Aсcording to M'sieur Pierre, the executioner in VN’s novel Priglashenie na kazn’ (“Invitation to a Beheading,” 1935), he is vyshnegradets (an Elderburian):
- Я никогда не лгу, - внушительно сказал м-сье Пьер. - Может быть, нужно иногда лгать - это другое дело, - и, может быть, такая щепетильная правдивость глупа и не приносит в конце концов никакой пользы, - допустим. Но факт остается фактом: я никогда не лгу. Сюда, голубчик мой, я попал из-за вас. Меня взяли ночью... Где? Скажем, в Вышнеграде. Да, - я вышнеградец.
Солеломни, плодовые сады. Если вы когда-нибудь пожелали бы приехать меня навестить, угощу вас нашими вышнями, - не отвечаю за каламбур, - так у нас в городском гербе. Там - не в гербе, а в остроге - ваш покорный слуга просидел трое суток.
‘I never lie,’ M’sieur Pierre said imposingly. ‘Perhaps there are times when one ought to lie — that is another matter — and perhaps such scrupulous veracity is foolish and in the end does no good — that may all be so. But the fact remains, I never lie. I ended up here, my fine friend, because of you. I was arrested at night. Where? Let us say in Upper Elderbury. Yes, I am an Elderburian. Salt works, fruit orchards. Should you ever want to come and call on me, I shall treat you to some of our elderburies (I assume no responsibility for the pun — it appears in our city seal). There — not in the seal, but in the jail — your obedient servant spent three days. Then they transferred me here.’ (Chapter X)
M'sieur Pierre’s home town, Vyshnegrad seems to hint at Vyshniy grad (the heavenly city) mentioned by St. Augustine in De Civitate Dei (‘About the City of God’):
Не ищи более своих ложных и лживых богов, брось их и иди к нам, чтобы обрести истинную свободу. Они не боги, а злые духи, для которых твое вечное блаженство – казнь. Не столько Юнона завидовала троянцам, от которых ты выводишь свое плотское происхождение в холмах римских, сколько эти демоны, которых ты считаешь богами, завидуют всему роду человеческому в его вечных обителях. Ты и сам осудил их, когда, умилостивляя их играми, совершавших эти игры отнес к разряду бесчестных. Докажи же свою свободу от этих бесчестных духов, наложивших на тебя обязанность посвящать им и праздновать их позорные дела. Прекрасно, что ты по собственному усмотрению не захотел признать гражданских прав за гистрионами и лицедеями; отрезви свою мысль еще более: божественное величие никоим образом не может умилостивляться такими искусствами, которые оскорбляют человеческое достоинство. Каким же образом ты можешь думать, что в числе небесных Властей могут быть подобные боги? Вышний град, где победа – истина, где достоинство – святость, где мир – блаженство, где жизнь – вечность, несравненно знатнее тебя. Тем более он не может иметь в своей среде таких богов, если ты постыдился иметь у себя таких граждан. Поэтому если хочешь достигнуть блаженного града, избегай сообщества демонов. Позорно честным людям почитать тех, которые умилостивляются людьми бесчестными. Пусть христианское очищение так же удалит их от твоего благочестия, как отстранила от тебя последних цензорская отметка.
No longer, then, follow after false and deceitful gods; abjure them rather, and despise them, bursting forth into true liberty. Gods they are not, but malignant spirits, to whom your eternal happiness will be a sore punishment. Juno, from whom you deduce your origin according to the flesh, did not so bitterly grudge Rome's citadels to the Trojans, as these devils whom yet ye repute gods, grudge an everlasting seat to the race of mankind. And thou thyself hast in no wavering voice passed judgment on them, when thou didst pacify them with games, and yet didst account as infamous the men by whom the plays were acted. Suffer us, then, to assert thy freedom against the unclean spirits who had imposed on thy neck the yoke of celebrating their own shame and filthiness. The actors of these divine crimes thou hast removed from offices of honour; supplicate the true God, that He may remove from thee those gods who delight in their crimes,—a most disgraceful thing if the crimes are really theirs, and a most malicious invention if the crimes are feigned. Well done, in that thou hast spontaneously banished from the number of your citizens all actors and players. Awake more fully: the majesty of God cannot be propitiated by that which defiles the dignity of man. How, then, can you believe that gods who take pleasure in such lewd plays, belong to the number of the holy powers of heaven, when the men by whom these plays are acted are by yourselves refused admission into the number of Roman citizens even of the lowest grade? Incomparably more glorious than Rome, is that heavenly city in which for victory you have truth; for dignity, holiness; for peace, felicity; for life, eternity. Much less does it admit into its society such gods, if thou dost blush to admit into thine such men. Wherefore, if thou wouldst attain to the blessed city, shun the society of devils. They who are propitiated by deeds of shame, are unworthy of the worship of right-hearted men. Let these, then, be obliterated from your worship by the cleansing of the Christian religion, as those men were blotted from your citizenship by the censor's mark. (Book Two, chapter XXIX)
Pierre means in French “stone” and occurs in the text of the Marseillaise: “Pas un pouce de notre terrain, pas une pierre de nos forteresses!” In Dostoevski's novel Besy ("The Possessed," 1872) the Marseillaise (in Lyamshin’s piece “The Franco-Prussian War”) imperceptibly passes into Mein lieber Augustin, "a nasty little waltz:"
Штучка на самом деле оказалась забавною, под смешным названием: "Франко-прусская война". Начиналась она грозными звуками Марсельезы:
"Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons!"
Слышался напыщенный вызов, упоение будущими победами. Но вдруг, вместе с мастерски варьированными тактами гимна, где-то сбоку, внизу, в уголку, но очень близко, послышались гаденькие звуки Mein lieber Augustin. Марсельеза не замечает их, Марсельеза на высшей точке упоения своим величием; но Augustin укрепляется, Augustin всё нахальнее, и вот такты Augustin как-то неожиданно начинают совпадать с тактами Марсельезы. Та начинает как бы сердиться; она замечает наконец Augustin, она хочет сбросить ее, отогнать как навязчивую ничтожную муху, но Mein lieber Augustin уцепилась крепко; она весела и самоуверенна; она радостна и нахальна; и Марсельеза как-то вдруг ужасно глупеет: она уже не скрывает, что раздражена и обижена; это вопли негодования, это слезы и клятвы с простертыми к провидению руками:
Pas un pouce de notre terrain, pas une pierre de nos forteresses!
Но она уже принуждена петь с Mein lieber Augustin в один такт. Её звуки как-то глупейшим образом переходят в Augustin, она склоняется, погасает. Изредка лишь, прорывом, послышится опять: "qu'un sang impur...", но тотчас же преобидно перескочит в гаденький вальс. Она смиряется совершенно: это Жюль Фавр, рыдающий на груди Бисмарка и отдающий всё, всё... Но тут уже свирепеет и Augustin: слышатся сиплые звуки, чувствуется безмерно выпитое пиво, бешенство самохвальства, требования миллиардов, тонких сигар, шампанского и заложников; Augustin переходит в неистовый рёв... Франко-прусская война оканчивается. Наши аплодируют, Юлия Михайловна улыбается и говорит: "ну как его прогнать?" Мир заключён. У мерзавца действительно был талантик.
The piece turned out to be really amusing, and bore the comic title of “The Franco-Prussian War.” It began with the menacing strains of the “Marseillaise:”
“Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons. ”
There is heard the pompous challenge, the intoxication of future victories. But suddenly mingling with the masterly variations on the national hymn, somewhere from some corner quite close, on one side come the vulgar strains of “Mein lieber Augustin.” The “Marseillaise” goes on unconscious of them. The “Marseillaise” is at the climax of its intoxication with its own grandeur; but Augustin gains strength; Augustin grows more and more insolent, and suddenly the melody of Augustin begins to blend with the melody of the “Marseillaise.” The latter begins, as it were, to get angry; becoming aware of Augustin at last she tries to fling him off, to brush him aside like a tiresome insignificant fly. But “Mein lieber Augustin” holds his ground firmly, he is cheerful and self-confident, he is gleeful and impudent, and the “Marseillaise” seems suddenly to become terribly” stupid. She can no longer conceal her anger and mortification; it is a wail of indignation, tears, and curses, with hands outstretched to Providence.
“Pas un pouсe de notre terrain, pas une pierre de nos forteresses. ”
But she is forced to sing in time with “Mein lieber Augustin.” Her melody passes in a sort of foolish way into Augustin; she yields and dies away. And only by snatches there is heard again:
“Qu'un sang impur ...”
But at once it passes very offensively into the vulgar waltz. She submits altogether. It is Jules Favre sobbing on Bismarck's bosom and surrendering everything. . . . But at this point Augustin too grows fierce; hoarse sounds are heard; there is a suggestion of countless gallons of beer, of a frenzy of self-glorification, demands for millions, for fine cigars, champagne, and hostages. Augustin passes into a wild yell. . . . “The Franco-Prussian War” is over. Our circle applauded, Yulia Mihailovna smiled, and said, “Now, how is one to turn him out?” Peace was made. The rascal really had talent. (Part Two, chapter 5, I)
At the beginning of VN’s novel the jailer Rodion enters Cincinnatus' cell and offers him tur val'sa (to dance a waltz with him):
Спустя некоторое время тюремщик Родион вошёл и ему предложил тур вальса. Цинциннат согласился. Они закружились. Бренчали у Родиона ключи на кожаном поясе, от него пахло мужиком, табаком, чесноком, и он напевал, пыхтя в рыжую бороду, и скрипели ржавые суставы (не те годы, увы, опух, одышка). Их вынесло в коридор. Цинциннат был гораздо меньше своего кавалера. Цинциннат был лёгок как лист. Ветер вальса пушил светлые концы его длинных, но жидких усов, а большие, прозрачные глаза косили, как у всех пугливых танцоров.
Sometime later Rodion the jailer came in and offered to dance a waltz with him. Cincinnatus agreed. They began to whirl. The keys on Rodion's leather belt jangled; he smelled of sweat, tobacco and garlic; he hummed puffing into his red beard; and his rusty joints creaked (he was not what he used to be, alas - now he was fat and short of breath). The dance carried them into the corridor. Cincinnatus was much smaller than his partner. Cincinnatus was light as a leaf. The wind of the waltz made the tips of his long but thin mustache flutter, and his big limpid eyes looked askance, as is always the case with timorous dancers. (chapter 1)
The jailer Rodion and the lawyer Roman bring to mind Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, the main character in Dostoevski’s novel Prestuplenie i nakazanie (“Crime and Punishment,” 1866). In VN's play Izobretenie Val'sa (“The Waltz Invention,” 1938) Gerb (one of the eleven generals) recites a poem by Turvalski (whose name comes from tur val'sa):
Министр. Неудивительно, что не слышали. Я повторю. Каков, по вашему мнению... Вы, Бруг, кажется, поднимаете руку. Нет? Очень жаль. Садитесь, Гриб. Плохо! Герб, пожалуйста.
Герб. К душе
Как ты, душа, нетерпелива,
Как бурно просишься домой -
Вон из построенной на диво,
Но тесной клетки костяной!
Пойми же, мне твой дом неведом,
Мне и пути не разглядеть, -
И можно ль за тобою следом
С такой добычею лететь!
Министр. Вы что -- в своём уме?
Герб. Стихотворение Турвальского. Было задано. (Act Two)
Gerb means in Russian “coat of arms” and brings to mind gerb (the city seal of Vyshnegrad) mentioned by M’sieur Pierre in “Invitation to a Beheading.” The action in “The Waltz Invention” seems to take place in a dream that Lyubov, the wife of the portrait painter Troshcheykin’s in VN’s play Sobytie (“The Event,” 1938), dreams in the sleep of death after committing suicide on her dead son’s fifth birthday (two days after her mother’s fiftieth birthday). The name and patronymic of Lyubov’s mother (the lady witer), Antonina Pavlovna, clearly hints at Chekhov. Chekov’s play Vishnyovyi sad (“The Cherry Orchard,” 1904) reminds one of vyshni (“elderburies,” a play vishni, cherries) and plodovye sady (the fruit orchards) mentioned by M’sieur Pierre.
“Heavenly city,” Vyshnegrad brings to mind Onhava (the capital of Zembla in VN’s novel Pale Fire, 1962) and Gradus (the name of Shade’s murderer). In a theological disputation with Shade Kinbote (Shade’s mad commentator who imagines that he is Charles the Beloved, the last self-exiled king of Zembla) quotes St. Augustine:
SHADE: There is always a psychopompos around the corner, isn't there?
KINBOTE: Not around that corner, John. With no Providence the soul must rely on the dust of its husk, on the experience gathered in the course of corporeal confinement, and cling childishly to small-town principles, local by-laws and a personality consisting mainly of the shadows of its own prison bars. Such an idea is not to be entertained one instant by the religious mind. How much more intelligent it is--even from a proud infidel's point of view!--to accept God's Presence--a faint phosphorescence at first, a pale light in the dimness of bodily life, and a dazzling radiance after it? I too, I too, my dear John, have been assailed in my time by religious doubts. The church helped me to fight them off. It also helped me not to ask too much, not to demand too clear an image of what is unimaginable. St. Augustine said--
SHADE: Why must one always quote St. Augustine to me?
KINBOTE: As St. Augustine said, "One can know what God is not; one cannot know what He is." I think I know what He is not: He is not despair, He is not terror, He is not the earth in one's rattling throat, not the black hum in one's ears fading to nothing in nothing. I know also that the world could not have occurred fortuitously and that somehow Mind is involved as a main factor in the making of the universe. In trying to find the right name for that Universal Mind, or First Cause, or the Absolute, or Nature, I submit that the Name of God has priority. (note to Line 549)
In another conversation with Kinbote Shade listed Dostoevski and Chekhov 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)
In VN’s novel Pnin (1957) one of Pnin’s addresses is “Brainpan Street, Pningrad:”
With age, however, Pnin had become choosy. Pretty fixtures no longer sufficed. Waindell was a quiet townlet, and Waindellville, in a notch of the hills, was yet quieter; but nothing was quiet enough for Pnin. There had been, at the start of his life here, that studio in the thoughtfully furnished College Home for Single Instructors, a very nice place despite certain gregarious drawbacks ('Ping-pong, Pnin?' 'I don't any more play at games of infants'), until workmen came and started to drill holes in the street--Brainpan Street, Pningrad--and patch them up again, and this went on and on, in fits of shivering black zigzags and stunned pauses, for weeks, and it did not seem likely they would ever find again the precious tool they had entombed by mistake. (Chapter Three, 1)
In his Foreword to Shade’s poem Kinbote mentions two ping-pong tables that he installed in his basement:
I was not yet used to the rather fatiguing jesting and teasing that goes on among American intellectuals of the inbreeding academic type and so abstained from telling John Shade in front of all those grinning old males how much I admired his work lest a serious discussion of literature degenerate into mere facetiation. Instead I asked him about one of my newly acquired students who also attended his course, a moody, delicate, rather wonderful boy; but with a resolute shake of his hoary forelock the old poet answered that he had ceased long ago to memorize faces and names of students and that the only person in his poetry class whom he could visualize was an extramural lady on crutches. "Come, come," said Professor Hurley, "do you mean, John, you really don't have a mental or visceral picture of that stunning blonde in the black leotard who haunts Lit. 202?" Shade, all his wrinkles beaming, benignly tapped Hurley on the wrist to make him stop. Another tormentor inquired if it was true that I had installed two ping-pong tables in my basement. I asked, was it a crime? No, he said, but why two? "Is that a crime?" I countered, and they all laughed.
In a conversation at the Faculty Club Professor Pardon (American History) tries to pronounce the name Pnin:
Professor Pardon now spoke to me: "I was under the impression that you were born in Russia, and that your name was a kind of anagram of Botkin or Botkine?"
Kinbote: "You are confusing me with some refugee from Nova Zembla" [sarcastically stressing the "Nova'"].
"Didn't you tell me, Charles, that kinbote means regicide in your language?" asked my dear Shade.
"Yes, a king's destroyer," I said (longing to explain that a king who sinks his identity in the mirror of exile is in a sense just that).
Shade [addressing the German visitor]: "Professor Kinbote is the author of a remarkable book on surnames. I believe [to me] there exists an English translation?"
"Oxford, 1956," I replied.
"You do know Russian, though?" said Pardon. "I think I heard you, the other day, talking to - what's his name - oh, my goodness" [laboriously composing his lips].
Shade: "Sir, we all find it difficult to attack that name" [laughing].
Professor Hurley: "Think of the French word for 'tire': punoo."
Shade: "Why, Sir, I am afraid you have only punctured the difficulty" [laughing uproariously]. (note to Line 894)