In his Commentary to Shade’s poem Kinbote (who imagines that he is Charles the Beloved, the last self-exiled king of Zembla) mentions Stella Lazurchik, an Americanized Kashube who married a son of Sinyavin, a Russian starover (Old Believer) who migrated from Saratov to Seattle:
Presumably, permission from Prof. Blue was obtained but even so the plunging of a real person, no matter how sportive and willing, into an invented milieu where he is made to perform in accordance with the invention, strikes one as a singularly tasteless device, especially since other real-life characters, except members of the family, of course, are pseudonymized in the poem.
This name, no doubt, is most tempting. The star over the blue eminently suits an astronomer though actually neither his first nor second name bears any relation to the celestial vault: the first was given him in memory of his grandfather, a Russian starover (accented, incidentally, on the ultima), that is, Old Believer (member of a schismatic sect), named Sinyavin, from siniy, Russ. "blue." This Sinyavin migrated from Saratov to Seattle and begot a son who eventually changed his name to Blue and married Stella Lazurchik, an Americanized Kashube. So it goes. Honest Starover Blue will probably be surprised by the epithet bestowed upon him by a jesting Shade. The writer feels moved to pay here a small tribute to the amiable old freak, adored by everybody on the campus and nicknamed by the students Colonel Starbottle, evidently because of his exceptionally convivial habits. After all, there were other great men in our poet's entourage - for example, that distinguished Zemblan scholar Oscar Nattochdag. (note to Line 627: The great Starover Blue)
In VN’s two-act play in blank verse Smert’ (“Death,” 1923) Stella is the name of Gonville’s wife. At the beginning of VN’s play Gonville mentions two salts slowly merging in the glass nad plamenem lazurnym (over the azure flame):
Гонвил
...И эту власть над разумом чужим
сравню с моей наукою: отрадно
заране знать, какую смесь получишь,
когда в стекле над пламенем лазурным
медлительно сливаются две соли,
туманную окрашивая колбу.
Отрадно знать, что сложная медуза,
в шар костяной включённая, рождает
сны гения, бессмертные молитвы,
вселенную...
Я вижу мозг его,
как будто сам чернилами цветными
нарисовал - и всё же есть одна
извилина... Давно я бьюсь над нею,-
не выследить... И только вот теперь,
теперь,- когда узнает он внезапно -
А! в дверь стучат... Тяжёлое кольцо
бьёт в медный гриб наружный: стук знакомый,
стук беспокойный...
Gonville compares human brain to slozhnaya meduza (a complex medusa) within a sphere of bone. According to Kinbote, Judge Goldsworth (Kinbote’s landlord) resembles a Medusa-locked hag:
In the Foreword to this work I have had occasion to say something about the amenities of my habitation. The charming, charmingly vague lady (see note to line 691), who secured it for me, sight unseen, meant well, no doubt, especially since it was widely admired in the neighborhood for its "old-world spaciousness and graciousness." Actually, it was an old, dismal, white-and-black, half-timbered house, of the type termed wodnaggen in my country, with carved gables, drafty bow windows and a so-called "semi-noble" porch, surmounted by a hideous veranda. Judge Goldsworth had a wife, and four daughters. Family photographs met me in the hallway and pursued me from room to room, and although I am sure that Alphina (9), Betty (10), Candida (12), and Dee (14) will soon change from horribly cute little schoolgirls to smart young ladies and superior mothers, I must confess that their pert pictures irritated me to such an extent that finally I gathered them one by one and dumped them all in a closet under the gallows row of their cellophane-shrouded winter clothes. In the study I found a large picture of their parents, with sexes reversed, Mrs. G. resembling Malenkov, and Mr. G. a Medusa-locked hag, and this I replaced by the reproduction of a beloved early Picasso: earth boy leading raincloud horse. I did not bother, though, to do much about the family books which were also all over the house - four sets of different Children's Encyclopedias, and a stolid grown-up one that ascended all the way from shelf to shelf along a flight of stairs to burst an appendix in the attic. Judging by the novels in Mrs. Goldsworth's boudoir, her intellectual interests were fully developed, going as they did from Amber to Zen. The head of this alphabetic family had a library too, but this consisted mainly of legal works and a lot of conspicuously lettered ledgers. All the layman could glean for instruction and entertainment was a morocco-bound album in which the judge had lovingly pasted the life histories and pictures of people he had sent to prison or condemned to death: unforgettable faces of imbecile hoodlums, last smokes and last grins, a strangler's quite ordinary-looking hands, a self-made widow, the close-set merciless eyes of a homicidal maniac (somewhat resembling, I admit, the late Jacques d'Argus), a bright little parricide aged seven ("Now, sonny, we want you to tell us -"), and a sad pudgy old pederast who had blown up his blackmailer. What rather surprised me was that he, my learned landlord, and not his "missus," directed the household. Not only had he left me a detailed inventory of all such articles as cluster around a new tenant like a mob of menacing natives, but he had taken stupendous pains to write out on slips of paper recommendations, explanations, injunctions and supplementary lists. Whatever I touched on the first day of my stay yielded a specimen of Goldsworthiana. I unlocked the medicine chest in the second bathroom, and out fluttered a message advising me that the slit for discarded safety blades was too full to use. I opened the icebox, and it warned me with a bark that "no national specialties with odors hard to get rid of" should be placed therein. I pulled out the middle drawer of the desk in the study - and discovered a catalogue raisonné of its meager contents which included an assortment of ashtrays, a damask paperknife (described as "one ancient dagger brought by Mrs. Goldsworth's father from the Orient"), and an old but unused pocket diary optimistically maturing there until its calendric correspondencies came around again. Among various detailed notices affixed to a special board in the pantry, such as plumbing instructions, dissertations on electricity, discourses on cactuses and so forth, I found the diet of the black cat that came with the house:
Mon, Wed, Fri: Liver
Tue, Thu, Sat: Fish
Sun: Ground meat
(All it got from me was milk and sardines; it was a likable little creature but after a while its movements began to grate on my nerves and I farmed it out to Mrs. Finley, the cleaning woman.) But perhaps the funniest note concerned the manipulations of the window curtains which had to be drawn in different ways at different hours to prevent the sun from getting at the upholstery. A description of the position of the sun, daily and seasonal, was given for the several windows, and if I had heeded all this I would have been kept as busy as a participant in a regatta. A footnote, however, generously suggested that instead of manning the curtains, I might prefer to shift and reshift out of sun range the more precious pieces of furniture (two embroidered armchairs and a heavy "royal console") but should do it carefully lest I scratch the wall moldings. I cannot, alas, reproduce the meticulous schedule of these transposals but seem to recall that I was supposed to castle the long way before going to bed and the short way first thing in the morning. My dear Shade roared with laughter when I led him on a tour of inspection and had him find some of those bunny eggs for himself. Thank God, his robust hilarity dissipated the atmosphere of damnum infectum in which I was supposed to dwell. On his part, he regaled me with a number of anecdotes concerning the judge's dry wit and courtroom mannerisms; most of these anecdotes were doubtless folklore exaggerations, a few were evident inventions, and all were harmless. He did not bring up, my sweet old friend never did, ridiculous stories about the terrifying shadows that Judge Goldsworth's gown threw across the underworld, or about this or that beast lying in prison and positively dying of raghdirst (thirst for revenge) - crass banalities circulated by the scurrilous and the heartless - by all those for whom romance, remoteness, sealskin-lined scarlet skies, the darkening dunes of a fabulous kingdom, simply do not exist. But enough of this. Let us turn to our poet's windows. I have no desire to twist and batter an unambiguous apparatus criticus into the monstrous semblance of a novel. (note to Lines 47-48)
In Gogol’s play Revizor (“The Inspector,” 1836) Zemlyanika tells Khlestakov (who got stuck penniless in a provincial town while going to Saratov) that Dobchinsky’s children (one of them was born before his mother married Dobchinsky) have a very strong likeness to the Judge:
Артемий Филипович. Очень может быть. (Помолчав.) Могу сказать, что не жалею ничего и ревностно исполняю службу. (Придвигается ближе с своим стулом и говорит вполголоса.) Вот здешний почтмейстер совершенно ничего не делает: все дела в большом запущении, посылки задерживаются… извольте сами нарочно разыскать. Судья тоже, который только что был пред моим приходом, ездит только за зайцами, в присутственных местах держит собак, и поведения, если признаться пред вами, конечно для пользы отечества, я должен это сделать, хотя он мне родня и приятель, поведения самого предосудительного: здесь есть один помещик Добчинский, которого вы изволили видеть, и как только этот Добчинский куда-нибудь выйдет из дому, то он там уж и сидит у жены его, я присягнуть готов… и нарочно посмотрите на детей: ни одно из них не похоже на Добчинского, но все, даже девочка маленькая, как вылитый судья.
Хлестаков. Скажите пожалуйста! А я никак этого не думал.
CHARITY COMMISSIONER. It's very possible. (After a short silence.) I can only say that I spare no effort to perform my duty zealously. (Draws his chair a little closer and speaks in a lower tone.) There's this Postmaster here does absolutely nothing. Everything is in the greatest state of neglect : letters and packages are kept back . . . pray investigate the matter yourself. The Judge too, who was here just before me, does nothing but hunt hares, and keeps his dogs in the County Court buildings ; while his general conduct, if I must unburden my mind to you—certainly it's for my country's good that I have to do it, though he's my friend and connection—well, his conduct is most deplorable. There's a certain proprietor here, Dobchinsky by name you have deigned to meet him and as soon as ever Dobchinsky goes away anywhere, his wife and the Judge are having a tête-à-tête. I am ready to swear to it ... and the children, down to the youngest little girl, have a very strong likeness to the Judge—
KHLESTAKOV. Well, I declare! I never should have thought it! (Act Four, scene VI)
Dobchinsky’s double, Bobchinsky brings to mind “bad Bob” (as Kinbote calls his young roomer):
I have one favorite photograph of him. In this color snapshot taken by a onetime friend of mine, on a brilliant spring day, Shade is seen leaning on a sturdy cane that had belonged to his aunt Maud (see line 86). I am wearing a white windbreaker acquired in a local sports shop and a pair of lilac slacks hailing from Cannes. My left hand is half raised--not to pat Shade on the shoulder as seems to be the intention, but to remove my sunglasses which, however, it never reached in that life, the life of the picture; and the library book under my right arm is a treatise on certain Zemblan calisthenics in which I proposed to interest that young roomer of mine who snapped the picture. A week later he was to betray my trust by taking sordid advantage of my absence on a trip to Washington whence I returned to find that he had been entertaining a fiery-haired whore from Exton who had left her combings and reek in all three bathrooms. Naturally, we separated at once, and through a chink in the window curtains I saw bad Bob standing rather pathetically, with his crewcut, and shabby valise, and the skis I had given him, all forlorn on the roadside, waiting for a fellow student to drive him away forever. I can forgive everything save treason. (Foreword)
In his Foreword Kinbote mentions a young instructor in a green velvet jacket whom he mercifully calls Gerald Emerald:
Alas, my peace of mind was soon to be shattered. The thick venom of envy began squirting at me as soon as academic suburbia realized that John Shade valued my society above that of all other people. Your snicker, my dear Mrs. C., did not escape our notice as I was helping the tired old poet to find his galoshes after that dreary get-together party at your house. One day I happened to enter the English Literature office in quest of a magazine with the picture of the Royal Palace in Onhava, which I wanted my friend to see, when I overheard a young instructor in a green velvet jacket, whom I shall mercifully call Gerald Emerald, carelessly saying in answer to something the secretary had asked: "I guess Mr. Shade has already left with the Great Beaver." Of course I am quite tall, and my brown beard is of a rather rich tint and texture; the silly cognomen evidently applied to me, but was not worth noticing, and after calmly taking the magazine from a pamphlet-cluttered table, I contented myself on my way out with pulling Gerald Emerald's bow-tie loose with a deft jerk of my fingers as I passed by him.
It is Gerald Emerald who gives Gradus (Shade’s murderer) a lift to Kinbote's house:
Gradus returned to the Main Desk.
"Too bad," said the girl, "I just saw him leave."
"Bozhe moy, Bozhe moy," muttered Gradus, who sometimes at moments of stress used Russian ejaculations.
"You'll find him in the directory," she said pushing it towards him, and dismissing the sick man's existence to attend to the wants of Mr. Gerald Emerald who was taking out a fat bestseller in a cellophane jacket.
Moaning and shifting from one foot to the other, Gradus started leafing through the college directory but when he found the address, he was faced with the problem of getting there.
"Dulwich Road," he cried to the girl. "Near? Far? Very far, probably?"
"Are you by any chance Professor Pnin's new assistant?" asked Emerald.
"No," said the girl. "This man is looking for Dr. Kinbote, I think. You are looking for Dr. Kinbote, aren't you?"
"Yes, and I can't any more," said Gradus.
"I thought so," said the girl. "Doesn't he live somewhere near Mr. Shade, Gerry?"
"Oh, definitely," said Gerry, and turned to the killer: "I can drive you there if you like. It is on my way."
Did they talk in the car, these two characters, the man in green and the man in brown? Who can say? They did not. After all, the drive took only a few minutes (it took me, at the wheel of my powerful Kramler, four and a half).
"I think I'll drop you here," said Mr. Emerald. "It's that house up there."
One finds it hard to decide what Gradus alias Grey wanted more at that minute: discharge his gun or rid himself of the inexhaustible lava in his bowels. As he began hurriedly fumbling at the car door, unfastidious Emerald leaned, close to him, across him almost merging with him, to help him open it--and then, slamming it shut again, whizzed on to some tryst in the valley. My reader will, I hope, appreciate all the minute particulars I have taken such trouble to present to him after a long talk I had with the killer; he will appreciate them even more if I tell him that, according to the legend spread later by the police, Jack Grey had been given a lift, all the way from Roanoke, or somewhere, by a lonesome trucker! One can only hope that an impartial search will turn up the trilby forgotten in the Library--or in Mr. Emerald's car. (note to Line 949)
Like Gradus, Gogol’s Town Mayor twice repeats the phrase Bozhe moy (Oh, my God):
Городничий (хватаясь за голову). Ах, боже мой, боже мой! Ступай скорее на улицу, или нет - беги прежде в комнату, слышь! и принеси оттуда шпагу и новую шляпу. Ну, Пётр Иванович, поедем!
TOWN MAYOR (tearing his hair). Akh, Bozhe moy, Bozhe moy . . . Go out into the street, quick!—or no! run to my room, sharp, d'ye hear? and fetch my new hat and sword. Now, Pyotr Ivanovich (to DOBCHINSKY), let us be off! (Act One, scene IV)
Bad Bob (Kinbote’s young roomer) and Gerald Emerald (a young instructor at Wordsmith University) are one and the same person. Similarly, Shade, Kinbote and Gradus seem to represent three different aspects of Botkin’s personality. An American scholar of Russian descent, Professor Vsevolod Botkin went mad and became Shade, Kinbote and Gradus after the tragic death of his daughter Nadezhda (Hazel Shade of Kinbote’s Commentary). Nadezhda means “hope.” There is a hope that, when Kinbote completes his work on Shade’s poem and commits suicide (on Oct. 19, 1959, the anniversary of Pushkin’s Lyceum and of Jonathan Swift's death), Botkin, like Count Vorontsov (a target of Pushkin’s epigrams, “half-milord, half-merchant, etc.”), will be full again.
On Stella's Birth-day 1719 is a poem by Swift:
Stella this Day is thirty four,
(We shan't dispute a Year or more)
However Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy Size and Years are doubled,
Since first I saw Thee at Sixteen
The brightest Virgin on the Green,
So little is thy Form declin'd
Made up so largely in thy Mind.
Oh, woud it please the Gods to split
Thy Beauty, Size, and Years, and Wit,
No Age could furnish out a Pair
Of Nymphs so graceful, Wise and fair
With half the Lustre of your Eyes,
With half your Wit, your Years and Size:
And then before it grew too late,
How should I beg of gentle Fate,
(That either Nymph might have her Swain,)
To split my Worship too in twain.
In Canto Two of his poem Shade speaks of his married life and asks his wife (whom Shade associates with the Vanessa butterfly) to come and be worshipped:
Come and be worshiped, come and be caressed,
My dark Vanessa, crimson-barred, my blest
My Admirable butterfly! Explain
How could you, in the gloam of Lilac Lane,
Have let uncouth, hysterical John Shade
Blubber your face, and ear, and shoulder blade? (ll. 269-274)
Kinbote admits that there is a whiff of Swift in some of his notes:
It is so like the heart of a scholar in search of a fond name to pile a butterfly genus upon an Orphic divinity on top of the inevitable allusion to Vanhomrigh, Esther! In this connection a couple of lines from one of Swift's poems (which in these backwoods I cannot locate) have stuck in my memory:
When, lo! Vanessa in her bloom
Advanced like Atalanta's star
As to the Vanessa butterfly, it will reappear in lines 993-995 (to which see note). Shade used to say that its Old English name was The Red Admirable, later degraded to The Red Admiral. It is one of the few butterflies I happen to be familiar with. Zemblans call it harvalda (the heraldic one) possibly because a recognizable figure of it is borne in the escutcheon of the Dukes of Payn. In the autumn of certain years it used to occur rather commonly in the Palace Gardens and visit the Michaelmas daisies in company with a day-flying moth. I have seen The Red Admirable feasting on oozy plums and, once, on a dead rabbit. It is a most frolicsome fly. An almost tame specimen of it was the last natural object John Shade pointed out to me as he walked to his doom (see, see now, my note to lines 993-995).
I notice a whiff of Swift in some of my notes. I too am a desponder in my nature, an uneasy, peevish, and suspicious man, although I have my moments of volatility and fou rire. (note to Line 270)
Kinbote quotes Swift’s poem Cadenus and Vanessa (1713). W. B. Yeats’ one-act play The Words upon the Windowpane (1930) features a séance in which Jonathan Swift's voice is projected though a medium, along with those of his two lovers, Stella and Vanessa. Witnessing these forces at work, those attending the séance are forced to confront some uncomfortable truths in their own lives. At the beginning of his poem Shade says that he was the shadow of the waxwing slain by the false azure in the windowpane:
I was the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff--and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky. (ll. 1-4)
In a discarded variant (quoted by Kinbote in his Commentary) Shade mentions poor old man Swift:
A beautiful variant, with one curious gap, branches off at this point in the draft (dated July 6):
Strange Other World where all our still-born dwell,
And pets, revived, and invalids, grown well,
And minds that died before arriving there:
Poor old man Swift, poor —, poor Baudelaire
What might that dash stand for? Unless Shade gave prosodic value to the mute e in “Baudelaire,” which I am quite certain he would never have done in English verse (cp. “Rabelais,” line 501), the name required here must scan as a trochee. Among the names of celebrated poets, painters, philosophers, etc., known to have become insane or to have sunk into senile imbecility, we find many suitable ones. Was Shade confronted by too much variety with nothing to help logic choose and so left a blank, relying upon the mysterious organic force that rescues poets to fill it in at its own convenience? Or was there something else—some obscure intuition, some prophetic scruple that prevented him from spelling out the name of an eminent man who happened to be an intimate friend of his? Was he perhaps playing safe because a reader in his household might have objected to that particular name being mentioned? And if it comes to that, why mention it at all in this tragical context? Dark, disturbing thoughts. (note to Line 231)
That dash stands, of course, for Botkin. “And pets, revived, and invalids, grown well” bring to mind “an amusing pet” (as in his Index Kinbote calls Gordon Krummholz, a musical prodigy, son of Joe Lavender’s famous sister, Elvina Krummholz) and George Gordon Byron, a poet who appears as a character in VN’s play “Death” (the action in it takes place in 1806, at Cambridge) and whom Edmond (Gonville's young friend who is in love with Stella) calls krasavets khromoy (a lame handsome man):
Эдмонд
Гонвил, Гонвил,
я что-то вспоминаю... что-то было
мучительное, смутное... Постой же,
начну я осторожно, потихоньку,-
я дома был, друзья ко мне явились,
к дубовому струился потолку
из трубок дым, вращающийся плавно.
Все мелочи мне помнятся: вино
испанское тепло и мутно рдело.
Постой... Один описывал со вкусом,
как давеча он ловко ударял
ладонью мяч о каменные стенки,
другой втыкал сухие замечанья
о книгах, им прочитанных, о цифрах
заученных, но желчно замолчал,
когда вошёл мой третий гость,- красавец
хромой, ведя ручного медвежонка
московского, и цепью зверь ни разу
не громыхнул, пока его хозяин,
на стол поставив локти и к прозрачным
вискам прижав манжеты кружевные,
выплакивал стихи о кипарисах.
Постой... Что было после? Да, вбежал
ещё один - толстяк в веснушках рыжих -
и сообщил мне на ухо с ужимкой
таинственной... Да, вспомнил всё! Я нёсся,
как тень, как сон, по переулкам лунным
сюда, к тебе... Исчезла... Как же так?..
...она всегда ходила в тёмном, Стелла...
мерцающее имя в тёмном вихре,
души моей бессонница...
Edmond calls Stella dushi moey bessonnitsa (the insomnia of my soul). In his poem Net, ya ne Bayron, ya drugoy… (“No, I’m not Byron, I’m another…” 1832) Lermontov says that in his soul, as in the ocean, lies nadezhd razbitykh gruz (a load of broken hopes):
Нет, я не Байрон, я другой,
Ещё неведомый избранник,
Как он, гонимый миром странник,
Но только с русскою душой.
Я раньше начал, кончу ране,
Мой ум немного совершит;
В душе моей, как в океане,
Надежд разбитых груз лежит.
Кто может, океан угрюмый,
Твои изведать тайны? Кто
Толпе мои расскажет думы?
Я — или Бог — или никто!
No, I'm not Byron, I’m another
yet unknown chosen man,
like him, a persecuted wanderer,
but only with a Russian soul.
I started sooner, I will end sooner,
my mind won’t achieve much;
in my soul, as in the ocean,
lies a load of broken hopes.
Who can, gloomy ocean,
find out your secrets? Who
will tell to the crowd my thoughts?
Myself – or God – or none at all!
In his poem Melodiya stanovitsya tsvetkom... ("The melody becomes a flower," 1951) G. Ivanov mentions a spring moth that flies to the fire and quotes Lermontov's poem Vykhozhu odin ya na dorogu (“I go out on the road alone…” 1841) in which star converses with star:
Мелодия становится цветком,
Он распускается и осыпается,
Он делается ветром и песком,
Летящим на огонь весенним мотыльком,
Ветвями ивы в воду опускается...
Проходит тысяча мгновенных лет
И перевоплощается мелодия
В тяжёлый взгляд, в сиянье эполет,
В рейтузы, в ментик, в "Ваше благородие"
В корнета гвардии - о, почему бы нет?..
Туман... Тамань... Пустыня внемлет Богу.
- Как далеко до завтрашнего дня!..
И Лермонтов один выходит на дорогу,
Серебряными шпорами звеня.
In his poem Kak v Gretsiyu Bayron – o bez sozhalen’ya… (“Like Byron to Greece, oh, without regret," 1928) G. Ivanov mentions blednyi ogon’ (pale fire):
Как в Грецию Байрон, о, без сожаленья,
Сквозь звёзды и розы, и тьму,
На голос бессмысленно-сладкого пенья…
— И ты не поможешь ему.
Сквозь звёзды, которые снятся влюблённым,
И небо, где нет ничего,
В холодную полночь — платком надушённым.
— И ты не удержишь его.
На голос бессмысленно-сладкого пенья,
Как Байрон за бледным огнём,
Сквозь полночь и розы, о, без сожаленья…
— И ты позабудешь о нём.
In his Stansy (“Stanzas,” 1953) G. Ivanov describes Stalin’s funeral and mentions Molotov and Beria (but not Malenkov) as they stand in the guard of honor near Stalin’s coffin:
…И вот лежит на пышном пьедестале,
Меж красных звёзд, в сияющем гробу,
“Великий из великих” — Оська Сталин,
Всех цезарей превозойдя судьбу.
А перед ним в почётном карауле
Стоят народа меньшие “отцы”,
Те, что страну в бараний рог согнули, —
Ещё вожди, но тоже мертвецы.
Какие отвратительные рожи,
Кривые рты, нескладные тела:
Вот Молотов. Вот Берия, похожий
На вурдалака, ждущего кола…
В безмолвии у сталинского праха
Они дрожат. Они дрожат от страха,
Угрюмо пряча некрещёный лоб, —
И перед ними высится, как плаха,
Проклятого “вождя” — проклятый гроб.
According to G. Ivanov, to his question “does a sonnet need a coda” Alexander Blok replied that he did not know what a coda is. In his fragment Rim (“Rome,” 1842) Gogol describes a carnival in Rome and mentions il gran poeta morto (the great dead poet) and sonetto colla coda – explaining in a footnote that in Italian poetry there is a kind of poem known as “sonnet with the tail” (con la coda), when the idea cannot not be expressed in fourteen lines and entails an appendix that can be longer than the sonnet itself:
В италиянской поэзии существует род стихотворенья, известного под именем сонета с хвостом (con la coda), когда мысль не вместилась и ведёт за собою прибавление, которое часто бывает длиннее самого сонета.
Shade’s poem consists of 999 lines and is almost finished when the author is killed by Gradus. Kinbote believes that, to be completed, Shade’s poem needs but one line (Line 1000, identical to Line 1: “I was the shadow of the waxwing slain”). But it seems that, like some sonnets, Shade’s poem also needs a coda (Line 1001: “By its own double in the windowpane”). Dvoynik (“The Double”) is a short novel (1846) by Dostoevski and a poem (1909) by Blok. In his poem Neznakomka (“The Unknown Woman,” 1906) Blok mentions ochi sinie bezdonnye (fathomless blue eyes) that bloom on the distant shore:
И перья страуса склонённые
В моём качаются мозгу,
И очи синие бездонные
Цветут на дальнем берегу.
В моей душе лежит сокровище,
И ключ поручен только мне!
Ты право, пьяное чудовище!
Я знаю: истина в вине.
And drooping ostrich plumes
Waver in my brain,
And fathomless blue eyes
Bloom on the distant shore.
A treasure lies in my soul,
And the key belongs to me alone!
You are correct, you drunken fiend!
I know it: in wine is truth.
In the famous hyperbolic passage (alluded to by VN in his “Paris Poem,” 1943) in his story Strashnaya mest’ (“The Terrible Vengeance,” 1832) Gogol describes the Dnepr and twice repeats the word siniy (blue):
Нет ничего в мире, что бы могло прикрыть Днепр. Синий, синий, ходит он плавным разливом и середь ночи, как середь дня; виден за столько вдаль, за сколько видеть может человечье око. (chapter 10)
According to Gogol, a rare bird can fly to the middle of the Dnepr:
В середину же Днепра они не смеют глянуть: никто, кроме солнца и голубого неба, не глядит в него. Редкая птица долетит до середины Днепра! (ibid.)
Rara avis (1886) is a story by Chekhov, the author of Tysyacha odna strast’, ili Strashnaya noch’ (“A Thousand and One Passions, or The Terrible Night,” 1880), a parody of Gothic story (dedicated to Victor Hugo) whose title blends "A Thousand and One Nights" with “The Terrible Vengeance.”
At the beginning of his Commentary Kinbote mentions his knowledge of garden Aves:
My knowledge of garden Aves had been limited to those of northern Europe but a young New Wye gardener, in whom I was interested (see note to line 998), helped me to identify the profiles of quite a number of tropical-looking little strangers and their comical calls; and, naturally, every tree top plotted its dotted line towards the ornithological work on my desk to which I would gallop from the lawn in nomenclatorial agitation. How hard I found to fit the name "robin" to the suburban impostor, the gross fowl, with its untidy dull-red livery and the revolting gusto it showed when consuming long, sad, passive worms!
Incidentally, it is curious to note that a crested bird called in Zemblan sampel ("silktail"), closely resembling a waxwing in shape and shade, is the model of one of the three heraldic creatures (the other two being respectively a reindeer proper and a merman azure, crined or) in the armorial bearing of the Zemblan King, Charles the Beloved (born 1915), whose glorious misfortunes I discussed so often with my friend.
The poem was begun at the dead center of the year, a few minutes after midnight July 1, while I played chess with a young Iranian enrolled in our summer school; and I do not doubt that our poet would have understood his annotator's temptations to synchronize a certain fateful fact, the departure from Zembla of the would-be regicide Gradus, with that date. Actually, Gradus left Onhava on the Copenhagen plane on July 5. (note to Lines 1-4)
July 5 is Shade's, Kinbote's and Gradus's birthday (while Shade was born in 1898, Kinbote and Gradus were born in 1915). In a letter of Oct. 31, 1838 (Dostoevski's seventeenth birthday!), to his brother Dostoevski twice repeats the word gradus (degree):
Философию не надо полагать простой математической задачей, где неизвестное - природа... Заметь, что поэт в порыве вдохновенья разгадывает бога, следовательно, исполняет назначенье философии. Следовательно, поэтический восторг есть восторг философии... Следовательно, философия есть та же поэзия, только высший градус её!..
Philosophy should not be regarded as a mere equation where nature is the unknown quantity… Remark that the poet, in the moment of inspiration, comprehends God, and consequently does the philosopher’s work. Consequently poetic inspiration is nothing less than philosophical inspiration. Consequently philosophy is nothing but poetry, a higher degree of poetry!..
Друг мой! Ты философствуешь как поэт. И как не ровно выдерживает душа градус вдохновенья, так не ровна, не верна и твоя философия. Чтоб больше знать, надо меньше чувствовать, и обратно, правило опрометчивое, бред сердца.
My friend, you philosophize like a poet. And just because the soul cannot be forever in a state of exaltation, your philosophy is not true and not just. To know more one must feel less, and vice versa. Your judgment is featherheaded – it is a delirium of the heart.
and says that it is sad to live without nadezhda (hope):
Брат, грустно жить без надежды... Смотрю вперёд, и будущее меня ужасает...
“I look ahead and the future frightens me.”
Ten and a half years later (on April 23, 1849) Dostoevski was arrested as a member of a group of progressive-minded intellectuals and imprisoned in the Peter-and-Paul Fortress (whose commander was General Ivan Nabokov, an elder brother of VN’s great-grandfather) in St. Petersburg. Oscar Nattochdag's nickname, Netochka hints at Dostoevski's unfinished novel Netochka Nezvanov (1849).
According to Kinbote, in a conversation with him Shade listed Dostoevski among Russian humorists:
Speaking of the Head of the bloated Russian Department, Prof. Pnin, a regular martinet in regard to his underlings (happily, Prof. Botkin, who taught in another department, was not subordinated to that grotesque "perfectionist"): "How odd that Russian intellectuals should lack all sense of humor when they have such marvelous humorists as Gogol, Dostoevski, Chekhov, Zoshchenko, and those joint authors of genius Ilf and Petrov." (note to Line 172)