The three main characters in VN’s novel Pale Fire (1962) are the poet Shade, his commentator Kinbote (who imagines that he is Charles the Beloved, the last self-exiled king of Zembla) and his murderer Gradus. In Book III (1588) of his Essais Montaigne says that every place swarms with commentaries; of authors there is great scarcity:
Il y a plus affaire à interpreter les interpretations qu’à interpreter les choses, et plus de livres sur les livres que sur autre subject : nous ne faisons que nous entregloser. Tout fourmille de commentaires ; d’auteurs, il en est grand cherté. Le principal et plus fameux sçavoir de nos siecles, est-ce pas sçavoir entendre les sçavans ? Est-ce pas la fin commune et derniere de tous estudes ? Nos opinions s’entent les unes sur les autres. La premiere sert de tige à la seconde, la seconde à la tierce. Nous eschellons ainsi de degré en degré. Et advient de là que le plus haut monté a souvent plus d’honneur que de mérite ; car il n’est monté que d’un grain sur les espaules du penultime.
There is more ado to interpret interpretations than to interpret things, and more books upon books than upon any other subject; we do nothing but comment upon one another. Every place swarms with commentaries; of authors there is great scarcity. Is it not the principal and most reputed knowledge of our later ages to understand the learned? Is it not the common and final end of all studies? Our opinions are grafted upon one another; the first serves as a stock to the second, the second to the third, and so forth; thus step by step we climb the ladder; whence it comes to pass that he who is mounted highest has often more honor than merit, for he is got up but an inch upon the shoulders of the last, but one. (Chapter XIII. Of Experience)
De degré en degré (step by step), a phrase used by Montaigne, brings to mind Jack Degree (one of Gradus’ aliases). There is тень (shade, shadow) in Монтень (Montaigne in Russian spelling). On the other hand, in Montaigne there is montagne (“mountain” in French). In Canto Three of his poem Shade describes his heart attack and mentions the mountain-to-fountain misprint:
I also called on Coates.
He was afraid he had mislaid her notes.
He took his article from a steel file:
"It's accurate. I have not changed her style.
There's one misprint - not that it matters much:
Mountain, not fountain. The majestic touch."
Life Everlasting - based on a misprint!
I mused as I drove homeward: take the hint,
And stop investigating my abyss? (ll. 797-805)
Shade's abyss brings to mind L'Abîme (“The Abyss”), in VN’s story Lik (1939) Suire's play in which Lik plays a young Russian named Igor:
Есть пьеса "Бездна" (L'Abîme) известного французского писателя Suire. Она уже сошла со сцены, прямо в Малую Лету (т. е. в ту, которая обслуживает театр,-- речка, кстати сказать, не столь безнадежная, как главная, с менее крепким раствором забвения, так что режиссёрская удочка иное ещё вылавливает спустя много лет). В этой пьесе, по существу идиотской, даже идеально идиотской, иначе говоря -- идеально построенной на прочных условностях общепринятой драматургии, трактуется страстной путь пожилой женщины, доброй католички и землевладелицы, вдруг загоревшейся греховной страстью к молодому русскому, Igor, -- Игорю, случайно попавшему к ней в усадьбу и полюбившему её дочь Анжелику.
There is a play of the 1920s, called L'Abîme (The Abyss), by the well-known French author Suire. It has already passed from the stage straight into the Lesser Lethe (the one, that is, that serves the theater – a stream, incidentally, not quite as hopeless as the main river, and containing a weaker solution of oblivion, so that angling producers may still fish something out many years later). This play – essentially idiotic, even ideally idiotic, or, putting it another way, ideally constructed on the solid conventions of traditional dramaturgy – deals with the torments of a middle-aged, rich, and religious French lady suddenly inflamed by a sinful passion for a young Russian named Igor, who has turned up at her château and fallen in love with her daughter Angélique.
At the end of the story Lik, dying of heart failure at the seaside, imagines a trip in a taxi to fetch the carton box containing his new white shoes that he forgot at Koldunov’s:
Прошло минут десять, не более. Часики шли, стараясь из деликатности на него не смотреть. Мысль о смерти необыкновенно точно совпадала с мыслью о том, что через полчаса он выйдет на освещенную сцену, скажет первые слова роли: "Je vous prie d'excuser, Madame, cette invasion nocturne" -- и эти слова, чётко и изящно выгравированные в памяти, казались гораздо более настоящими, чем шлепоток и хлебет утомленных волн или звуки двух счастливых женских голосов, доносившиеся из-за стены ближней виллы, или недавние речи Колдунова, или даже стук собственного сердца. Ему вдруг стало так панически плохо, что он встал и пошел вдоль парапета, растерянно гладя его и косясь на цветные чернила вечернего моря. "Была не была,-- сказал Лик вслух,-- нужно освежиться... как рукой... либо умру, либо снимет..." Он сполз по наклону панели и захрустел на гальке. Никого на берегу не было, кроме случайного господина в серых штанах, который навзничь лежал около скалы, раскинув широко ноги, и что-то в очертании этих ног и плеч почему-то напомнило ему фигуру Колдунова. Пошатываясь и уже наклоняясь. Лик стыдливо подошел к краю воды, хотел было зачерпнуть в ладони и обмыть голову, но вода жила, двигалась, грозила омочить ему ноги,-- может быть, хватит ловкости разуться?-- и в ту же секунду Лик вспомнил картонку с новыми туфлями: забыл их у Колдунова!
И странно: как только вспомнилось, образ оказался столь живительным, что сразу все опростилось, и это Лика спасло, как иногда положение спасает его формулировка. Надо их тотчас достать, и можно успеть достать, и как только это будет сделано, он в них выйдет на сцену — все совершенно отчетливо и логично, придраться не к чему, — и забыв про сжатие в груди, туман, тошноту, Лик поднялся опять на набережную, граммофонным голосом кликнул такси, как раз отъезжавшее порожняком от виллы напротив... Тормоза ответили раздирающим стоном. Шоферу он дал адрес из записной книжки и велел ехать как можно шибче, причем было ясно, что вся поездка — туда и оттуда в театр — займет не больше пяти минут.
К дому, где жили Колдуновы, автомобиль подъехал со стороны площади. Там собралась толпа, и только с помощью упорных трубных угроз автомобилю удалось протиснуться. Около фонтана, на стуле, сидела жена Колдунова, весь лоб и левая часть лица были в блестящей крови, слиплись волосы, она сидела совершенно прямо и неподвижно, окруженная любопытными, а рядом с ней, тоже неподвижно, стоял ее мальчик в окровавленной рубашке, прикрывая лицо кулаком, — такая, что ли, картина. Полицейский, принявший Лика за врача, провел его в комнату. Среди осколков, на полу навзничь лежал обезображенный выстрелом в рот, широко раскинув ноги в новых белых...
— Это мои, — сказал Лик по-французски.
About ten minutes passed, no more. His watch ticked on, trying tactfully not to look at him. The thought of death coincided precisely with the thought that in half an hour he would walk out onto the bright stage and say the first words of his part, “Je vous prie d’excuser, Madame, cette invasion nocturne.” And these words, clearly and elegantly engraved in his memory, seemed far more real than the lapping and splashing of the weary waves, or the sound of two gay female voices coming from behind the stone wall of a nearby villa, or the recent talk of Koldunov, or even the pounding of his own heart. His feeling of sickness suddenly reached such a panicky pitch that he got up and walked along the parapet, dazedly stroking it and peering at the colored inks of the evening sea. “In any case,” Lik said aloud, “I have to cool off.… Instant cure.… Either I’ll die or it’ll help.” He slid down the sloping edge of the sidewalk, where the parapet stopped, and crunched across the pebbly beach. There was nobody on the shore except for a shabbily dressed man, who happened to be lying supine near a boulder, his feet spread wide apart. Something about the outline of his legs and shoulders for some reason reminded Lik of Koldunov. Swaying a little and already stooping, Lik walked self-consciously to the edge of the water, and was about to scoop some up in his hands and douse his head; but the water was alive, moving, and threatening to soak his feet. Perhaps I have enough coordination left to take off my shoes and socks, he thought, and in the same instant remembered the carton box containing his new shoes. He had forgotten it at Koldunov’s!
And as soon as he remembered it, this image proved so stimulating that immediately everything was simplified, and this saved Lik, in the same way as a situation is sometimes saved by its rational formulation. He must get those shoes at once, there was just time enough to get them, and as soon as this was accomplished, he would step onstage in them. (All perfectly clear and logical.) Forgetting the pressure in his chest, the foggy feeling, the nausea, Lik climbed back up to the promenade, and in a sonorously recorded voice hailed the empty taxi that was just leaving the curb by the villa across the way. Its brakes responded with a lacerating moan. He gave the chauffeur the address from his notebook, telling him to go as fast as possible, even though the entire trip—there and from there to the theater—would not take more than five minutes.
The taxi approached Koldunov’s place from the direction of the square. A crowd had gathered, and it was only by dint of persistent threats with its horn that the driver managed to squeeze through. Koldunov’s wife was sitting on a chair by the public fountain. Her forehead and left cheek glistened with blood, her hair was matted, and she sat quite straight and motionless, surrounded by the curious, while, next to her, also motionless, stood her boy, in a bloodstained shirt, covering his face with his fist, a kind of tableau. A policeman, mistaking Lik for a doctor, escorted him into the room. The dead man lay on the floor amid broken crockery, his face blasted by a gunshot in the mouth, his widespread feet in new, white—
“Those are mine,” said Lik in French.
Note Koldunov’s wife sitting on a chair by the public fountain (impossible in the squalid part of the city where Koldunov lives). During his heart attack Shade saw a tall white fountain:
Give me now
Your full attention. I can't tell you how
I knew - but I did know that I had crossed
The border. Everything I loved was lost
But no aorta could report regret.
A sun of rubber was convulsed and set;
And blood-black nothingness began to spin
A system of cells interlinked within
Cells interlinked within cells interlinked
Within one stem. And dreadfully distinct
Against the dark, a tall white fountain played. (ll. 697-707)
Like Odon (a world famous Zemblan actor and patriot who helps the king to escape from Zembla), Lik is an actor. In his Essais (Book One, Chapter XVIII) Montaigne says: à se dernier rôle de la mort et de nous il n’y a plus que feindre, il faut parler français (in this last role of death one should not pretend anymore, one should speak French).
Shade, Kinbote and Gradus seem to be one and the same person whose “real” name is Botkin. According to Kinbote (the author of a book on surnames), Botkin is the one who makes bottekins (fancy footwear).
According to Kinbote, Zembla is a corruption of Semberland, not of the Russian zemlya (earth):
A visiting German lecturer from Oxford kept exclaiming, aloud and under his breath, that the resemblance was "absolutely unheard of," and when I negligently observed that all bearded Zemblands resembled one another--and that, in fact, the name Zembla is a corruption not of the Russian zemlya, but of Semberland, a land of reflections, of "resemblers"--my tormentor said: "Ah, yes, but King Charles wore no beard, and yet it is his very face!” (note to Line 894)
In the same Chapter XIII (Of Experience) of Book Three of “The Essays” Montaigne writes:
La dissimilitude s’ingere d’elle mesme en nos ouvrages ; nul art peut arriver à la similitude. Ny Perrozet ny autre ne peut si soigneusement polir et blanchir l’envers de ses cartes qu’aucuns joueurs ne les distinguent, à les voyr seulement couler par les mains d’un autre. La ressemblance ne faict pas tant un comme la difference faict autre. Nature s’est obligée à ne rien faire autre, qui ne fust dissemblable.
Dissimilitude intrudes itself of itself in our works; no art can arrive at perfect similitude: neither Perrozet nor any other can so carefully polish and blanch the backs of his cards that some gamesters will not distinguish them by seeing them only shuffled by another. Resemblance does not so much make one as difference makes another. Nature has obliged herself to make nothing other that was not unlike.
Perrozet is a card manufacturer. Odon's half-brother Nodo is a cardsharp and despicable traitor. Odon = Nodo = odno (one). In a conversation with Lik Koldunov mentions odno iz luchshikh vospominaniy (one of his fondest memories):
-- Саша, не узнаешь?-- патетически протянул Колдунов, остановившись посреди дорожки. Крупные черты его желтовато-темного лица с шершавой тенью на щеках и над губой, из-под которой щерились плохие зубы: большой наглый нос с горбинкой; исподлобья глядящие, мутные глаза,-- все это было колдуновское, несомненное, хоть и затушеванное временем, но пока Лик смотрел, это первое, несомненное сходство разошлось, беззвучно разрушилось, и перед ним стоял незнакомый проходимец с тяжелым лицом римского кесаря -- правда, сильно потрепанного кесаря.
-- Поцелуемся,-- мрачно сказал Колдунов и на мгновение приложился к детским губам Лика холодной, соленой щекой.
-- Я тебя сразу узнал,-- залепетал Лик.-- Мне вчера как раз говорил, как его, Гаврилюк...
-- Сомнительная личность,-- перебил Колдунов.-- Мэфий-туа. Хорошо... Вот это, значит, мой Саша. Отметим. Рад. Рад тебя опять встретить. Это судьба! Помнишь, Саша, как мы с тобой бычков ловили? Абсолютно ясно. Одно из лучших воспоминаний. Да.
Лик твердо знал, что с Колдуновым никогда в детстве рыбы не уживал, но растерянность, скука, застенчивость помешали ему уличить этого чужого человека в присвоении несуществующего прошлого. Он вдруг почувствовал себя вертлявым и не в меру нарядным.
“Lavrentiy, Lavrusha, don’t you recognize me?” Koldunov drawled dramatically, stopping in the middle of the path.
The large features of that sallow face with a rough shadow on its cheeks and upper lip, that glimpse of bad teeth, that large, insolent Roman nose, that bleary, questioning gaze—all of it was Koldunovian, indisputably so, even if dimmed by time. But, as Lik looked, this resemblance noiselessly disintegrated, and before him stood a disreputable stranger with the massive face of a Caesar, though a very shabby one.
“Let’s kiss like good Russians,” Koldunov said grimly, and pressed his cold, salty cheek for an instant against Lik’s childish lips.
“I recognized you immediately,” babbled Lik. “Just yesterday I heard about you from What’s-His-Name … Gavrilyuk.”
“Dubious character,” interrupted Koldunov. “Méfie-toi. Well, well—so here is my Lavrusha. Remarkable! I’m glad. Glad to meet you again. That’s fate for you! Remember, Lavrusha, how we used to catch gobies together? As clear as if it happened yesterday. One of my fondest memories. Yes.”
Lik knew perfectly well that he had never fished with Koldunov, but confusion, ennui, and timidity prevented him from accusing this stranger of appropriating a nonexistent past. He suddenly felt wiggly and overdressed.
Oleg Petrovich Koldunov has the same name and patronymic as Oleg Petrovich Gusev (the first lover of Charles the Beloved), the son of Colonel Peter Gusev (King Alfin's aerial adjutant) and Sylvia O'Donnell (Odon's mother). In the company of Oleg the young Prince discovered and explored the secret passage that leads from the palace to the theater. The son of Igor II, Thurgus the Third (K's grandfather) used to meet his hooded mistress, Iris Acht (the celebrated actress), midway between palace and theater in the secret passage:
Thurgus the Third, surnamed the Turgid. K 's grandfather, d .1900 at seventy-five, after a long dull reign; sponge-bag-capped, and with only one medal on his Jaegar jacket, he liked to bicycle in the park; stout and bald, his nose like a congested plum, his martial mustache bristing with obsolete passion, garbed in a dressing gown of green silk, and carrying a flambeau in his raised hand, he used to meet, every night, during a short period in the middle-Eighties, his hooded mistress, Iris Acht (q. v.) midway between palace and theater in the secret passage later to be rediscovered by his grandson, 130. (Index)
It seemed to Lik that to his colleagues he was as much a chance object as the old bicycle that one of the characters deftly disassembled in the second act:
Ему мнилось,-- а, может быть, это и впрямь было так,-- что для этих громких, гладких французских артистов, сложно связанных между собой сетью личных и профессиональных страстей, он такой же случайный предмет, как старый велосипед, который один из персонажей ловко разбирал во втором действии,-- так что, когда кто-нибудь особенно приветливо с ним здоровался или предлагал ему закурить, это казалось ему недоразумением, которое, увы, сейчас, сейчас разъяснится.
It seemed to him—and perhaps this was actually so—that to these loud, sleek French actors, interconnected by a network of personal and professional passions, he was as much a chance object as the old bicycle that one of the characters deftly disassembled in the second act; hence, when someone gave him a particularly hearty greeting or offered him a cigarette, he would think that there was some misunderstanding, which would, alas, be resolved in a moment.
In Canto One of his poem Shade speaks of his childhood and mentions the miracle of a lemniscate left upon wet sand by nonchalantly deft bicycle tires:
In sleeping dreams I played with other chaps
But really envied nothing - save perhaps
The miracle of a lemniscate left
Upon wet sand by nonchalantly deft
Bicycle tires. (ll. 135-138)
See also the full version of my previous post, “epigraph to Invitation to a Beheading; Lochanhead in Pale Fire.”