At the beginning of VN’s novel Zashchita Luzhina (“The Luzhin Defense,” 1930) Luzhin senior, the writer of books for boys, would be rapping with feigned interest po steklu barometra (on the barometer dial), where the hand always stood at storm:
Больше всего его поразило то, что с понедельника он будет Лужиным. Его отец - настоящий Лужин, пожилой Лужин, Лужин, писавший книги,- вышел от него, улыбаясь, потирая руки, уже смазанные на ночь прозрачным английским кремом, и своей вечерней замшевой походкой вернулся к себе в спальню. Жена лежала в постели. Она приподнялась и спросила: "Ну что, как?" Он снял свой серый халат и ответил: "Обошлось. Принял спокойно. Ух... Прямо гора с плеч". "Как хорошо...- сказала жена, медленно натягивая на себя шелковое одеяло.- Слава Богу, слава Богу..."
Это было и впрямь облегчение. Все лето - быстрое дачное лето, состоящее в общем из трех запахов: сирень, сенокос, сухие листья - все лето они обсуждали вопрос, когда и как перед ним открыться, и откладывали, откладывали, дотянули до конца августа. Они ходили вокруг него, с опаской суживая круги, но, только он поднимал голову, отец с напускным интересом уже стучал по стеклу барометра, где стрелка всегда стояла на шторме, а мать уплывала куда-то в глубь дома оставляя все двери открытыми, забывая длинный, неряшливый букет колокольчиков на крышке рояля. Тучная француженка, читавшая ему вслух "Монте-кристо" и прерывавшая чтение, чтобы с чувством воскликнуть "бедный, бедный Дантес!", предлагала его родителям, что сама возьмет быка за рога, хотя быка этого смертельно боялась. Бедный, бедный Дантес не возбуждал в нем участия, и, наблюдая ее воспитательный вздох, он только щурился и терзал резинкой ватманскую бумагу, стараясь поужаснее нарисовать выпуклость её бюста.
What struck him most was the fact that from Monday on he would be Luzhin. His father — the real Luzhin, the elderly Luzhin, the writer of books — left the nursery with a smile, rubbing his hands (already smeared for the night with transparent cold cream), and with his suede-slippered evening gait padded back to his bedroom. His wife lay in bed. She half raised herself and said: 'Well, how did it go?' He removed his gray dressing gown and replied: 'We managed. Took it calmly. Ouf... that's a real weight off my shoulders.' 'How nice...' said his wife, slowly drawing the silk blanket over her. 'Thank goodness, thank goodness...'
It was indeed a relief. The whole summer — a swift country summer consisting in the main of three smells: lilac, new-mown hay, and dry leaves — the whole summer they had debated the question of when and how to tell him, and they had kept putting it off so that it dragged on until the end of August. They had moved around him in apprehensively narrowing circles, but he had only to raise his head and his father would already be rapping with feigned interest on the barometer dial, where the hand always stood at storm, while his mother would sail away somewhere into the depths of the house, leaving all the doors open and forgetting the long, messy bunch of bluebells on the lid of the piano. The stout French governess who used to read The Count of Monte Cristo aloud to him (and interrupt her reading in order to exclaim feelingly 'poor, poor Dantès!') proposed to the parents that she herself take the bull by the horns, though this bull inspired mortal fear in her. Poor, poor Dantès did not arouse any sympathy in him, and observing her educational sigh he merely slitted his eyes and rived his drawing paper with an eraser, as he tried to portray her protuberant bust as horribly as possible. (Chapter I)
Barometr na gradus nizhe ("Barometer is One Degree Lower") is Herzen's brief note in Kolokol ("The Bell," June 1, 1866) apropos of the removal of Prince Suvorov (the Field Marshal's grandson) from the position of Military Governor-General of St. Petersburg:
Благородная фигура князя Суворова исчезает с первого плана действий. Это уж «шах» самому себе. Обер-полицмейстер с.-петербургский подчиняется III отделению, как и вся Россия.
Blagorodnaya figura knyazya Suvorova (the noble figure of Prince Prince Suvorov) and shakh samomu sebe (checking your own king) have obvious chess connotations. A chess maestro, Aleksandr Ivanovich Luzhin has the same name and patronymic as Alexander Ivanovich Herzen (a Russian writer and thinker, 1812-1870). We learn poor Luzhin's name and patronymic only in the novel's last sentence:
Лужин, заперев дверь, первым делом включил свет. Белым блеском раскрылась эмалевая ванна у левой стены. На правой висел рисунок карандашом: куб, отбрасывающий тень. В глубине, у окна, стоял невысокий комод. Нижняя часть окна была как будто подернута ровным морозом, искристо-голубая, непрозрачная. В верхней части чернела квадратная ночь с зеркальным отливом. Лужин дернул за ручку нижнюю раму, но что-то прилипло или зацепилось, она не хотела открыться. Он на мгновение задумался, потом взялся за спинку стула, стоявшего подле ванны, и перевел взгляд с этого крепкого, белого стула на плотный мороз стекла. Решившись наконец, он поднял стул за ножки и краем спинки, как тараном, ударил. Что-то хрустнуло, он двинул еще раз, и вдруг в морозном стекле появилась черная, звездообразная дыра. Был миг выжидательной тишины. Затем глубоко-глубоко внизу что-то нежно зазвенело и рассыпалось. Стараясь расширить дыру, он ударил еще раз, и клинообразный кусок стекла разбился у его ног. Тут он замер. За дверью были голоса. Кто-то постучал. Кто-то громко позвал его по имени. Потом тишина, я совершенно ясно голос жены: "Милый Лужин, отоприте, пожалуйста". С трудом сдерживая тяжкое свое дыхание, Лужин опустил на пол стул и попробовал высунуться в окно. Большие клинья и углы еще торчали в раме. Что-то полоснуло его по шее, он быстро втянул голову обратно,- нет, не пролезть. В дверь забухал кулак. Два мужских голоса спорили, и среди этого грома извивался шепот жены. Лужин решил больше не бить стекла, слишком оно звонко. Он поднял глаза. Верхняя оконница. Но как до нее дотянуться? Стараясь не шуметь и ничего не разбить, он стал снимать с комода предметы: зеркало, какую-то бутылочку, стакан. Делал он все медленно и хорошо, напрасно его так торопил грохот за дверью, Сняв также и скатерть, он попытался влезть на комод, приходившийся ему по пояс, и это удалось не сразу. Стало душно, он скинул пиджак и тут заметил, что и руки у него в крови, и перед рубашки в красных пятнах. Наконец, он оказался на комоде, комод трещал под его тяжестью. Он быстро потянулся к верхней раме и уже чувствовал, что буханье и голоса подталкивают его, и он не может не торопиться. Подняв руку, он рванул раму, и она отпахнулась. Черное небо. Оттуда, из этой холодной тьмы, донесся голос жены, тихо сказал: "Лужин, Лужин". Он вспомнил, что подальше, полевее, находится окно спальни, из него-то и высунулся этот шепот. За дверью, меж тем, голоса и грохот росли, было там человек двадцать, должно быть, - Валентинов, Турати, старик с цветами, сопевший, крякавший, и еще, и еще, и все вместе чем-то били в дрожащую дверь. Квадратная ночь, однако, была еще слишком высоко. Пригнув колено, Лужин втянул стул на комод. Стул стоял нетвердо, трудно было балансировать, все же Лужин полез. Теперь можно было свободно облокотиться о нижний край черной ночи. Он дышал так громко, что себя самого оглушал, и уже далеко, далеко были крики за дверью, но зато яснее был пронзительный голос, вырывавшийся из окна спальни. После многих усилий он оказался в странном и мучительном положении: одна нога висела снаружи, где была другая - неизвестно, а тело никак не хотело протиснуться. Рубашка на плече порвалась, все лицо было мокрое. Уцепившись рукой за что-то вверху, он боком пролез в пройму окна. Теперь обе ноги висели наружу, и надо было только отпустить то, за что он держался,- и спасен, Прежде чем отпустить, он глянул вниз. Там шло какое-то торопливое подготовление: собирались, выравнивались отражения окон, вся бездна распадалась на бледные и темные квадраты, и в тот миг, что Лужин разжал руки, в тот миг, что хлынул в рот стремительный ледяной воздух, он увидел, какая именно вечность угодливо и неумолимо раскинулась перед ним.
Дверь выбили. "Александр Иванович, Александр Иванович!" - заревело несколько голосов. Но никакого Александра Ивановича не было.
The first thing Luzhin did after locking the door was to turn on the light. Gleaming whitely, an enameled bathtub came into view by the left wall. On the right wall hung a pencil drawing: a cube casting a shadow. At the far end, by the window, stood a small chest. The lower part of the window was of frosted glass, sparkly-blue, opaque. In the upper part, a black rectangle of night was sheened mirror-like. Luzhin tugged at the handle of the lower frame, but something had got stuck or had caught, it did not want to open. He thought for a moment, then took hold of the back of a chair standing by the tub and looked from the sturdy white chair to the solid forest of the window. Making up his mind finally, he lifted the chair by the legs and struck, using its edge as a battering ram. Something cracked, he swung again, and suddenly a black, star-shaped hole appeared in the frosted glass. There was a moment of expectant silence. Then, far below, something tinkled tenderly and disintegrated. Trying to widen the hole, he struck again, and a wedge of glass smashed at his feet. There were voices behind the door. Somebody knocked. Somebody called him loudly by his name and patronymic. Then there was silence and his wife's voice said with absolute clarity: 'Dear Luzhin, open, please.' Restraining his heavy breathing, Luzhin lowered the chair to the floor and tried to thrust himself through the window. Large wedges and corners still stuck out of the frame. Something stung his neck and he quickly drew his head in again — no, he could not get through. A fist slammed against the door. Two men's voices were quarreling and his wife's whisper wriggled through the uproar. Luzhin decided not to smash any more glass, it made too much noise. He raised his eyes. The upper window. But how to reach it? Trying not to make a noise or break anything, he began to take things off the chest; a mirror, a bottle of some sort, a glass. He did everything slowly and thoroughly, it was useless for the rumbling behind the door to hurry him like that. Removing the doily too he attempted to climb up on the chest; it reached to his waist, and he was unable to make it at first. He felt hot and he peeled off his jacket, and here he noticed that his hands were bloodied and that there were red spots on the front of his shirt. Finally he found himself on the chest, which creaked under his weight. He quickly reached up to the upper frame, now feeling that the thumping and the voices were urging him on and that he could not help but hurry. Raising a hand he jerked at the frame and it swung open. Black sky. Thence, out of this cold darkness, came the voice of his wife, saying softly: 'Luzhin, Luzhin.' He remembered that farther to the left was the bedroom window: it was from there this whisper had emerged. Meanwhile the voices and the crashing behind the door had grown in volume, there must have been around twenty people out there — Valentinov, Turati, the old gentleman with the bunch of flowers... They were sniffing and grunting, and more of them came, and all together they were beating with something against the shuddering door. The rectangular night, however, was still too high. Bending one knee, Luzhin hauled the chair onto the chest. The chair was unstable, it was difficult to balance, but still Luzhin climbed up. Now he could easily lean his elbows on the lower edge of the black night. He was breathing so loudly that he deafened himself, and now the cries behind the door were far, far away, but on the other hand the voice from the bedroom window was clearer, was bursting out with piercing force. After many efforts he found himself in a strange and mortifying position: one leg hung outside, and he did not know where the other one was, while his body would in no wise be squeezed through. His shirt had torn at the shoulder, his face was wet. Clutching with one hand at something overhead, he got through the window sideways. Now both legs were hanging outside and he had only to let go of what he was holding on to — and he was saved. Before letting go he looked down. Some kind of hasty preparations were under way there: the window reflections gathered together and leveled themselves out, the whole chasm was seen to divide into dark and pale squares, and at the instant when Luzhin unclenched his hand, at the instant when icy air gushed into his mouth, he saw exactly what kind of eternity was obligingly and inexorably spread out before him. The door was burst in, 'Aleksandr Ivanovich, Aleksandr Ivanovich,' roared several voices. But there was no Aleksandr Ivanovich. (Chapter 14)
At the end of his commentary to Shade's poem Kinbote (in VN’s novel Pale Fire, 1962, Shade’s mad commentator who imagines that he is Charles the Beloved, the last self-exiled king of Zembla) mentions a bigger, more respectable, more competent Gradus who will presently ring at his door:
"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 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)
Shade's murderer, Jakob Gradus (a member of the Shadows, a regicidal organization) makes one think of Ivan Yakovlev (Herzen's father, a rich landowner, 1767-1846, whose surname comes from Yakov, the Russian male given name that corresponds to the English names Jacob or James) and of Herzen's Kolokol note Barometr na gradus nizhe ("The Barometer is One Degree Lower"). A million photographers mentioned by Kinbote brings to mind Herzen's first cousin, Count Sergei Levitski (1819-1898), the patriarch of Russian photography and one of Europe's most important early photographic pioneers, inventors and innovators. In Chapter Two (XIV: 6) of Eugene Onegin Pushkin mentions dvunogikh tvarey milliony (the millions of two-legged creatures) who for us are only tools (orudie odno):
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.
According to Pushkin, my vse glyadim v Napoleony (we all expect to be Napoleons). At the end of September 1812 Napoleon asked Ivan Yakovlev (whose brother Lev was the Russian envoy at the Westphalian court of Jérôme Bonaparte, Napoleon's brother whom Herzen's father called in jest King Yeryoma) to deliver a peace-offer letter to Emperor Alexander I from occupied and destroyed by fire Moscow. Begstvo Napoleona iz Moskvy v Parizh ("The Retreat of Napoleon I from Moscow") is an amazing chess problem created by Alexander Petrov (a Russian chess player, chess composer, and chess writer who over half a century was considered Russia's strongest player, 1794-1867) in 1824:
It symbolizes: b1=Moscow, h8=Paris, h1-a8=Berezina, sK=Napoleon, wK=Tsar Alexander I. The possibility of mating with 6.Qa8 instead of 6.Nb4+ is not a cook, but was intentionally built in by the author to illustrate the "possible but missed annihilation of the enemy" on the banks of the Beresina river.
In The Luzhin Defense, the guests at a party thrown by Luzhin's wife include a plain-looking man named Petrov:
Лужина, увидев мужа, сунула ему в руку тарелочку с красиво очищенным апельсином и прошла мимо него в кабинет. “И заметьте”,– сказал невзрачного вида человек, выслушав и оценив мысль журналиста — заметьте, что тютчевская ночь прохладна, и звезды там круглые, влажные, с отливом, а не просто светлые точки. Он больше ничего не сказал, так как говорил вообще мало, не столько из скромности, сколько, казалось, из боязни расплескать что-то драгоценное, не ему принадлежащее, но порученное ему. Лужиной, кстати сказать, он очень нравился, именно невзрачностью, неприметностью черт, словно он был сам по себе только некий сосуд, наполненный чем-то таким священным и редким, что было бы даже кощунственно внешность сосуда расцветить. Его звали Петров, он ничем в жизни не был замечателен, ничего не писал, жил, кажется, по-нищенски, но об этом никогда не рассказывал. Единственным его назначением в жизни было сосредоточенно и благоговейно нести то, что было ему поручено, то, что нужно было сохранить непременно, во всех подробностях, во всей чистоте, а потому и ходил он мелкими, осторожными шажками, стараясь никого не толкнуть, и только очень редко, только, когда улавливал в собеседнике родственную бережность, показывал на миг — из всего того огромного и таинственного, что он в себе нес,– какую-нибудь нежную, бесценную мелочь, строку из Пушкина или простонародное название полевого цветка.
Mrs. Luzhin, catching sight of her husband, thrust a plate into his hand with a beautifully peeled orange on it and went past him into the study. “And note," said a plain-looking man who had listened to the whole of the journalist’s idea and appreciated it, “note that Tyutchev’s night is cool and the stars in it are round and moist and glossy, and not simply bright dots.” He did not say any more, since in general he spoke little, not so much out of modesty, it seemed, as out of a fear of spilling something precious that was not his but had been entrusted to him. Mrs. Luzhin, incidentally, liked him very much, and precisely because of his plainness, the neutrality of his features, as if he were himself only the outside of a vessel filled with something so sacred and rare that it would be a sacrilege to paint the clay. His name was Petrov, not a single thing about him was remarkable, he had written nothing, and he lived like a beggar, but never talked about it to anyone. His sole function in life was to carry, reverently and with concentration, that which had been entrusted to him, something which it was necessary at all costs to preserve in all its detail and in all its purity, and for that reason he even walked with small careful steps, trying not to bump into anyone, and only very seldom, only when he discerned a kindred solicitude in the person be was talking to did he reveal for a moment— from the whole of that enormous something that he carried mysteriously within him— some tender, priceless little trifle, a line from Pushkin or the peasant name of a wild flower. (Chapter 14)
At the end of the novel, poor Luzhin falls to his death from the bathroom window of a Berlin flat rented by his father-in-law. According to Kinbote, of the not very many ways known of shedding one's body, falling, falling, falling is the supreme method:
I am choosing these images rather casually. There are purists who maintain that a gentleman should use a brace of pistols, one for each temple, or a bare botkin (note the correct spelling), and that ladies should either swallow a lethal dose or drown with clumsy Ophelia. Humbler humans have preferred such sundry forms of suffocation, and minor poets have even tried such fancy releases as vein tapping in the quadruped tub of a drafty boardinghouse bathroom. All this is uncertain and messy. Of the not very many ways known of shedding one's body, falling, falling, falling is the supreme method, but you have to select your sill or ledge very carefully so as not to hurt yourself or others. Jumping from a high bridge is not recommended even if you cannot swim, for wind and water abound in weird contingencies, and tragedy ought not to culminate in a record dive or a policeman's promotion. If you rent a cell in the luminous waffle, room 1915 or 1959, in a tall business center hotel browing the star dust, and pull up the window, and gentle--not fall, not jump--but roll out as you should for air comfort, there is always the chance of knocking clean through into your own hell a pacific noctambulator walking his dog; in this respect a back room might be safer, especially if giving on the roof of an old tenacious normal house far below where a cat may be trusted to flash out of the way. Another popular take-off is a mountaintop with a sheer drop of say 500 meters but you must find it, because you will be surprised how easy it is to miscalculate your deflection offset, and have some hidden projection, some fool of a crag, rush forth to catch you, causing you to bounce off it into the brush, thwarted, mangled and unnecessarily alive. The ideal drop is from an aircraft, your muscles relaxed, your pilot puzzled, your packed parachute shuffled off, cast off, shrugged off--farewell, shootka (little chute)! Down you go, but all the while you feel suspended and buoyed as you somersault in slow motion like a somnolent tumbler pigeon, and sprawl supine on the eiderdown of the air, or lazily turn to embrace your pillow, enjoying every last instant of soft, deep, death-padded life, the voluptuous crucifixion, as you stretch yourself in the growing rush, in the nearing swish, and then your loved body's obliteration in the Lap of the Lord. If I were a poet I would certainly make an ode to the sweet urge to close one's eyes and surrender utterly unto the perfect safety of wooed death. Ecstatically one forefeels the vastness of the Divine Embrace enfolding one's liberated spirit, the warm bath of physical dissolution, the universal unknown engulfing the miniscule unknown that had been the only real part of one's temporary personality. (Note to Line 493)
"Room 1915 or 1959" hints at the years of Kinbote's (and Gradus') birth and death. Kinbote's double, Gradus shares with Kinbote his birthday (July 5, 1915). July 5 is also Shade's birthday. But Shade was born in 1898 and is thus seventeen years Kinbote's and Gradus' senior. In a letter of October 31, 1838 (Dostoevski’s seventeenth birthday), to his brother Dostoevski repeats the word gradus (degree) twice:
Философию не надо полагать простой математической задачей, где неизвестное - природа... Заметь, что поэт в порыве вдохновенья разгадывает бога, следовательно, исполняет назначенье философии. Следовательно, поэтический восторг есть восторг философии... Следовательно, философия есть та же поэзия, только высший градус её!..
Philosophy should not be regarded as a mere equation where nature is the unknown quantity… Remark that the poet, in the moment of inspiration, comprehends God, and consequently does the philosopher’s work. Consequently poetic inspiration is nothing less than philosophical inspiration. Consequently philosophy is nothing but poetry, a higher degree of poetry!..
Друг мой! Ты философствуешь как поэт. И как не ровно выдерживает душа градус вдохновенья, так не ровна, не верна и твоя философия. Чтоб больше знать, надо меньше чувствовать, и обратно, правило опрометчивое, бред сердца.
My friend, you philosophize like a poet. And just because the soul cannot be forever in a state of exaltation, your philosophy is not true and not just. To know more one must feel less, and vice versa. Your judgment is featherheaded – it is a delirium of the heart.
The Suvorov Monument (a bronze sculpture) created by Mikhail Kozlovski in 1799-1801 in St. Petersburg (opposite the Fields of Mars and the Trinity Bridge) depicts Suvorov in the allegorical guise of the god Mars. Describing his heart attack in Canto Three of his poem, Shade mentions Mars (the planet):
It was a year of Tempests: Hurricane
Lolita swept from Florida to Maine.
Mars glowed. Shahs married. Gloomy Russians spied.
Lang made your portrait. And one night I died. (ll. 679-682)
The Russian word for chess, shakhmaty comes from a combination of Persian and Arabic terms meaning "the king is dead" or "the king is helpless" (shah mat). Shakhmatovo was Alexander Blok's family estate in the Province of Moscow.