In his Foreword to Shade’s poem 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) says that there exist friendships which develop their own inner duration, their own eons of transparent time:
And he was a very dear friend indeed! The calendar says I had known him only for a few months but there exist friendships which develop their own inner duration, their own eons of transparent time, independent of rotating, malicious music. Never shall I forget how elated I was upon learning, as mentioned in a note my reader shall find; that the suburban house (rented for my use from Judge Goldsworth who had gone on his Sabbatical to England) into which I moved on February 5, 1959, stood next to that of the celebrated American poet whose verses I had tried to put into Zemblan two decades earlier! Apart from this glamorous neighborhood, the Goldsworthian château, as I was soon to discover, had little to recommend it. The heating system was a farce, depending as it did on registers in the floor wherefrom the tepid exhalations of a throbbing and groaning basement furnace were transmitted to the rooms with the faintness of a moribund's last breath. By occluding the apertures upstairs I attempted to give more energy to the register in the living room but its climate proved to be incurably vitiated by there being nothing between it and the arctic regions save a sleezy front door without a vestige of vestibule - either because the house had been built in midsummer by a naïve settler who could not imagine the kind of winter New Wye had in store for him, or because old-time gentility required that a chance caller at the open door could satisfy himself from the threshold that nothing unseemly was going on in the parlor.
According to Kinbote, he had his full reward in Shade's friendship:
Oh, there were many such incidents. In a skit performed by a group of drama students I was pictured as a pompous woman hater with a German accent, constantly quoting Housman and nibbling raw carrots; and a week before Shade's death, a certain ferocious lady at whose club I had refused to speak on the subject of "The Hally Vally" (as she put it, confusing Odin's Hall with the title of a Finnish epic), said to me in the middle of a grocery store, "You are a remarkably disagreeable person. I fail to see how John and Sybil can stand you," and, exasperated by my polite smile, she added: "What's more, you are insane." But let me not pursue the tabulation of nonsense. Whatever was thought, whatever was said, I had my full reward in John's friendship. This friendship was the more precious for its tenderness being intentionally concealed, especially when we were not alone, by that gruffness which stems from what can be termed the dignity of the heart. His whole being constituted a mask. John Shade's physical appearance was so little in keeping with the harmonies hiving in the man, that one felt inclined to dismiss it as a coarse disguise or passing fashion; for if the fashions of the Romantic Age subtilized a poet's manliness by baring his attractive neck, pruning his profile and reflecting a mountain lake in his oval gaze, present-day bards, owing perhaps to better opportunities of aging, look like gorillas or vultures. My sublime neighbor's face had something about it that might have appealed to the eye, had it been only leonine or only Iroquoian; but unfortunately, by combining the two it merely reminded one of a fleshy Hogarthian tippler of indeterminate sex. His misshapen body, that gray mop of abundant hair, the yellow nails of his pudgy fingers, the bags under his lusterless eyes, were only intelligible if regarded as the waste products eliminated from his intrinsic self by the same forces of perfection which purifed and chiseled his verse. He was his own cancellation. (Foreword)
In his essay De l’Amitié (“Of Friendship”) Montaigne mentions l’unique et principale amitié (a unique and particular friendship):
L’unique et principale amitié descoust toutes autres obligations. Le secret que j’ay juré ne deceller à nul autre, je le puis, sans parjure, communiquer à celuy qui n’est pas autre : c’est moy. C’est un assez grand miracle de se doubler ; et n’en cognoissent pas la hauteur, ceux qui parlent de se tripler. Rien n’est extreme, qui a son pareil. Et qui presupposera que de deux j’en aime autant l’un que l’autre, et qu’ils s’entr’aiment et m’aiment autant que je les aime, il multiplie en confrairie la chose la plus une et unie, et dequoy une seule est encore la plus rare à trouver au monde.
A unique and particular friendship dissolves all other obligations whatsoever: the secret I have sworn not to reveal to any other, I may without perjury communicate to him who is not another, but myself. ‘Tis miracle enough certainly, for a man to double himself, and those that talk of tripling, talk they know not of what. Nothing is extreme, that has its like; and he who shall suppose, that of two, I love one as much as the other, that they mutually love one another too, and love me as much as I love them, multiplies into a confraternity the most single of units, and whereof, moreover, one alone is the hardest thing in the world to find. (Essays, Book One, Chapter 28)
According to Montaigne, “it is miracle enough certainly, for a man to double himself, and those that talk of tripling, talk they know not of what.” The three main characters in PF, Shade, Kinbote and Gradus (the poet’s murderer) seem to be one and the same person whose “real” name is Botkin. 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). In his essay "Of Friendship" Montaigne writes:
Au demeurant cette responce ne sonne non plus que feroit la mienne, à qui s’enquerroit à moy de cette façon : Si vostre volonté vous commandoit de tuer vostre fille, la tueriez vous ? et que je l’accordasse. Car cela ne porte aucun tesmoignage de consentement à ce faire, par ce que je ne suis point en doute de ma volonté, et tout aussi peu de celle d’un tel amy. Il n’est pas en la puissance de tous les discours du monde de me desloger de la certitude que j’ay, des intentions et jugemens du mien. Aucune de ses actions ne me sçauroit estre presentée, quelque visage qu’elle eut, que je n’en trouvasse incontinent le ressort.
As to the rest, this answer carries no worse sound, than mine would do to one that should ask me: “If your will should command you to kill your daughter, would you do it?” and that I should make answer, that I would; for this expresses no consent to such an act, forasmuch as I do not in the least suspect my own will, and as little that of such a friend. ‘Tis not in the power of all the eloquence in the world, to dispossess me of the certainty I have of the intentions and resolutions of my friend; nay, no one action of his, what face soever it might bear, could be presented to me, of which I could not presently, and at first sight, find out the moving cause.
Shade's murderer, Jakob Gradus is also known as Jack Degree. In his essay De l’experience ("Of Experience") Montaigne says that every place swarms with commentaries, of authors there is great scarcity, and uses the phrase de degré en degré (step by step):
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. (Essays, Book Three, Chapter XIII)
One of the greater Shadows, Izumrudov calls Gradus "friend Gradus:"
He was a merry, perhaps overmerry, fellow, in a green velvet jacket. Nobody liked him, but he certainly had a keen mind. His name, Izumrudov, sounded rather Russian but actually meant "of the Umruds," an Eskimo tribe sometimes seen paddling their umyaks (hide-lined boats) on the emerald waters of our northern shores. Grinning, he said friend Gradus must get together his travel documents, including a health certificate, and take the earliest available jet to New York. Bowing, he congratulated him on having indicated with such phenomenal acumen the right place and the right way. Yes, after a thorough perlustration of the loot that Andron and Niagarushka had obtained from the Queen's rosewood writing desk (mostly bills, and treasured snapshots, and those silly medals) a letter from the King did turn up giving his address which was of all places - Our man, who interrupted the herald of success to say he had never - was bidden not to display so much modesty. A slip of paper was now produced on which Izumrudov, shaking with laughter (death is hilarious), wrote out for Gradus their client's alias, the name of the university where he taught, and that of the town where it was situated. No, the slip was not for keeps. He could keep it only while memorizing it. This brand of paper (used by macaroon makers) was not only digestible but delicious. The gay green vision withdrew - to resume his whoring no doubt. How one hates such men! (note to Line 741)
Izumrud being Russian for "emerald," one is reminded of Gerald Emerald, a young instructor at Wordsmith University who gives Gradus a lift to Kinbote's house in New Wye. Shade’s poem 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”). In Montaigne’s Essays the chapter “Of Experience” is followed by Vingt et neuf sonnets d’Estienne de La Boetie ("Nine and Twenty Sonnets of Estienne de la Boitie"). Describing his friendship with Estienne de La Boetie, Montaigne writes:
Nous nous cherchions avant que de nous estre veus, et par des rapports que nous oyïons l’un de l’autre, qui faisoient en nostre affection plus d’effort que ne porte la raison des rapports, je croy par quelque ordonnance du ciel : nous nous embrassions par noz noms. Et à nostre premiere rencontre, qui fut par hazard en une grande feste et compagnie de ville, nous nous trouvasmes si prins, si cognus, si obligez entre nous, que rien des lors ne nous fut si proche que l’un à l’autre. Il escrivit une Satyre Latine excellente, qui est publiée, par laquelle il excuse et explique la precipitation de nostre intelligence, si promptement parvenue à sa perfection. Ayant si peu à durer, et ayant si tard commencé, car nous estions tous deux hommes faicts, et luy plus de quelque année, elle n’avoit point à perdre temps, et à se regler au patron des amitiez molles et regulieres, ausquelles il faut tant de precautions de longue et preallable conversation. Cette cy n’a point d’autre idée que d’elle mesme, et ne se peut rapporter qu’à soy. Ce n’est pas une speciale consideration, ny deux, ny trois, ny quatre, ny mille : c’est je ne sçay quelle quinte essence de tout ce meslange, qui, ayant saisi toute ma volonté, l’amena se plonger et se perdre dans la sienne ; qui, ayant saisi toute sa volonté, l’amena se plonger et se perdre en la mienne, d’une faim, d’une concurrence pareille. Je dis perdre, à la verité, ne nous reservant rien qui nous fut propre, ny qui fut ou sien ou mien.
We sought one another long before we met, and by the characters we heard of one another, which wrought upon our affections more than, in reason, mere reports should do; I think ‘twas by some secret appointment of heaven. We embraced in our names; and at our first meeting, which was accidentally at a great city entertainment, we found ourselves so mutually taken with one another, so acquainted, and so endeared betwixt ourselves, that from thenceforward nothing was so near to us as one another. He wrote an excellent Latin satire, since printed, wherein he excuses the precipitation of our intelligence, so suddenly come to perfection, saying, that destined to have so short a continuance, as begun so late (for we were both full-grown men, and he some years the older), there was no time to lose, nor were we tied to conform to the example of those slow and regular friendships, that require so many precautions of long preliminary conversation: This has no other idea than that of itself, and can only refer to itself: this is no one special consideration, nor two, nor three, nor four, nor a thousand; ‘tis I know not what quintessence of all this mixture, which, seizing my whole will, carried it to plunge and lose itself in his, and that having seized his whole will, brought it back with equal concurrence and appetite to plunge and lose itself in mine. I may truly say lose, reserving nothing to ourselves that was either his or mine. ("Of Friendship")
I notice that Aion: Researches into the Phenomenology of the Self (cf. "their own eons of transparent time" mentioned by Kinbote) is a book (1951) by C. G. Jung. At the end of his Commentary Kinbote mentions his notes and self:
Many years ago--how many I would not care to say--I remember my Zemblan nurse telling me, a little man of six in the throes of adult insomnia: "Minnamin, Gut mag alkan, Pern dirstan" (my darling, God makes hungry, the Devil thirsty). Well, folks, I guess many in this fine hall are as hungry and thirsty as me, and I'd better stop, folks, right here.
Yes, better stop. My notes and self are petering out. Gentlemen, I have suffered very much, and more than any of you can imagine. I pray for the Lord's benediction to rest on my wretched countrymen. My work is finished. My poet is dead. (note to Line 1000)
A French diplomat, spy, Freemason and soldier who fought in the Seven Years' War, Chevalier d'Éon (1728-1810) had androgynous physical characteristics and natural abilities as a mimic and a spy. D'Éon appeared publicly as a man and pursued masculine occupations for 49 years, although during that time d'Éon successfully infiltrated the court of Empress Elizabeth of Russia by presenting as a woman. For 33 years, from 1777, d'Éon lived as a woman (cf. modo vir, modo femina).
According to Shade, he likes his name: Shade, Ombre, almost 'man' in Spanish. Ombre and Chevalier d'Éon bring to mind Ombre Chevalier mentioned by Mlle Larivière (Lucette's governess) in VN's novel Ada (1969):
Greg, assuming with touching simplicity that Ada would notice and approve, showered Mlle Larivière with a thousand little attentions — helping her out of her mauve jacket, pouring out for her the milk into Lucette’s mug from a thermos bottle, passing the sandwiches, replenishing, replenishing Mlle Larivière’s wineglass and listening with a rapt grin to her diatribes against the English, whom she said she disliked even more than the Tartars, or the, well, Assyrians.
‘England!’ she cried, ‘England! The country where for every poet, there are ninety-nine sales petits bourgeois, some of suspect extraction! England dares ape France! I have in that hamper there an English novel of high repute in which a lady is given a perfume — an expensive perfume! — called "Ombre Chevalier," which is really nothing but a fish — a delicious fish, true, but hardly suitable for scenting one’s handkerchief with. On the very next page, a soi-disant philosopher mentions "une acte gratuite" as if all acts were feminine, and a soi-disant Parisian hotelkeeper in the story says "je me regrette" for "je regrette"!’
‘D’accord,’ interjected Van, ‘but what about such atrocious bloomers in French translations from the English as for example —’
Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, at that very moment Ada emitted a Russian exclamation of utmost annoyance as a steel-gray convertible glided into the glade. No sooner had it stopped than it was surrounded by the same group of townsmen, who now seemed to have multiplied in strange consequence of having shed coats and waistcoats. Thrusting his way through their circle, with every sign of wrath and contempt, young Percy de Prey, frilled-shifted and white-trousered, strode up to Marina’s deckchair. He was invited to join the party despite Ada’s trying to stop her silly mother with an admonishing stare and a private small shake of the head. (1.39)
A dozen of townsmen who surround Percy de Prey's car seem to be the apostles (a comrade of the mysterious pastors whom they dispatched and buried is Judas). In Aion: Researches into the Phenomenology of the Self Jung demonstrates his thesis by an investigation of the Christian fish symbol, and of Gnostic and alchemical symbolism. Describing the poet's recovery after his heart attack, Kinbote compares Shade to a Japanese fish:
The poet's recovery turned out indeed to be very speedy and would have to be called miraculous had there been anything organically wrong with his heart. There was not; a poet's nerves can play the queerest tricks but they also can quickly recapture the rhythm of health, and soon John Shade, in his chair at the head of an oval table, was again speaking of his favorite Pope to eight pious young men, a crippled extramural woman and three coeds, one of them a tutorial dream. He had been told not to curtail his customary exercise, such as walks, but I must admit I experienced myself palpitations and cold sweats at the sight of that precious old man wielding rude garden tools or squirming up the college hall stairs as a Japanese fish up a cataract. Incidentally: the reader should not take too seriously or too literally the passage about the alert doctor (an alert doctor, who as I well know once confused neuralgia with cerebral sclerosis). As I gathered from Shade himself, no emergency incision was performed; the heart was not compressed by hand; and if it stopped pumping at all, the pause must have been very brief and so to speak superficial. All this of course cannot detract from the great epic beauty of the passage. (note to Line 691)