One of the three main characters in VN’s novel Pale Fire (1962), Jakob Gradus (Shade’s murderer) is a son of Martin Gradus, a Protestant minister in Riga:
By an extraordinary coincidence (inherent perhaps in the contrapuntal nature of Shade's art) our poet seems to name here (gradual, gray) a man, whom he was to see for one fatal moment three weeks later, but of whose existence at the time (July 2) he could not have known. Jakob Gradus called himself variously Jack Degree or Jacques de Grey, or James de Gray, and also appears in police records as Ravus, Ravenstone, and d'Argus. Having a morbid affection for the ruddy Russia of the Soviet era, he contended that the real origin of his name should be sought in the Russian word for grape, vinograd, to which a Latin suffix had adhered, making it Vinogradus. His father, Martin Gradus, had been a Protestant minister in Riga, but except for him and a maternal uncle (Roman Tselovalnikov, police officer and part-time member of the Social-Revolutionary party), the whole clan seems to have been in the liquor business. Martin Gradus died in 1920, and his widow moved to Strasbourg where she soon died, too. Another Gradus, an Alsatian merchant, who oddly enough was totally unrelated to our killer but had been a close business friend of his kinsmen for years, adopted the boy and raised him with his own children. It would seem that at one time young Gradus studied pharmacology in Zurich, and at another, traveled to misty vineyards as an itinerant wine taster. We find him next engaging in petty subversive activities - printing peevish pamphlets, acting as messenger for obscure syndicalist groups, organizing strikes at glass factories, and that sort of thing. Sometime in the forties he came to Zembla as a brandy salesman. There he married a publican's daughter. His connection with the Extremist party dates from its first ugly writhings, and when the revolution broke out, his modest organizational gifts found some appreciation in various offices. His departure for Western Europe, with a sordid purpose in his heart and a loaded gun in his pocket, took place on the very day that an innocent poet in an innocent land was beginning Canto Two of Pale Fire. We shall accompany Gradus in constant thought, as he makes his way from distant dim Zembla to green Appalachia, through the entire length of the poem, following the road of its rhythm, riding past in a rhyme, skidding around the corner of a run-on, breathing with the caesura, swinging down to the foot of the page from line to line as from branch to branch, hiding between two words (see note to line 596), reappearing on the horizon of a new canto, steadily marching nearer in iambic motion, crossing streets, moving up with his valise on the escalator of the pentameter, stepping off, boarding a new train of thought, entering the hall of a hotel, putting out the bedlight, while Shade blots out a word, and falling asleep as the poet lays down his pen for the night. (Kinbote's note to Line 17)
The name of Gradus's father seems to hint at Martin Luther (1483-1546), a leader of the Protestant Reformation. In De servo arbitrio (“On the Bondage of the Will,” 1525), his reply to Erasmus of Rotterdam (the author De libero arbitrio diatribe sive collatio, 1524), Luther mentions fidei summus gradus (the highest degree of faith) - as quoted by Lev Shestov in Potestas clavium. Vlast' klyuchey ("Power of the Keys,” 1923):
Лютер опытом своей жизни был приведён к такому признанию, которое для нашего уха звучит, как кощунственный парадокс: "Hic est fidei summus gradus, credere illum esse clementem, qui tam paucos salvat, tam multos damnat, credere justum, qui sua voluntate nos necessario damnabiles facit, ut videatur, referente Erasmo, delectari cruciatibus miserorum et odio potius quam amore dignus. Si igitur ulla ratione comprehendere, quomodo is Deus sit misericors et justus, qui tantam iram et iniquitatem ostendit, non esset opus fide" (De servo arbitrio, Вейм. изд., т. XVIII, 633 стр.), т. е.: высшая степень веры - верить, что тот милосерд, кто столь немногих спасает и столь многих осуждает, что тот справедлив, кто, по своему решению, сделал нас преступными, так что, выражаясь словами Эразма, кажется, что он радуется мукам несчастных и скорей достоин ненависти, чем любви. Если бы своим разумом я мог бы понять, как такой Бог может быть справедливым и милосердным, не было бы нужды в вере. Я не могу здесь приводить дальнейших признаний Лютера, но тот, кто поймёт весь ужас человека, приведённого к таким признаниям, поймёт и смысл католического potestas clavium.
Luther's own experience forced him to that confession which resounds in our ears like a blasphemous paradox: Hic est fidei summus gradus, credere illum esse clementem, qui tam paucos salvat, tam multos damnat, credere justum, qui sua voluntate nos necessario damnabiles facit, ut videatur, referente Erasmo, delectari cruciatibus miserorum et odio potius quam amore dignus. Si igitur possem ulla ratione comprehendere, quomodo si Deus sit misericors et justus qui tantam iram et iniquitatem ostendit, non esset opus fide (De servo arbitrio, ed. Weimar, I, XVIII, p. 633). That is, "the highest degree of faith is to believe that He is merciful who saves so few and damns so many men, that He is righteous who by His own will has necessarily made us guilty so that, according to Erasmus, it seems that He rejoices in the suffering of the miserable and is more worthy of being hated than loved. If I could understand with my reason how such a God can be righteous and merciful, faith would not be necessary." I cannot here quote other confessions of Luther's, but he who has understood the horror that a man forced to such confessions must have felt will also understand the meaning of Catholicism's potestas clavium. (Part One, 4)
Martin Luther is the author of the first full German translation of the Bible (Die Lutherbibel) that used not only the Latin Vulgate but also the Greek. In a letter of Dec. 24, 1845 (Jan. 5, 1846, NS), to Gogol Zhukovski says that he has stopped his work on Homer's Odyssey but that he hopes to finish soon his translation of the New Testament:
Вы давно ко мне не писали. Плетнев требует, чтобы вы к нему высылали аккуратно свидетельство о жизни. Это свидетельство должно быть высылаемо в каждую треть года, и всегда 13 генваря, 13 мая, 13 сентября нового стиля. Прошу вас это наблюдать. Пишите ли вы? А я как будто заколдован. Гомер мой остановился на половине XIII песни, и вот уже год, как я за него не мог приняться и от болезни, и от лечения, и от поездок. Но перевод Нового завета почти кончен; надеюсь довершить его в самый Новый год (с. с.), то есть в день рождения моего Павла. Жаль, что мы не можем его прочитать вместе.
In the same letter to Gogol (who lived in Rome) Zhukovski describes the weather in Frankfurt and twice uses the word gradus (degree):
Виноват я перед вами, любезный Гоголь: давно лежит у меня к вам письмо от Плетнёва, а я все его к вам не высылал. Как это случилось, право, не знаю: на эти дела я человек аккуратный. Правда, во все это время я хворал: Швальбах мне помог, и до декабря я был в добром порядке; но в декабре опять свихнулся: биение сердца, прерывчатый пульс, кровотечение, одышка, слабость и всякие другие приятности. И Копп, кажется мне, потревожился. Но он остановил опять ход болезни; и теперь опять все стало лучше. Весна возвратит, надеюсь, здоровье. Впрочем, трудно было не быть больным: зима странная; беспрестанный переход от тепла не к холоду, а к буре и ветру. Зимнего же освежительного холода еще до сих пор не было. Вчера только в первый и единственный раз было 4 градуса мороза при ясном небе. Барометр падает до 26 градусов, чего никогда не слыхано. Словом, и в воздухе революция, которая все наши нервы тревожит. При всем этом не мудрено, что я забыл послать вам письмо Плетнева.
In the same letter Zhukovski tells Gogol about the death of his friend of fifty years Alexander Turgenev (who in February, 1837, had accompanied Pushkin's coffin into posthumous exile):
К болезни телесной присоединилась и болезнь сердечная: мой пятидесятилетний товарищ жизни, мой добрый Тургенев переселился на родину и кончил свои земные странствования. Бог послал ему быструю, бесстрадальную смерть. 3 декабря (с. с.) он умер в Москве, в доме своей двоюродной сестры, у которой жил. Умер ударом. Но он, вероятно, накануне сильно простудился, проведя в холодную, дурную погоду целый день на Воробьёвых горах, где раздавал деньги ссылочным в Сибирь, и не одни деньги, но и слезы и утешения. Можно ли лучше приготовиться к собственной дороге, но не в ссылку, а на родину? Думая о нем, каков он был истинно, верю упокою души его: ибо, конечно, на этой душе ни малейшего пятна не осталось от жизни. Он всегда был добр, всегда чист и намерением и делом. Жизнь могла покрыть его своею пылью, но смерть легко сдунула с души его эту пыль, которая вся всыпалась в могилу.
According to Kinbote (Shade's mad commentator who imagines that he is Charles the Beloved, the last self-exiled king of Zembla), young Gradus traveled to misty vineyards as an itinerant wine taster. Misty vineyards bring to mind Pushkin's poem Vinograd ("Grapes," 1824) and On iz Germanii tumannoy / privyoz uchyonosti plody (From misty Germany / he'd brought the fruits of learning), the lines in Chapter Two (VI: 9-10) of Pushkin's Eugene Onegin. When, a few minutes before the poet's death, Kinbote invites Shade to a glass of Tokay at his place, Shade replies that he will sample Kinbote's wine with pleasure:
"Well," I said, "has the muse been kind to you?"
"Very kind," he replied, slightly bowing his hand-propped head. "exceptionally kind and gentle. In fact, I have here [indicating a huge pregnant envelope near him on the oilcloth] practically the entire product. A few trifles to settle and [suddenly striking the table with his fist] I've swung it, by God."
The envelope, unfastened at one end, bulged with stacked cards.
"Where is the missus?" I asked (mouth dry).
"Help me, Charlie, to get out of here," he pleaded. "Foot gone to sleep. Sybil is at a dinner-meeting of her club."
"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) written in the year of Gogol's birth 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:”
On the morning of July 16 (while Shade was working on the 698-746 section of his poem) dull Gradus, dreading another day of enforced inactivity in sardonically, sparkling, stimulatingly noisy Nice, decided that until hunger drove him out he would not budge from a leathern armchair in the simulacrum of a lobby among the brown smells of his dingy hotel. Unhurriedly he went through a heap of old magazines on a nearby table. There he sat, a little monument of taciturnity, sighing, puffing out his cheeks, licking his thumb before turning a page, gaping at the pictures, and moving his lips as he climbed down the columns of printed matter. Having replaced everything in a neat pile, he sank back in his chair closing and opening his gabled hands in various constructions of tedium - when a man who had occupied a seat next to him got up and walked into the outer glare leaving his paper behind. Gradus pulled it into his lap, spread it out - and froze over a strange piece of local news that caught his eye: burglars had broken into Villa Disa and ransacked a bureau, taking from a jewel box a number of valuable old medals.
Here was something to brood upon. Had this vaguely unpleasant incident some bearing on his quest? Should he do something about it? Cable headquarters? Hard to word succinctly a simple fact without having it look like a cryptogram. Airmail a clipping? He was in his room working on the newspaper with a safety razor blade when there was a bright rap-rap at the door. Gradus admitted an unexpected visitor -one of the greater Shadows, whom he had thought to be onhava-onhava ("far, far away"), in wild, misty, almost legendary Zembla! What stunning conjuring tricks our magical mechanical age plays with old mother space and old father time!
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)
Gradus is the last word of Kinbote's Commentary:
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.
God will help me, I trust, to rid myself of any desire to follow the example of the other two 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, health 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 principles: 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)
“A bigger, more respectable, more competent Gradus” brings to mind the real Inspector whose arrival is announced at the end of Gogol's Revizor (“The Inspector,” 1836).