In VN’s novel The Real Life of Sebastian Knight (1941) the narrator (Sebastian’s half-brother V.) mentions a black mask that covers Mr. Goodman’s face and compares Mr. Goodman's face to a cow udder:
'Pray be seated,' he said, courteously waving me into a leather armchair near his desk. He was remarkably well-dressed though decidedly with a city flavour. A black mask covered his face. 'What can I do for you?' He went on looking at me through the eyeholes and still holding my card.
I suddenly realized that my name conveyed nothing to him. Sebastian had made his mother's name his own completely.
'I am,' I answered, 'Sebastian Knight's half-brother.' There was a short silence.
'Let me see,' said Mr Goodman, 'am I to understand, that you are referring to the late Sebastian Knight, the well-known author?'
'Exactly,' said I.
Mr Goodman with finger and thumb stroked his face…. I mean the face under his mask… stroked it down, down, reflectively.'
'I beg your pardon,' he said, 'but are you quite sure that there is not some mistake?'
'None whatever,' I replied, and in as few words as possible I explained my relationship to Sebastian.
'Oh, is that so?' said Mr Goodman, growing more and more pensive. 'Really, really, it never entered my head. I was certainly quite aware that Knight was born and brought up in Russia. But I somehow missed the point about his name. Yes, now I see… Yes, it ought to be a Russian one…. His mother….'
Mr Goodman drummed the blotting-pad for a minute with his fine white fingers and then faintly sighed.
'Well, what's done is done,' he remarked. 'Too late now to add a… I mean,' he hurriedly continued, 'that I'm sorry not to have gone into the matter before. So you are his half-brother? Well, I am delighted to meet you.'
'First of all,' I said, 'I should like to settle the business question. Mr Knight's papers, at least those that refer to his literary occupations, are not in very great order and I don't quite know exactly how things stand. I haven't yet seen his publishers, but I gather that at least one of them – the firm that brought out The Funny Mountain – no longer exists. Before going further into the matter I thought I'd better have a talk with you.'
'Quite so,' said Mr Goodman. 'As a matter of fact you may not be cognizant of my having interest in two Knight books, The Funny Mountain and Lost Property. Under the circumstances the best thing would be for me to give you some details which I can send you by letter tomorrow morning as well as a copy of my contract with Mr Knight. Or should I call him Mr…' and smiling under his mask Mr Goodman tried to pronounce our simple Russian name.
'Then there is another matter,' I continued. 'I have decided to write a book on his life and work, and I sorely need certain information. Could you perhaps….'
It seemed to me that Mr Goodman stiffened Then he coughed once or twice and even went as far as to select a blackcurrant lozenge from a small box on his distinguished-looking desk.
'My dear Sir,' he said, suddenly veering together with his seat and whirling his eyeglass on his ribbon. 'Let us be perfectly outspoken. I have certainly known poor Knight better than anyone else, but… look here, have your started writing that book?'
'No,' I said.
'Then don't. You must excuse my being so very blunt. An old habit – a bad habit, perhaps. You don't mind, do you? Well, what I mean is… how should I put it?… You see, Sebastian Knight was not what you might call a great writer…. Oh, yes, I know – a fine artist and all that – but with no appeal to the general public. I don't wish to say that a book could not be written about him. It could. But then it ought to be written from a special point of view which would make the subject fascinating. Otherwise it is bound to fall flat, because, you see, I really don't think that Sebastian Knight's fame is strong enough to sustain anything like the work you are contemplating.'
I was so taken aback by this outburst that I kept silent. And Mr Goodman went on:
'I trust my bluntness does not offend you. Your half-brother and I were such good pals that you quite understand how I feel about it. Better not, my dear sir, better not. Leave it to some professional fellow, to one who knows the book-market – and he will tell you that anybody trying to complete an exhaustive study of Knight's life and work, as you put it, would be wasting his and the reader's time. Why, even So-and-So's book about the late… [a famous name was mentioned] with all those photographs and facsimiles did not sell.'
I thanked Mr Goodman for his advice and reached for my hat. I felt he had proved a failure and that I had followed a false scent. Somehow or other I did not care to ask him to enlarge upon those days when he and Sebastian had been 'such pals'. I wonder now what his answer would have been had I begged him to tell me the story of his secretaryship. After shaking hands with me most cordially, he returned the black mask which I pocketed, as I supposed it might come in usefully on some other occasion. He saw me to the nearest glass door and there we parted. As I was about to go down the stairs, a vigorous-looking girl whom I had noticed steadily typing in one of the rooms ran after me and stopped me (queer – that Sebastian's Cambridge friend had also called me back).
'My name,' she said, 'is Helen Pratt. I have overheard as much of your conversation as I could stand and there is a little thing I want to ask you. Clare Bishop is a great friend of mine. There's something she wants to find out. Could I talk to you one of these days?'
I said yes, most certainly, and we fixed the time.
'I knew Mr Knight quite well,' she added, looking at me with bright round eyes.
'Oh, really,' said I, not quite knowing what else to say.
'Yes,' she went on, 'he was an amazing personality, and I don't mind telling you that I loathed Goodman's book about him.'
'What do you mean?' I asked. 'What book?'
'Oh, the one he has just written. I was going over the proofs with him this last week. Well, I must be running. Thank you so much.'
She darted away and very slowly I descended the steps. Mr Goodman's large soft pinkish face was, and is, remarkably like a cow's udder. (Chapter Six)
In his poem Shekspir (“Shakespeare," 1924) VN says that Shakespeare concealed for all time his monstrous genius beneath a mask and compares Falstaff’s face to an udder with pasted-on moustache:
Надменно-чужд тревоге театральной,
ты отстранил легко и беспечально
в сухой венок свивающийся лавр
и скрыл навек чудовищный свой гений
под маскою, но гул твоих видений
остался нам: венецианский мавр
и скорбь его; лицо Фальстафа - вымя
с наклеенными усиками; Лир
бушующий... Ты здесь, ты жив - но имя,
но облик свой, обманывая мир,
ты потопил в тебе любезной Лете.
Haughty, aloof from theatre’s alarums,
you easily, regretlessly relinquished
the laurels twinning into a dry wreath,
concealing for all time your monstrous genius
beneath a mask; and yet, your phantasm’s echoes
still vibrate for us; your Venetian Moor,
his anguish; Falstaff’s visage, like an udder
with pasted-on mustache; the raging Lear..
You are among us, you’re alive; your name, though,
your image, too – deceiving, thus, the world
you have submerged in your beloved Lethe.
Mr. Goodman’s attempt to pronounce Sebastian’s and his brother’s simple Russian name brings to mind Pushkin’s poem Chto v imeni tebe moyom? (“What means my name to you?..” 1830):
Что в имени тебе моём?
Оно умрет, как шум печальный
Волны, плеснувшей в берег дальный.
Как звук ночной в лесу глухом.
Оно на памятном листке
Оставит мёртвый след, подобный
Узору надписи надгробной
На непонятном языке.
Что в нём? Забытое давно
В волненьях новых и мятежных,
Твоей душе не даст оно
Воспоминаний чистых, нежных.
Но в день печали, в тишине,
Произнеси его тоскуя;
Скажи: есть память обо мне,
Есть в мире сердце, где живу я...
What's in my name? It's soulless,
It shall expire, like the dismal roar
Of waves that hit the distant shore, --
Like nighttime noises in the forest!
Upon the memo sheet, in grief,
Its imprint in the stillborn gloom,
Much like the writing on the tomb,
In foreign language it will leave.
What's in it? All the lost and trite
In new and wild insurrection,
Within your soul it won't excite
The pure and kind recollections.
But silently, in time of anguish
Pronounce it softly while grieving
Say that my memory won't vanish
That there's a heart in which I'm living...
(tr. M. Kneller)
The poem’s first line (Chto v imeni tebe moyom?) sounds like Chto v vymeni tebe moyom? (What my udder means to you?). It seems that Sebastian’s and his brother’s simple Russian name is Shishkov (mispronounced 'Siskov' by Mr. Goodman). Vasiliy Shishkov (1940) is a story by VN and VN’s penname. In Chapter Eight (XIV: 13-14) of Eugene Onegin Pushkin asks Shishkov (a Slavophile who disliked Gallicisms) to forgive him because he does not know how to translate du comme il faut into Russian:
Но вот толпа заколебалась,
По зале шепот пробежал…
К хозяйке дама приближалась,
За нею важный генерал.
Она была нетороплива,
Не холодна, не говорлива,
Без взора наглого для всех,
Без притязаний на успех,
Без этих маленьких ужимок,
Без подражательных затей…
Всё тихо, просто было в ней,
Она казалась верный снимок
Du comme il faut… (Шишков, прости:
Не знаю, как перевести.)
But lo! the throng has undulated,
a murmur through the hall has run....
Toward the hostess there advanced a lady,
followed by an imposing general.
She was unhurried,
not cold, not talkative,
without a flouting gaze for everyone,
without pretensions to success,
without those little mannerisms,
without mimetic artifices....
All about her was quiet, simple.
She seemed a faithful reproduction
du comme il faut.... ([Shishkov,] forgive me:
I do not know how to translate.)
According to Mme Lecerf, the woman who attracted Sebastian is “good as good bread” (a Gallicism: elle est bonne comme le bon pain):
We were silent for quite a long time. Alas, I had no more doubts, though the picture of Sebastian was atrocious – but then, too, I had got it second-hand.
'Yes,' I said, 'I shall see her at all costs. And this for two reasons. Firstly, because I want to ask her a certain question – one question only. And secondly '
'Yes?' said Madame Lecerf sipping her cold tea. 'Secondly?'
'Secondly, I am at a loss to imagine how such a woman could attract my brother; so I want to see her with my own eyes.'
'Do you mean to say,' asked Madame Lecerf, 'that you think she is a dreadful, dangerous woman? Une femme fatale? Because, you know, that's not so. She's good as good bread.' (chapter 16)
In the first stanza of his poem Shestoe chuvstvo (“The Sixth Sense,” 1920) Gumilyov mentions dobryi khleb (the good bread) and zhenshchina, kotoroyu dano, sperva izmuchivshis’, nam nasladit’sya (the woman who at first tortures and then delights us):
Прекрасно в нас влюблённое вино
И добрый хлеб, что в печь для нас садится,
И женщина, которою дано,
Сперва измучившись, нам насладиться.
Fine is the wine enamored of us,
and the good bread baked for our sake,
and the woman who delights us
when she's finished her tweaking games.
(transl. Burton Raffel)
In his poem Zabludivshiysya tramvay (“The Lost Tram,” 1921) Gumilyov mentions the executioner with a face like an udder:
И, промелькнув у оконной рамы,
Бросил нам вслед пытливый взгляд
Нищий старик, - конечно, тот самый,
Что умер в Бейруте год назад.
Где я? Так томно и так тревожно
Сердце моё стучит в ответ:
"Видишь вокзал, на котором можно
В Индию Духа купить билет?"
Вывеска... кровью налитые буквы
Гласят: "Зеленная",- знаю, тут
Вместо капусты и вместо брюквы
Мёртвые головы продают.
В красной рубашке с лицом, как вымя,
Голову срезал палач и мне,
Она лежала вместе с другими
Здесь в ящике скользком, на самом дне.
And slipping by the window frame,
A poor old man threw us an inquisitive glance-
The very same old man, of course,
Who had died in Beirut a year ago.
Where am I? So languid and troubled
The beat of my heart responds:
"Do you see the station where you can buy
A ticket to the India of the spirit?"
A sign...Blood-filled letters
Announce: "Zelennaya,"-I know that here
Instead of cabbages and rutabagas
The heads of the dead are for sale.
In a red shirt, with a face like an udder,
The executioner cut my head off, too,
It lied together with the others
Here, in a slippery box, at the very bottom.
A line in Gumilyov’s poem, Vmesto kapusty i vmesto bryukvy (instead of cabbages and rutabagas), brings to mind domusta barbarn kapusta (the ugliest wives are the truest), a saying quoted by Dr. Alexander in VN’s novel Bend Sinister (1947):
“Eez eet zee verity,” said Beuret, suddenly shifting to English, which he knew Krug understood, and speaking it like a Frenchman in an English book, “eez eet zee verity zat, as I have been informed by zee reliably sources, zee disposed chef of the state has been captured together with a couple of other blokes (when the author gets bored by the process—or forgets) somewhere in the hills—and shot? But no, I ziss cannot credit—eet eez too orrible” (when the author remembers again).
“Probably a slight exaggeration,” observed Dr. Alexander in the vernacular. “Various kinds of ugly rumours are apt to spread nowadays, and although of course domusta barbarn kapusta [the ugliest wives are the truest], still I do not think that in this particular case,” he trailed off with a pleasant laugh and there was another silence. (Chapter 3)
The dictator of Padukgrad, Paduk brings to mind pauk (spider) in a Russian phrase used by V. to expose Mme Lecerf:
It was then that I turned to my silent compatriot who was ogling his broken watch.
'Ah-oo-neigh na-sheiky pah-ook,' I said softly.
The lady's hand flew up to the nape of her neck, she turned on her heel.
'Shto?' (what?) asked my slow-minded compatriot, glancing at me. Then he looked at the lady, grinned uncomfortably and fumbled with his watch.
'J'ai quelque chose dans le cou.... There's something on my neck, I feel it,' said Madame Lecerf.
'As a matter of fact,' I said, 'I have just been telling this Russian gentleman that I thought there was a spider on your neck. But I was mistaken, it was a trick of light.' (Chapter 17)
Mr. Goodman's book on V.'s half-brother is entitled The Tragedy of Sebastian Knight. According to V., the book’s title should have been The Farce of Mr. Goodman:
Mr. Goodman has never been a regular literary agent. He has only bet on books. He does not rightfully belong to that intelligent, honest and hard-working profession. We will leave it at that; but I have not yet done with The Tragedy of Sebastian Knight or rather – The Farce of Mr. Goodman. (chapter 7)
In a letter of Sept. 15, 1903, to Maria Alekseev-Lilin (Stanislavski’s wife) Chekhov says that his new play (“The Cherry Orchard,” 1904) is not a drama, but a comedy that sometimes even looks like a farce:
Вышла у меня не драма, а комедия, местами даже фарс, и я боюсь, как бы мне не досталось от Владимира Ивановича.
Maska ("The Mask," 1884) is a story by Chekhov. Nina Rechnoy (alias Mme Lecerf) brings to mind Nina Zarechny, a character in Chekhov's play Chayka ("The Seagull," 1896).
In his book Mr. Goodman tells several stories that he heard from Sebastian (who was pulling the leg of his future biographer):
Fourth: Sebastian in the summer of 1922 had overworked himself and, suffering from hallucinations, used to see a kind of optical ghost - a black-robed monk moving swiftly towards him from the sky. This is a little harder: a short story by Chekhov. (Chapter 7)
A short story by Chekhov unknown to Mr. Goodman is Chyornyi monakh (“The Black Monk,” 1894). In Pushkin’s EO (Five: VI: 8-14) Tatiana is
afraid of meeting a black monk:
Когда случалось где-нибудь
Ей встретить черного монаха
Иль быстрый заяц меж полей
Перебегал дорогу ей,
Не зная, что начать со страха,
Предчувствий горестных полна,
Ждала несчастья уж она.
When anywhere she happened
a black monk to encounter,
Or ’mongst the fields a rapid hare
would run across her path,
so scared she knew not what to undertake,
with sorrowful forebodings filled,
directly she expected sonic mishap.
One of the stories that Mr. Goodman tells in his book is a parody of Shakespeare’s Hamlet:
Third story: Sebastian speaking of his very first novel (unpublished and destroyed) explained that it was about a fat young student who travels home
to find his mother married to his uncle; this uncle, an ear-specialist, had murdered the student's father. Mr Goodman misses the joke. (chapter 7)
The full title of Shakespeare's play is The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.