Inviting Shade (the poet in VN’s novel Pale Fire, 1962) to his place, Kinbote (Shade’s mad commentator who imagines that he is Charles the Beloved, the last self-exiled king of Zembla) says that he is ready to share his favorite wine with his favorite poet:
"A suggestion," I said, quivering. "I have at my place half a gallon of Tokay. I'm ready to share my favorite wine with my favorite poet. We shall have for dinner a knackle of walnuts, a couple of large tomatoes, and a bunch of bananas. And if you agree to show me your 'finished product,' there will be another treat: I promise to divulge to you why I gave you, or rather who gave you, your theme."
"What theme?" said Shade absently, as he leaned on my arm and gradually recovered the use of his numb limb.
"Our blue inenubilable Zembla, and the red-caped Steinmann, and the motorboat in the sea cave, and-"
"Ah," said Shade, "I think I guessed your secret quite some time ago. But all the same I shall sample your wine with pleasure. Okay, I can manage by myself now." (note to Line 991)
In his poem K Deliyu (“To Delius,” 1809) Zhukovski mentions tokayskoe vino (the Tokay wine):
Умерен, Делий, будь в печали
И в счастии не ослеплен:
На миг нам жизнь бессмертны дали;
Всем путь к Тенару проложен.
Хотя б заботы нас томили,
Хотя б токайское вино
Мы, нежася на дерне, пили –
Умрем: так Дием суждено.
Неси ж сюда, где тополь с ивой
Из ветвий соплетают кров,
Где вьется ручеек игривый
Среди излучистых брегов,
Вино, и масти ароматны,
И розы, дышащие миг.
О Делий, годы невозвратны:
Играй – пока нить дней твоих
У черной Парки под перстами;
Ударит час – всему конец:
Тогда прости и луг с стадами,
И твой из юных роз венец,
И соловья приятны трели
В лесу вечернею порой,
И звук пастушеской свирели,
И дом, и садик над рекой,
Где мы, при факеле Дианы,
Вокруг дернового стола,
Стучим стаканами в стаканы
И пьем из чистого стекла
В вине печалей всех забвенье;
Играй – таков есть мой совет;
Не годы жизнь, а наслажденье;
Кто счастье знал, тот жил сто лет;
Пусть быстрым, лишь бы светлым, током
Промчатся дни чрез жизни луг;
Пусть смерть зайдет к нам ненароком,
Как добрый, но нежданный друг.
Zhukovski’s poem ends in the lines:
May death visit us accidentally,
like a good but unexpected friend.
One of the greater Shadows who visits Gradus in Nice, Izumrudov calls Shade’s murderer “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)
When Kinbote invites the poet to sample his favorite wine, Shade does not know that he has only a few moments to live. According to Kinbote, Shade’s last words were "you have a caller:"
We had reached the Goldsworth side of the lane, and the flagged walk that scrambled along the side lawn to connect with the gravel path leading up from Dulwich Road to the Goldsworth front door, when Shade remarked, "You have a caller."
In profile to us on the porch a short thickset, dark-haired man in a brown suit stood holding by its ridiculous strap a shabby and shapeless briefcase, his curved forefinger still directed toward the bell button he had just pressed.
"I will kill him," I muttered. Recently a bonneted girl had made me accept a bunch of religious tracts and had told me her brother, whom for some reason I had pictured to myself as a fragile neurotic youth, would drop in to discuss with me God's Purpose, and explain everything I had not understood in the tracts. Youth, indeed! (note to Line 1000)
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”). Dvoynik ("The Double") is a short novel (1846) by Dostoevski and a poem (1909) by Alexander Blok (whose favorite Russian poets were Pushkin, Gogol and Zhukovski). According to G. Ivanov (who mentions blednyi ogon’, pale fire, in one of his poems and tokayskoe, the Tokay wine, in one of his memoir essays), to his question “does a sonnet need a coda” Blok replied that he did not know what a coda is. Blok’s poem Neznakomka (“The Unknown Woman,” 1906) ends in the line Ya znayu: istina v vine (I know: in wine is truth). In his poem Zhizn’ (“Life,” 1899) Blok exclaims: Chto nasha zhizn’? Poryv nezhdannyi? (What is our life? An unexpected impulse?):
Мы рождены; вдыхаем жадно
Природы мощные дары;
Нам мнится — дышит беспощадно
Жизнь, занесенная в миры.
Что наша жизнь? Порыв нежданный?
Случайный плод ее творца?
Дитя миров благоуханных,
Обломок вышнего венца?
О, нет! Горящей жизни меру
Не нам познать и разгадать.
Она достойна лучшей веры,
На нас — творца ее печать.
Уходят годы в бесконечность, —
Дарует новые творец.
Всегда, везде — живая вечность, —
Одно начало и конец.
The poem’s last line, odno nachalo i konets (one beginning and end), brings to mind orudie odno (only tools), as in Chapter Two (XIV: 6-7) of Eugene Onegin Pushkin calls the millions of two-legged creatures:
Но дружбы нет и той меж нами.
Все предрассудки истребя,
Мы почитаем всех нулями,
А единицами - себя.
Мы все глядим в Наполеоны;
Двуногих тварей миллионы
Для нас орудие одно;
Нам чувство дико и смешно.
Сноснее многих был Евгений;
Хоть он людей, конечно, знал
И вообще их презирал, -
Но (правил нет без исключений)
Иных он очень отличал
И вчуже чувство уважал.
But in our midst there’s even no such friendship:
Having destroyed all the prejudices,
We deem all people naughts
And ourselves units.
We all expect to be Napoleons;
the millions of two-legged creatures
for us are only tools;
feeling to us is weird and ludicrous.
More tolerant than many was Eugene,
though he, of course, knew men
and on the whole despised them;
but no rules are without exceptions:
some people he distinguished greatly
and, though estranged from it, respected feeling.
At the beginning of his Foreword (written after the Commentary and Index) Kinbote calls Canto Two of Shade’s poem “your favorite:”
Pale Fire, a poem in heroic couplets, of nine hundred ninety-nine lines, divided into four cantos, was composed by John Francis Shade (born July 5, 1898, died July 21, 1959) during the last twenty days of his life, at his residence in New Wye, Appalachia, U.S.A. The manuscript, mostly a Fair Copy, from which the present text has been faithfully printed, consists of eighty medium-sized index cards, on each of which Shade reserved the pink upper line for headings (canto number, date) and used the fourteen light-blue lines for writing out with a fine nib in a minute, tidy, remarkably clear hand, the text of his poem, skipping a line to indicate double space, and always using a fresh card to begin a new canto.
The short (166 lines) Canto One, with all those amusing birds and parhelia, occupies thirteen cards. Canto Two, your favorite, and that shocking tour de force, Canto Three, are identical in length (334 lines) and cover twenty-seven cards each. Canto Four reverts to One in length and occupies again thirteen cards, of which the last four used on the day of his death give a Corrected Draft instead of a Fair Copy.
Neut. of odin (one), odno = Odon = Nodo (Odon’s half-brother, a cardsharp and despicable traitor). At the end of his Commentary Kinbote mentions Odon (pseudonym of Donald O’Donnell, a world-famous Zemblan actor and patriot who helps the king to escape from Zembla) and a million photographers:
"And you, what will you be doing with yourself, poor King, poor Kinbote?" a gentle young voice may inquire.
God will help me, I trust, to rid myself of any desire to follow the example of two other characters in this work. I shall continue to exist. I may assume other disguises, other forms, but I shall try to exist. I may turn up yet, on another campus, as an old, happy, healthy, heterosexual Russian, a writer in exile, sans fame, sans future, sans audience, sans anything but his art. I may join forces with Odon in a new motion picture: Escape from Zembla (ball in the palace, bomb in the palace square). I may pander to the simple tastes of theatrical critics and cook up a stage play, an old-fashioned Melodrama with three principals: a lunatic who intends to kill an imaginary king, another lunatic who imagines himself to be that king, and a distinguished old poet who stumbles by chance into the line of fire, and perishes in the clash between the two figments. Oh, I may do many things! History permitting, I may sail back to my recovered kingdom, and with a great sob greet the gray coastline and the gleam of a roof in the rain. I may huddle and groan in a madhouse. But whatever happens, wherever the scene is laid, somebody, somewhere, will quietly set out - somebody has already set out, somebody still rather far away is buying a ticket, is boarding a bus, a ship, a plane, has landed, is walking toward a million photographers, and presently he will ring at my door - a bigger, more respectable, more competent Gradus. (note to Line 1000)
In his Foreword Kinbote mentions his favorite photograph of Shade:
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.
Bad Bob = Gerald Emerald (a young instructor at Wordsmith University who gives Gradus a lift to Kinbote's house) = Izumrudov (izumrud is Russian for "emerald"). Similarly, Shade, Kinbote and Gradus seem to be one and the same person whose "real" name is Botkin. An American scholar of Russian descent, Professor Vsevold Botkin went mad and became Shade, Kinbote and Gradus after the tragic death of his daughter Nadezhda (Hazel Shade of Kinbote’s Commentary). There is a hope (nadezhda) that, when Kinbote completes his work on Shade’s poem and commits suicide (on Oct. 19, 1959, the anniversary of Pushkin's Lyceum), Botkin, like Count Vorontsov (a target of Pushkin’s epigrams, “half-milord, half-merchant, etc."), will be full again. Canto Two of Shade’s poem must be the favorite of Sofia Botkin, born Lastochkin (the “real” name of both Sybil Shade, the poet’s wife, and Queen Disa, the wife of Charles the Beloved). In Canto Two of his poem Shade always calls his wife "you."
Sofia was the name of Leo Tolstoy's wife. In his poem "Tolstoy" (1928) VN mentions Pushkin's school-day Delia:
Картина в хрестоматии: босой
старик. Я поворачивал страницу,
моё воображенье оставалось
холодным. То ли дело - Пушкин: плащ,
cкала, морская пена... Слово "Пушкин"
стихами обрастает, как плющом,
и муза повторяет имена,
вокруг него бряцающие: Дельвиг,
Данзас, Дантес, - и сладостно-звучна
вся жизнь его, - от Делии лицейской
до выстрела в морозный день дуэли.
A picture in a school anthology:
an old man, barefoot. As I turned the page,
unkindled still was my imagination.
With Pushkin things are different: there’s the cloak,
the cliff, the foaming surf … The surname “Pushkin”
grows over, ivylike, with poetry,
and repetitiously the muse cites names
that echo noisily around him: Delvig,
Danzas, d’Anthès—and his whole life has a
romantic ring, from school-day Delia to
the pistol shot, that chill day of the duel.
Pushkin's poem Delia (1814-16) written at the Lyceum was first published by Zhukovski (the author of K Deliyu) in a posthumous edition (1841) of Pushkin's poems. In his essay Pouchkine ou le vrai et le vraisemblable (1937) VN points out that, had Pushkin lived a couple of years longer, we would have had his photograph.