiatry, but mainly because they were afraid of Hazel, and afraid to hurt her. They had however a secret interview with old-fashioned and learned Dr. Sutton, and this put them in better spirits. They were contemplating moving into another house or, more exactly, loudly saying to each other, so as to be overheard by anyone who might be listening, that they were contemplating moving, when all at once the fiend was gone, as happens with the moskovett, that bitter blast, that colossus of cold air that blows on our eastern shores throughout March, and then one morning you hear the birds, and the flags hang flaccid, and the outlines of the world are again in place. The phenomena ceased completely and were, if not forgotten, at least never referred to; but how curious it is that we do not perceive a mysterious sign of equation between the Hercules springing forth from a neurotic child's weak frame and the boisterous ghost of Aunt Maud; how curious that our rationality feels satisfied when we plump for the first explanation, though, actually, the scientific and the supernatural, the miracle of the muscle and the miracle of the mind, are both inexplicable as are all the ways of Our Lord. (note to Line 230)
Kinbote’s moskovett brings to mind la Vénus muscovite (the 'Muscovite Venus'), as in Pushkin’s story Pikovaya dama ("The Queen of Spades," 1833) Tomski calls his eighty-year-old grandmother:
Надобно знать, что бабушка моя, лет шестьдесят тому назад, ездила в Париж и была там в большой моде. Народ бегал за нею, чтоб увидеть la Vénus moscovite; Ришелье за нею волочился, и бабушка уверяет, что он чуть было не застрелился от её жестокости.
About sixty years ago, my grandmother went to Paris, where she created quite a sensation. People used to run after her to catch a glimpse of the 'Muscovite Venus.' Richelieu courted her, and my grandmother maintains that he almost blew out his brains in consequence of her cruelty. (Chapter I)
Veter (the wind) blows with great violence on the night when Hermann (the main character in Pushkin’s story) visits the house of the old Countess:
Германн трепетал как тигр, ожидая назначенного времени. В десять часов вечера он уж стоял перед домом графини. Погода была ужасная: ветер выл, мокрый снег падал хлопьями; фонари светились тускло; улицы были пусты. Изредка тянулся Ванька на тощей кляче своей, высматривая запоздалого седока. - Германн стоял в одном сюртуке, не чувствуя ни ветра, ни снега. Наконец графинину карету подали. Германн видел, как лакеи вынесли под руки сгорбленную старуху, укутанную в соболью шубу, и как вослед за нею, в холодном плаще, с головой, убранною свежими цветами мелькнула ее воспитанница. Дверцы захлопнулись. Карета тяжело покатилась по рыхлому снегу. Швейцар запер двери. Окна померкли. Германн стал ходить около опустевшего дома: он подошел к фонарю, взглянул на часы, - было двадцать минут двенадцатого. Он остался под фонарем, устремив глаза на часовую стрелку и выжидая остальные минуты. Ровно в половине двенадцатого Германн ступил на графинино крыльцо и взошел в ярко освещенные сени. Швейцара не было. Германн взбежал по лестнице, отворил двери в переднюю, и увидел слугу, спящего под лампой, в старинных, запачканных креслах. Легким и твердым шагом Германн прошел мимо его. Зала и гостиная были темны. Лампа слабо освещала их из передней. Германн вошел в спальню. Перед кивотом, наполненным старинными образами, теплилась золотая лампада. Полинялые штофные кресла и диваны с пуховыми подушками, с сошедшей позолотою, стояли в печальной симетрии около стен, обитых китайскими обоями. На стене висели два портрета, писанные в Париже m-me Lebrun. Один из них изображал мужчину лет сорока, румяного и полного, в светлозеленом мундире и со звездою; другой - молодую красавицу с орлиным носом, с зачесанными висками и с розою в пудренных волосах. По всем углам торчали фарфоровые пастушки, столовые часы работы славного Leroy, коробочки, рулетки, веера и разные дамские игрушки, изобретенные в конце минувшего столетия вместе с Монгольфьеровым шаром и Месмеровым магнетизмом. Германн пошел за ширмы. За ними стояла маленькая железная кровать; справа находилась дверь, ведущая в кабинет; слева, другая в коридор. Германн ее отворил, увидел узкую, витую лестницу, которая вела в комнату бедной воспитанницы... Но он воротился и вошел в темный кабинет.
Hermann was restless, like a tiger, waiting for the appointed time. At ten o'clock that evening he was already standing in front of the countess's house. The weather was terrible: the wind blew with great violence, wet snow fell in large flakes; the lamps burned dimly; the streets were empty. Sometimes a sledge driver passed by with his emaciated hack, looking for a belated fare. Hermann stood in one coat, not feeling either the wind or the snow. Finally the countess's carriage drove up. Hermann saw, how the lackeys supported the hunched old woman under the arms, wrapped in a sable coat, and how following behind her, in a thin cloak, with her head, adorned with fresh flowers, came her ward. The carriage doors were shut. The carriage heavily rolled through the fresh snow. A footman shut the doors. The light through the windows faded. Hermann started to pace up and down near the deserted house: he went up to a lamp, and glanced at his watch, - it was twenty minutes past eleven. He remained under the lamp, his eyes fixed at the hour hand and waited impatiently for the remaining minutes. Exactly at half past eleven Hermann stepped onto the countess's steps and entered into a clearly lit hall. The footman was not there. Hermann ran up the stairs, opened the doors into the landing, and saw a servant sleeping under a lamp, in an old battered chair. With a light and firm tread Hermann went passed him. The hall and drawing room were dark. A lamp weakly lit it from the landing. Hermann went into the bedroom. In front of a shrine, filled with old icons, burned a golden lamp. The faded upholstered chairs and sofas with down cushions, with descending gold, stood in solemn symmetry close to a wall covered with Chinese wall paper. On a wall hung two portraits, painted in Paris by Madame Lebrun. One of them depicted a man of about forty, ruddy and stout, in a light green uniform with a star; the other - a young beauty with an aquiline nose, and with a rose in her powdered and combed back hair. In every corner were porcelain shepherdesses, clocks by the famous Leroy, little boxes, roulettes, fans and various feminine play things, invented at the end of the last century along with Montgolfier’s balloon and Mesmer’s magnetism. Hermann went behind the screens. Behind them stood a small iron bed; to the right a door, leading to the study; to the left, the other door - to the corridor. Hermann opened it, and saw the narrow, spiral staircase, which led to the room of the poor ward... But he turned back and went into the dark study. (Chapter III)
A young beauty with an aquiline nose whose portrait was painted in Paris by Madame Lebrun is presumably the 'Muscovite Venus.' In VN's story Poseshchenie muzeya ("The Visit to the Museum," 1938) the narrator's friend wants to acquire a portrait of his grandfather by Leroy:
Несколько лет тому назад один мой парижский приятель, человек со странностями, чтобы не сказать более, узнав, что я собираюсь провести два-три дня вблизи Монтизера, попросил меня зайти в тамошний музей, где, по его сведениям, должен был находиться портрет его деда кисти Леруа. Улыбаясь и разводя руками, он мне поведал довольно дымчатую историю, которую я, признаться, выслушал без внимания, отчасти из-за того, что не люблю чужих навязчивых дел, но главное потому, что всегда сомневался в способности моего друга оставаться по сю сторону фантазии.
SEVERAL years ago a friend of mine in Paris – a person with oddities, to put it mildly – learning that I was going to spend two or three days at Montisert, asked me to drop in at the local museum where there hung, he was told, a portrait of his grandfather by Leroy. Smiling and spreading out his hands, he related a rather vague story to which I confess I paid little attention, partly because I do not like other people's obtrusive affairs, but chiefly because I had always had doubts about my friend's capacity to remain this side of fantasy.
In VN’s story the narrator mentions zasluzhennye mineraly (venerable minerals) and a pair of owls, Eagle Owl and Long-eared, with their French names reading "Grand Duke" and "Middle Duke" if translated:
Всё было как полагается: серый цвет, сон вещества, обеспредметившаяся предметность; шкап со стертыми монетами, лежащими на бархатных скатиках, а наверху шкапа -- две совы,-- одну звали в буквальном переводе "Великий князь", другую "Князь средний"; покоились заслуженные минералы в открытых гробах из пыльного картона; фотография удивленного господина с эспаньолкой высилась над собранием странных черных шариков различной величины, занимавших почетное место под наклонной витриной: они чрезвычайно напоминали подмороженный навоз, и я над ними невольно задумался, ибо никак не мог разгадать их природу, состав и назначение.
Everything was as it should be: gray tints, the sleep of substance, matter dematerialized. There was the usual case of old, worn coins resting in the inclined velvet of their compartments. There was, on top of the case, a pair of owls, Eagle Owl and Long-eared, with their French names reading "Grand Duke" and "Middle Duke" if translated. Venerable minerals lay in their open graves of dusty papier mache; a photograph of an astonished gentleman with a pointed beard dominated an assortment of strange black lumps of various sizes. They bore a great resemblance to frozen frass, and I paused involuntarily over them, for I was quite at a loss to guess their nature, composition, and function.
Describing Gradus (Shade's murderer), Kinbote mentions the mineral blue of his jaw:
Gradus is now much nearer to us in space and time than he was in the preceding cantos. He has short upright black hair. We can fill in the bleak oblong of his face with most of its elements such as thick eyebrows and a wart on the chin. He has a ruddy but unhealthy complexion. We see, fairly in focus, the structure of his somewhat mesmeric organs of vision. We see his melancholy nose with its crooked ridge and grooved tip. We see the mineral blue of his jaw and the gravelly pointille of his suppressed mustache. (note to Line 949)
Kinbote calls his uncle Conmal (Shakespeare’s translator into Zemblan) “the venerable Duke:”
English being Conmal's prerogative, his Shakspere remained invulnerable throughout the greater part of his long life. The venerable Duke was famed for the nobility of his work; few dared question its fidelity. Personally, I had never the heart to check it. One callous Academician who did, lost his seat in result and was severely reprimanded by Conmal in an extraordinary sonnet composed directly in colorful, if not quite correct, English, beginning:
I am not slave! Let be my critic slave.
I cannot be. And Shakespeare would not want thus.
Let drawing students copy the acanthus,
I work with Master on the architrave! (note to Line 962)
Conmal had just completed Kipling's "The Rhyme of the Three Sealers" ("Now this is the Law of the Muscovite that he proved with shot and steel") when he fell ill and soon died:
English was not taught in Zembla before Mr. Campbell's time. Conmal mastered it all by himself (mainly by learning a lexicon by heart) as a young man, around 1880, when not the verbal inferno but a quiet military career seemed to open before him, and his first work (the translation of Shakespeare's Sonnets) was the outcome of a bet with a fellow officer. He exchanged his frogged uniform for a scholar's dressing gown and tackled The Tempest. A slow worker, he needed half a century to translate the works of him whom he called "dze Bart," in their entirety. After this, in 1930, he went on to Milton and other poets, steadily drilling through the ages, and had just completed Kipling's "The Rhyme of the Three Sealers" ("Now this is the Law of the Muscovite that he proved with shot and steel") when he fell ill and soon expired under his splendid painted bed ceil with its reproductions of Altamira animals, his last words in his last delirium being "Comment dit-on 'mourir' en anglais?"--a beautiful and touching end. (ibid.)
In VN’s novel Bend Sinister (1947) the philosopher Adam Krug had always wished to know more about the Aurignacian Age and those portraits of singular beings (perhaps Neanderthal half-men—direct ancestors of Paduk and his likes—used by Aurignacians as slaves) that a Spanish nobleman and his little daughter had discovered in the painted cave of Altamira:
THINKING of that farcical interview, he wondered how long it would be till the next attempt. He still believed that so long as he kept lying low nothing harmful could happen. Oddly enough, at the end of the month his usual cheque arrived although for the time being the University had ceased to exist, at least on the outside. Behind the scenes there was an endless sequence of sessions, a turmoil of administrative activity, a regrouping of forces, but he declined either to attend these meetings or to receive the various delegations and special messengers that Azureus and Alexander kept sending to his house. He argued that, when the Council of Elders had exhausted its power of seduction, he would be left alone since the Government, while not daring to arrest him and being reluctant to grant him the luxury of exile, would still keep hoping with forlorn obstinacy that finally he might relent. The drab colour the future took matched well the grey world of his widowhood, and had there been no friends to worry about and no child to hold against his cheek and heart, he might have devoted the twilight to some quiet research: for example he had always wished to know more about the Aurignacian Age and those portraits of singular beings (perhaps Neanderthal half-men—direct ancestors of Paduk and his likes—used by Aurignacians as slaves) that a Spanish nobleman and his little daughter had discovered in the painted cave of Altamira. Or he might take up some dim problem of Victorian telepathy (the cases reported by clergymen, nervous ladies, retired colonels who had seen service in India) such as the remarkable dream a Mrs. Storie had of her brother’s death. And in our turn we shall follow the brother as he walks along the railway line on a very dark night: having gone sixteen miles, he felt a little tired (as who would not); he sat down to take off his boots and dozed off to the chirp of the crickets, and then a train lumbered by. Seventy-six sheep trucks (in a curious “count-sheep-sleep” parody) passed without touching him, but then some projection came in contact with the back of his head killing him instantly. And we might also probe the “illusions hypnagogiques” (only illusion?) of dear Miss Bidder who once had a nightmare from which a most distinct demon survived after she woke so that she sat up to inspect its hand which was clutching the bedrail but it faded into the ornaments over the mantelpiece. Silly, but I can’t help it, he thought as he got out of his armchair and crossed the room to rearrange the leering folds of his brown dressing gown which, as it sprawled across the divan, showed at one end a very distinct medieval face. (Chapter 12)
Altamira is a village in northern Spain. In VN's novel Otchayanie ("Despair," 1934) Hermann writes his story in a Pyrenean village where the violent March wind blows:
На шестой день моего пребывания ветер усилился до того, что гостиница стала напоминать судно среди бурного моря, стекла гудели, трещали стены, тяжкая листва с шумом пятилась и, разбежавшись, осаждала дом. Я вышел было в сад, но сразу согнулся вдвое, чудом удержал шляпу и вернулся к себе. Задумавшись у окна среди волнующегося гула, я не расслышал гонга и, когда сошел вниз к завтраку и занял свое место, уже подавалось жаркое – мохнатые потроха под томатовым соусом – любимое блюдо доктора. Сначала я не вслушивался в общий разговор, умело им руководимый, но внезапно заметил, что все смотрят на меня.
On the sixth day of my stay the wind became so violent that the hotel could be likened to a ship at sea in a tempest: windowpanes boomed, walls creaked; and the heavy evergreen foliage fell back with a receding rustle and then lurching forward, stormed the house. I attempted to go out into the garden, but at once was doubled up, retained my hat by a miracle and went up to my room. Once there, standing deep in thought at the window amid all that turmoil and tintinnabulation I failed to hear the gong, so that when I came down to lunch and took my seat at the table, the third course was in progress--giblets, mossy to the palate, with tomato sauce--the doctor's favorite dish. At first I did not heed the general conversation, skillfully guided by the doctor, but all of a sudden noticed that everyone was gazing at me. (Chapter Ten)
The last chapter of "Despair" begins as follows:
30 марта 1931 г.
Я на новом месте: приключилась беда. Думал, что будет всего десять глав, – ан нет! Теперь вспоминаю, как уверенно, как спокойно, несмотря ни на что, я дописывал десятую, – и не дописал: горничная пришла убирать номер, я от нечего делать вышел в сад, – и меня обдало чем-то тихим, райским. Я даже сначала не понял, в чем дело, – но встряхнулся, и вдруг меня осенило: ураганный ветер, дувший все эти дни, прекратился.
I have moved to a slightly higher altitude: disaster made me shift my quarters.
I thought there would be ten chapters in all--my mistake! It is odd to remember how firmly, how composedly, in spite of everything, I was bringing the tenth one to a close; which I did not quite manage--and happened to break my last paragraph on a rhyme to "gasp." The maid bustled in to make up my room, so having nothing better to do, I went down into the garden; and there a heavenly, soft stillness enfolded me. At first I did not even realize what was the matter, but I shook myself and suddenly understood, the hurricane wind which had been raging lately was stilled. (Chapter Eleven)