In Canto Three of his poem John Shade (the poet in VN’s novel Pale Fire, 1962) describes his heart attack (during which he saw a tall white fountain) and mentions Captain Schmidt and Captain Smith:
If on some nameless island Captain Schmidt
Sees a new animal and captures it,
And if, a little later, Captain Smith
Brings back a skin, that island is no myth. (ll. 759-762)
In Ilf and Petrov’s novel Zolotoy telyonok (“The Golden Calf,” 1931) the second chapter is entitled “The Thirty Sons of Lieutenant Schmidt.” The novel’s main character, Ostap Bender (one of the “sons” of Lieutenant Schmidt) tells Shura Balaganov (another “son” of Lieutenant Schmidt) that zagranitsa (foreign lands) is the afterlife myth: whoever gets there never comes back:
— А как Рио-де-Жанейро? — возбужденно спросил Балаганов. — Поедем?
— Ну его к черту! — с неожиданной злостью сказал Остап. — Все это выдумка. Нет никакого Рио-де-Жанейро, и Америки нет, и Европы нет, ничего нет. И вообще последний город — это Шепетовка, о которую разбиваются волны Атлантического океана.
— Ну и дела! — вздохнул Балаганов.
– Мне один доктор всё объяснил, -- продолжал Остап, -- заграница -- это миф о загробной жизни. Кто туда попадает, тот не возвращается.
“So what about Rio de Janeiro?” asked Balaganov excitedly. “Are we going?”
“To hell with it!” said Ostap, suddenly angry. “It’s all a fantasy: there is no Rio de Janeiro, no America, no Europe, nothing.
Actually, there isn’t anything past Shepetovka, where the waves of the Atlantic break against the shore.”
“No kidding!” sighed Balaganov.
“A doctor I met explained everything to me,” continued Ostap, “other countries—that’s just a myth of the afterlife. (Chapter 32: “The Gates of Great Opportunities”).
Lieutenant Schmidt’s thirty sons bring to mind Tsar Nikita’s forty daughters in Pushkin’s frivolous poem Tsar Nikita and his Forty Daughters (1822). Kinbote’s landlord, Judge Goldsworth has four daughters:
In the Foreword to this work I have had occasion to say something about the amenities of my habitation. The charming, charmingly vague lady (see note to line 691), who secured it for me, sight unseen, meant well, no doubt, especially since it was widely admired in the neighborhood for its "old-world spaciousness and graciousness." Actually, it was an old, dismal, white-and-black, half-timbered house, of the type termed wodnaggen in my country, with carved gables, drafty bow windows and a so-called "semi-noble" porch, surmounted by a hideous veranda. Judge Goldsworth had a wife, and four daughters. Family photographs met me in the hallway and pursued me from room to room, and although I am sure that Alphina (9), Betty (10), Candida (12), and Dee (14) will soon change from horribly cute little schoolgirls to smart young ladies and superior mothers, I must confess that their pert pictures irritated me to such an extent that finally I gathered them one by one and dumped them all in a closet under the gallows row of their cellophane-shrouded winter clothes. In the study I found a large picture of their parents, with sexes reversed, Mrs. G. resembling Malenkov, and Mr. G. a Medusa-locked hag, and this I replaced by the reproduction of a beloved early Picasso: earth boy leading raincloud horse. I did not bother, though, to do much about the family books which were also all over the house - four sets of different Children's Encyclopedias, and a stolid grown-up one that ascended all the way from shelf to shelf along a flight of stairs to burst an appendix in the attic. Judging by the novels in Mrs. Goldsworth's boudoir, her intellectual interests were fully developed, going as they did from Amber to Zen. The head of this alphabetic family had a library too, but this consisted mainly of legal works and a lot of conspicuously lettered ledgers. All the layman could glean for instruction and entertainment was a morocco-bound album in which the judge had lovingly pasted the life histories and pictures of people he had sent to prison or condemned to death: unforgettable faces of imbecile hoodlums, last smokes and last grins, a strangler's quite ordinary-looking hands, a self-made widow, the close-set merciless eyes of a homicidal maniac (somewhat resembling, I admit, the late Jacques d'Argus), a bright little parricide aged seven ("Now, sonny, we want you to tell us -"), and a sad pudgy old pederast who had blown up his blackmailer. (note to Lines 47-48)
Judge Goldsworth “alphabetic family” brings to mind Alfavit – zerkalo zhizni (“The Mirror of Life Index”), a chapter in Ilf and Petrov’s novel Dvenadtsat’ stuliev (“The Twelve Chairs,” 1928). The index’s compiler, Varfolomey Korobeynikov reminds one of Nekrasov’s poem Korobeyniki (“The Peddlers,” 1861). The beginning of the poem (its 24 lines) evolved into a well-known folk song. Rozh’ vysokaya (the tall rye) mentioned in this song makes one think of J. D. Salinger’s novel The Catcher in the Rye. In Salinger’s story De Daumier-Smith's Blue Period (included in “Nine Stories”) the narrator tells M. Yoshoto that Picasso was a friend of his parents:
It was a bus ride of several miles from Windsor Station to the school. I doubt if M. Yoshoto said five words the whole way. Either in spite, or because, of his silence, I talked incessantly, with my legs crossed, ankle on knee, and constantly using my sock
as an absorber for the perspiration on my palm. It seemed urgent to me not only to reiterate my earlier lies--about my kinship with Daumier, about my deceased wife, about my small estate in the South of France--but to elaborate on them. At length, in
effect to spare myself from dwelling on these painful reminiscences (and they were beginning to feel a little painful), I swung over to the subject of my parents' oldest and dearest friend: Pablo Picasso. Le pauvre Picasso, as I referred to him. (I picked Picasso, I might mention, because he seemed to me the French painter who was best-known in America. I roundly considered Canada part of America.) For M. Yoshoto's benefit, I recalled, with a showy amount of natural compassion for a fallen giant, how many times I had said to him, "M. Picasso, où allez vous?" and how, in response to this allpenetrating question, the master had never failed to walk slowly, leadenly, across his studio to look at a small reproduction of his "Les Saltimbanques" and the glory, long forfeited, that had been his. The trouble with Picasso, I explained to M. Yoshoto as we got out of the bus, was that he never listened to anybody--even his closest friends.
Famille de saltimbanques (“Family of Saltimbanques”) is a 1905 oil on canvas painting by Pablo Picasso. A picture mentioned by Kinbote, Jeune garçon au cheval (“Boy Leading a Horse,” oil on canvas) was painted in Picasso’s Rose Period from 1905 to 1906, when he was still a struggling artist living in Paris. In “The Golden Calf” Bender and Balaganov meet artists who make pictures with grains:
Город всегда любил живопись, и четыре художника, издавна здесь живущих, основали группу «Диалектический станковист». Они писали портреты ответственных работников и сбывали их в местный музей живописи. С течением времени число незарисованных ответработников сильно уменьшилось, что заметно снизило заработки диалектических станковистов. Но это было еще терпимо. Годы страданий начались с тех пор, когда в город приехал новый художник Феофан Копытто.
Первый его портрет вызвал в городе большой шум. Это был портрет заведующего гостиничным трестом. Феофан Копытто оставил станковистов далеко позади. Заведующий гостиничным трестом был изображен не масляными красками, не акварелью, не углем, не темперой, не пастелью, не гуашью и не свинцовым карандашом. Он был сделан из овса. И когда художник Копытто перевозил на извозчике картину в музей, лошадь беспокойно оглядывалась и ржала. С течением времени Копытто стал употреблять также и другие злаки. Имели громовой успех портреты из проса, пшеницы и мака, смелые наброски кукурузой и гречневой крупой, пейзажи из риса и натюрморты из пшена. Сейчас он работал над групповым портретом. Большое полотно изображало заседание Губплана. Эту картину Феофан готовил из фасоли и гороха. Но в глубине души он остался верен овсу, который сделал ему карьеру и сбил с позиций диалектических станковистов.
— Овсом оно, конечно, способнее! — воскликнул Остап. — А Рубенс-то с Рафаэлем дураки — маслом старались! Мы тоже дураки, вроде Леонардо да Винчи. Дайте нам желтой эмалевой краски.
Later, Smarmeladov began to use other grains as well. He made portraits in barley, wheat, and poppy seeds, bold sketches in corn and buckwheat, landscapes in rice, and still-lifes in millet-every one a smashing success. At the moment, he was working on a group portrait. A large canvas depicted a meeting of the regional planning board. Feofan was working in dry beans and peas. Deep in his heart, however, he remained true to the oats that had launched his career and undermined the Dialectical Easelists.
"You bet it's better with oats!" exclaimed Ostap. And to think those fools Rubens and Raphael kept messing with oils. Like Leonardo da Vinci, we're fools, too. Give us some yellow enamel." (Chapter 8 “An Artistic Crisis”)
Oats brings to mind Jim Coates, the author of the article about Mrs. Z. (who saw a tall white mountain during her heart attack) visited by Shade:
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)
In Ilf and Petrov's novel Bender compares himself to Leonardo da Vinci. During the conversation at the Faculty Club Gerald Emerald (a young instructor at Wordsmith University) spreads out his palms like a disciple in Leonardo's Last Supper:
In the meantime, at the other end of the room, young Emerald had been communing with the bookshelves. At this point he returned with the T-Z volume of an illustrated encyclopedia.
"Well, said he, "here he is, that king. But look, he is young and handsome" ("Oh, that won't do," wailed the German visitor). "Young, handsome, and wearing a fancy uniform," continued Emerald. "Quite the fancy pansy, in fact."
"And you," I said quietly, "are a foul-minded pup in a cheap green jacket."
"But what have I said?" the young instructor inquired of the company, spreading out his palms like a disciple in Leonardo's Last Supper.
"Now, now," said Shade. "I'm sure, Charles, our young friend never intended to insult your sovereign and namesake."
"He could not, even if he had wished," I observed placidly, turning it all into a joke.
Gerald Emerald extended his hand - which at the moment of writing still remains in that position. (note to Line 894)
In his story The Laughing Man (included in "Nine Stories") J. D. Salinger mentions emerald vaults:
What was left of his fortune, the Laughing Man converted into diamonds, which he lowered casually, in emerald vaults, into the Black Sea. His personal wants were few. He subsisted exclusively on rice and eagle's blood, in a tiny cottage with an underground gymnasium and shooting range, on the stormy coast of Tibet.
Duchess of Payn, of Great Payn and Mone, Queen Disa (the wife of Charles the Beloved) seems to blend Leonardo's Mona Lisa with Desdemona, Othello's wife in Shakespeare's Othello. In the "Twelve Chairs" Zosya Sinitski compares Ostap Bender to Othello:
-- Помните, я рассказывала вам о Корейко? -- сказала вдруг Зося. - О том, который делал мне предложение.
-- Да, -- сказал Остап рассеянно.
-- Он очень забавный человек, - продолжала Зося. -- Помните, я вам рассказывала, как неожиданно он уехал?
-- Да, -- сказал Остап более внимательно, -- он очень забавный.
-- Представьте себе, сегодня я получила от него письмо, очень забавное...
-- Что? -- воскликнул влюбленный, поднимаясь с места.
-- Вы ревнуете? - лукаво спросила Зося.
-- М-м, немножко. Что же вам пишет этот пошляк?
-- Он вовсе не пошляк. Он просто очень несчастный и бедный человек. Садитесь, Остап. Почему вы встали? Серьёзно, я его совсем не люблю. Он просит меня приехать к нему.
-- Куда, куда приехать? - закричал Остап. - Где он?
-- Нет, я вам не скажу. Вы ревнивец. Вы его ещё убьёте. -- Ну что вы, Зося! - осторожно сказал командор. -- Просто любопытно узнать, где это люди устраиваются.
-- О, он очень далеко! Пишет, что нашел очень выгодную службу, здесь ему мало платили. Он теперь на постройке Восточной Магистрали,
-- В каком месте?
-- Честное слово, вы слишком любопытны! Нельзя быть таким Отелло!
-- Ей-богу, Зося, вы меня смешите. Разве я похож на старого глупого мавра? Просто хотелось бы узнать, в какой части Восточной Магистрали устраиваются люди.
"Remember I was telling you about Koreiko?" Zosya asked suddenly. "The one who proposed to me."
"Yes," replied Ostap absentmindedly.
"He's a very funny man," continued Zosya. "Remember I told you how he left town unexpectedly?"
"Yes," said Ostap, starting to pay attention, "he's very funny."
"Would you believe it, I got a letter from him today, a very funny letter . . ."
"What?" exclaimed her beau, rising to his feet.
"Are you jealous?" Zosya asked playfully.
"Well, a little. So what does this clown have to say?"
"He's not a clown. He's just a very poor, unhappy man. Sit down, Ostap. Why did you get up? No, seriously, I don't love him at all. He's asking me to come join him."
"Where, join him where?" shouted Ostap. "Where is he?"
"I'm not telling you. You're too jealous. You'd go and kill him, God forbid."
"Oh, come on, Zosya!" said the captain carefully. "I'm just curious where people find work these days."
"Oh, he's very, very far from here. He writes that he found a well-paying job. He wasn't making much here. He's helping build the Eastern Line."
"Where exactly?"
"Honestly, you're way too nosy. You shouldn't be such an Othello!"
"For God's sake, Zosya, you make me laugh. Do I look like a silly old Moor? I'm just curious where on the Eastern Line people find work." (Chapter 24: “The Weather was Right for Love” )
Zosya Sinitski eventually marries Perikl Femidi (Femida is the Russian name of Themis, the personification of justice in Greek mythology). Pericles, Prince of Tyre is a play written at least in part by Shakespeare. Pericles (c. 495-429 BC) was a prominent and influential Greek statesman, orator and general of Athens during its golden age. The title of Shade's poem (and of VN's novel) was borrowed from Shakespeare's Timon of Athens.
Judge Goldsworth resembles a Medusa-locked hag. In “The Golden Calf” Bender mentions a midwife whose name was Medusa-Gorgoner:
Внезапно дорогу братьям преградил человек со складным мольбертом и полированным ящиком для красок в руках. Он имел настолько взбудораженный вид, словно бы только что выскочил из горящего здания, успев спасти из огня лишь мольберт и ящик.
– Простите, – звонко сказал он, – тут только что должен был пройти товарищ Плотский-Поцелуев. Вы его не встретили? Он здесь не проходил?
– Мы таких никогда не встречаем, – грубо сказал Балаганов.
Художник толкнул Бендера в грудь, сказал «пардон» и устремился дальше.
– Плотский-Поцелуев? – ворчал великий комбинатор, который еще не завтракал. – У меня самого была знакомая акушерка по фамилии Медуза-Горгонер, и я не делал из этого шума, не бегал по улицам с криками: «Не видали ли вы часом гражданки Медузы-Горгонер? Она, дескать, здесь прогуливалась». Подумаешь! Плотский-Поцелуев!
Suddenly a man with a portable easel and a shiny paintbox in his hands blocked their path.
He had the wild-eyed look of a man who had just escaped from a burning building, and the easel and the box were all he had managed to salvage.
"Excuse me," he said loudly. "Comrade Platonikov-Pervertov was supposed to pass by here a moment ago.
You haven't seen him, by any chance?
Was he here?"
"We never see people like that," answered Balaganov rudely.
The artist bumped into Bender's chest, mumbled "Pardon!", and rushed on.
"Platonikov-Pervertov?" grumbled the grand strategist, who hadn't had his breakfast yet. "I personally knew a midwife whose name was Medusa-Gorgoner, and I didn't make a big fuss over it. I didn't run down the street shouting: 'Have you by any chance seen Comrade Medusa-Gorgoner? She's been out for a walk here.' Big deal! Platonikov-Pervertov!" (Chapter 8 “An Artistic Crisis”)
In the conversation at the Faculty Club Professor Pardon says that the slapdash disheveled hag who ladles out the mash in the Levin Hall cafeteria (one of the three people whom Shade has been said to resemble) looks like Judge Goldsworth:
Shade [smiling and massaging my knee]: "Kings do not die--they only disappear, eh, Charles?"
"Who said that?" asked sharply, as if coming out of a trance, the ignorant, and always suspicious, Head of the English Department.
"Take my own case," continued my dear friend ignoring Mr. H. "I have been said to resemble at least four people: Samuel Johnson; the lovingly reconstructed ancestor of man in the Exton Museum; and two local characters, one being the slapdash disheveled hag who ladles out the mash in the Levin Hall cafeteria."
"The third in the witch row," I precised quaintly, and everybody laughed.
"I would rather say," remarked Mr. Pardon--American History--"that she looks like Judge Goldsworth" ("One of us," interposed Shade inclining his head), "especially when he is real mad at the whole world after a good dinner." (note to Line 894)
In the first stanza of his poem “On Translating Eugene Onegin” (1955) written after the meter and rhyme scheme of the EO stanza VN says that the parasites on whom Pushkin was so hard are pardoned, if he (VN) has Pushkin’s pardon:
What is translation? On a platter
A poet's pale and glaring head,
A parrot's screech, a monkey's chatter,
And profanation of the dead.
The parasites you were so hard on
Are pardoned if I have your pardon,
O, Pushkin, for my stratagem:
I traveled down your secret stem,
And reached the root, and fed upon it;
Then, in a language newly learned,
I grew another stalk and turned
Your stanza patterned on a sonnet,
Into my honest roadside prose--
All thorn, but cousin to your rose.
In their Introduction to “The Golden Calf” Ilf and Petrov mention a dull six-volume novel entitled A parasity nikogda (“And the Parasites are Never!”):
— Сатира не может быть смешной, — сказал строгий товарищ и, подхватив под руку какого-то кустаря-баптиста, которого он принял за стопроцентного пролетария, повёл его к себе на квартиру.
Повёл описывать скучными словами, повёл вставлять в шеститомный роман под названием: «А паразиты никогда!»
According to Kinbote, Sybil Shade (the poet’s wife) used to call him “the monstrous parasite of a genius:”
From the very first I tried to behave with the utmost courtesy toward my friend's wife, and from the very first she disliked and distrusted me. I was to learn later that when alluding to me in public she used to call me "an elephantine tick; a king-sized botfly; a macaco worm; the monstrous parasite of a genius." I pardon her--her and everybody. (note to Line 247)
Sybil Shade and Queen Disa are one and the same person whose "real" name seems to be Sofia Botkin (born Lastochkin). Describing the meeting of Bender and Balaganov in Moscow, Ilf and Petrov mention lastochki (swallows):
В тот печальный и светлый осенний день, когда в московских скверах садовники срезают цветы и раздают их детям, главный сын лейтенанта Шмидта Шура Балаганов спал на скамье в пассажирском зале Рязанского вокзала. Он лежал, положив голову на деревянный бортик. Мятая кепка была надвинута на нос. По всему было видно, что бортмеханик «Антилопы» и уполномоченный по копытам несчастлив и нищ. К его небритой щеке прилипла раздробленная яичная скорлупа. Парусиновые туфли потеряли форму и цвет и напоминали скорее молдаванские постолы. Ласточки летали под высоким потолком двухсветного зала.
On that autumn day, filled with sadness and light, when gardeners cut flowers in Moscow parks and pass them out to children, Shura Balaganov, the preeminent son of Lieutenant Schmidt, was sleeping on a wooden bench in the waiting area of the Ryazan train station. He was resting his head on the arm of the bench, and a crumpled cap covered his face. It was clear that the Antelope's rally mechanic and Vice President for Hoofs was dejected and destitute. Crushed eggshell clung to his unshaven cheek. His canvas shoes had lost their shape and color, and they looked more like Moldovan peasant footwear. Swallows flew under the high ceiling of the airy hall. (Chapter 32: “The Gates of Great Opportunities”)