According to 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), Jakob Gradus (Shade's murderer) began his career in the glass business as a maker of Cartesian devils:
Gradus never became a real success in the glass business to which he turned again and again between his wine-selling and pamphlet-printing jobs. He started as a maker of Cartesian devils - imps of bottle glass bobbing up and down in methylate-filled tubes hawked during Catkin Week on the boulevards. He also worked as teazer, and later as flasher, at governmental factories – and was, I believe, more or less responsible for the remarkably ugly red-and-amber windows in the great public lavatory at rowdy but colorful Kalixhaven where the sailors are. He claimed to have improved the glitter and rattle of the so-called feuilles-d'alarme used by grape growers and orchardmen to scare the birds. I have staggered the notes referring to him in such a fashion that the first (see note to line 17 where some of his other activities are adumbrated) is the vaguest while those that follow become gradually clearer as gradual Gradus approaches in space and time. (note to Line 171)
A Cartesian diver or Cartesian devil is a classic science experiment which demonstrates the principle of buoyancy (Archimedes' principle) and the ideal gas low. The first written description of this device is provided by Raffaello Magiotti, in his book Renitenza certissima dell'acqua alla compressione (Very firm resistance of water to compression) published in 1648. It is named after René Descartes as the toy is said to have been invented by him. A French philosopher, scientist and mathematician (who is famous for his phrase cogito, ergo sum), René Descartes (1596-1650) is the main character in Mark Aldanov's treatise Ul'mskaya noch': filosofiya sluchaya (Ulm Night: the Philosophy of Chance, 1953). Aldanov's book begins as follows:
Л. - В одном из наших разговоров вы употребили выражения "Ульмская ночь" и "Картезианское состояние ума". Второе, по вашему мнению, лучше звучит по-французски: "Etat d'esprit cartésien." He поясните ли вы, что вы под этим разумеете?
А. - Об Ульмской ночи вы можете прочесть у Байе. Как вы знаете, этот писатель 17-го века в сущности единственный настоящий биограф Декарта, - что без него делали бы все другие? 30 августа 1619 года состоялась во Франкфурте коронация германского императора Фердинанда II. Молодой Декарт был там в качестве "туриста". Ему хотелось "раз в жизни увидеть то, что там происходило, и узнать, как пышно ведут себя на театре Вселенной первые актеры этого мира", - говорит Байе. Оттуда он отправился в Ульм. "Он оказался в глухом месте, весьма мало посещаемом людьми, устроил себе одиночество, которое могла ему дать его бродячая жизнь... Целый день он проводил взаперти, в избе, где имел достаточно времени, чтобы собрать мысли. Вначале это была лишь прелюдия воображения. Он смелел постепенно, переходя от идеи к идее. Свобода, данная им своему, не встречающему препятствий гению, незаметно привела его к опровержению всех других систем. Он решил раз навсегда отделаться от всех своих прежних взглядов... Огонь овладел его мозгом. Он впал в состояние восторга..., его стали посещать сны и видения. Декарт говорит нам, что 10 ноября он лег спать в состоянии крайнего энтузиазма. Ему показалось, что в этот день он постиг основы изумительной науки. Ночью ему снилось..., что Бог указывает ему дорогу, по которой следует направить жизнь в поисках правды"... "Можно было бы подумать, - добавляет наивно Байе, - что он вечером выпил перед тем, как лечь спать. И действительно это был канун дня святого Мартина, когда и там, как во Франции, люди обычно кутят. Но он уверяет нас, что провел день в трезвости и в последний раз пил вино за три месяца до того"... Сокращаю цитаты и прошу вас извинить неуклюжесть перевода: я здесь, как и в дальнейших переводах, приношу слог в жертву дословности. Осталась и краткая, не очень понятная, запись самого Декарта об этой ночи 10 ноября: "Cum plenus forem enthusiasmo et mirabilis scientiae fundamenta reperirem". И еще - по-видимому, о той же ночи: "Coepi intelligere fundamenta inventi mirabilis". Больше ничего, никаких разъяснений. Как вам известно, он был таинственный человек. Говорил: "bene vixit bene qui latuit", - "хорошо жил тот, кто хорошо скрывал". Быть может, он в Ульмскую ночь сделал величайшее из своих научных открытий: открыл аналитическую геометрию. Но еще гораздо вероятнее предположение, что ему тогда впервые представилась вся созданная им позднее философская система. Возможно, в связи с ней, он наметил и свою жизненную программу, маленькой частью которой позволительно считать и только что приведенное мною латинское изречение. По-моему, все это могло произойти одновременно, - у него ведь все было связано, от его интереса к розенкрейцерам до великих математических открытий. Во всяком случае, тут остается место для фантазии исследователей. А это отчасти может оправдать несколько произвольный, отрывочный характер нашей первой беседы, которую я считаю как бы введением: мы поневоле должны будем в ней перебрасываться от одной темы к другой, оставляя обоснование для следующих бесед. Если мое понимание Ульмской ночи правильно, то первый связанный с ним вопрос относится к основному, к тому, из чего всё вытекает: к аксиомам в разных областях. Существуют ли они? Как их теперь понимают или как должно было бы понимать? Что от них осталось? Это вопрос важнейший и не только в картезианстве. Мы его вынуждены будем коснуться уже в первой беседе, и я заранее прошу извинить и ее беглый характер, и краткие ссылки на мнения авторитетов, и обилие цитат, которое может (боюсь, справедливо) показаться вам неприятным. Другого выхода у меня нет. В разговоре с ученым специалистом я, естественно, хочу избежать упрека в "дилетантизме" и в том, что черпаю сведения "из вторых рук". (I. Dialogue about the Axioms)
Aldanov points out that November 10, 1619 (the Ulm Night), was the eve of St. Martin's Day. Jakob Gradus is the 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. (note to Line 17)
St. Martin's Day, or Martinmas, is celebrated annually on November 11th, honoring St. Martin of Tours, a soldier known for sharing his cloak with a beggar, becoming a patron of the poor, winegrowers, and soldiers. November 11 is Fyodor Dostoevski's birthday. In a letter of Nov. 11, 1838 (New Style, Dostoevski's seventeenth birthday) to his brother Dostoevski twice repeats the word gradus (degree):
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.
According to Kinbote, Shade listed Dostoevski 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)
René Descartes died on 11 February 1650, in Stockholm (the capital of Sweden known in old Russia as Stekol'nyi, "Glass City"). After the Zemblan Revolution (May 1, 1958) Queen Disa (the exiled wife of Charles the Beloved) attempted to return to Zembla via Stockholm:
Eventually he managed to inform her that he was confined to the palace. Valiant Disa hurriedly left the Riviera and made a romantic but fortunately ineffectual attempt to return to Zembla. Had she been permitted to land, she would have been forthwith incarcerated, which would have reacted on the King's flight, doubling the difficulties of escape. A message from the Karlists containing these simple considerations checked her progress in Stockholm, and she flew back to her perch in a mood of frustration and fury (mainly, I think, because the message had been conveyed to her by a cousin of hers, good old Curdy Buff, whom she loathed). Several weeks passed and she was soon in a state of even worse agitation owing to rumors that her husband might be condemned to death. She left Cap Turc again. She had traveled to Brussels and chartered a plane to fly north, when another message, this time from Odon, came, saying that the King and he were out of Zembla, and that she should quietly regain Villa Disa and await there further news. In the autumn of the same year she was informed by Lavender that a man representing her husband would be coining to discuss with her certain business matters concerning property she and her husband jointly owned abroad. She was in the act of writing on the terrace under the jacaranda a disconsolate letter to Lavender when the tall, sheared and bearded visitor with the bouquet of flowers-of-the-gods who had been watching her from afar advanced through the garlands of shade. She looked up - and of course no dark spectacles and no make-up could for a moment fool her. (note to Lines 433-434)
In Ulm Night Aldanov mentions Alf Nyman (a Swedish philosopher, 1884-1968):
Л. - Допустим. Но сложность, противоречивость и временный характер нынешних физических теорий ровно ничего не доказывают. Эддингтон лет двадцать пять тому назад сказал, а Альф Ниман недавно это напомнил, что у ворот здания современной физики надо вывесить надпись: "Ремонт. Вход воспрещен". Он, кажется, не пояснил, кому именно воспрещен. Добавим от себя: "посторонним и, в частности, философам". Но ремонт скоро кончится, все придет в порядок, - если хотите, в порядок относительный, да он ведь был "относительным" и в пору классической физики, - доступ снова будет открыт всем желающим, и окажется, что законы природы никак не были "временными ценностями". (I. Dialogue about the Axioms)
Alf Nyman brings to mind King Alfin (the father of Charles the Beloved):
Alfin the Vague (1873-1918; regnal dates 1900-1918, but 1900-1919 in most biographical dictionaries, a fumble due to the coincident calendar change from Old Style to New) was given his cognomen by Amphitheatricus, a not unkindly writer of fugitive poetry in the liberal gazettes (who was also responsible for dubbing my capital Uranograd!). King Alfin's absent-mindedness knew no bounds. He was a wretched linguist, having at his disposal only a few phrases of French and Danish, but every time he had to make a speech to his subjects - to a group of gaping Zemblan yokels in some remote valley where he had crash-landed - some uncontrollable switch went into action in his mind, and he reverted to those phrases, flavoring them for topical sense with a little Latin. Most of the anecdotes relating to his naïve fits of abstraction are too silly and indecent to sully these pages; but one of them that I do not think especially funny induced such guffaws from Shade (and returned to me, via the Common Room, with such obscene accretions) that I feel inclined to give it here as a sample (and as a corrective). One summer before the first world war, when the emperor of a great foreign realm (I realize how few there are to choose from) was paying an extremely unusual and flattering visit to our little hard country, my father took him and a young Zemblan interpreter (whose sex I leave open) in a newly purchased custom-built car on a jaunt in the countryside. As usual, King Alfin traveled without a vestige of escort, and this, and his brisk driving, seemed to trouble his guest. On their way back, some twenty miles from Onhava, King Alfin decided to stop for repairs. While he tinkered with the motor, the emperor and the interpreter sought the shade of some pines by the highway, and only when King Alfin was back in Onhava, did he gradually realize from a reiteration of rather frantic questions that he had left somebody behind ("What emperor?" has remained his only memorable mot). Generally speaking, in respect of any of my contributions (or what I thought to be contributions) I repeatedly enjoined my poet to record them in writing, by all means, but not to spread them in idle speech; even poets, however, are human.
King Alfin's absent-mindedness was strangely combined with a passion for mechanical things, especially for flying apparatuses. In 1912, he managed to rise in an umbrella-like Fabre "hydroplane" and almost got drowned in the sea between Nitra and Indra. He smashed two Farmans, three Zemblan machines, and a beloved Santos Dumont Demoiselle. A very special monoplane, Blenda IV, was built for him in 1916 by his constant "aerial adjutant" Colonel Peter Gusev (later a pioneer parachutist and, at seventy, one of the greatest jumpers of all time), and this was his bird of doom. On the serene, and not too cold, December morning that the angels chose to net his mild pure soul, King Alfin was in the act of trying solo a tricky vertical loop that Prince Andrey Kachurin, the famous Russian stunter and War One hero, had shown him in Gatchina. Something went wrong, and the little Blenda was seen to go into an uncontrolled dive. Behind and above him, in a Caudron biplane, Colonel Gusev (by then Duke of Rahl) and the Queen snapped several pictures of what seemed at first a noble and graceful evolution but then turned into something else. At the last moment, King Alfin managed to straighten out his machine and was again master of gravity when, immediately afterwards, he flew smack into the scaffolding of a huge hotel which was being constructed in the middle of a coastal heath as if for the special purpose of standing in a king's way. This uncompleted and badly gutted building was ordered razed by Queen Blenda who had it replaced by a tasteless monument of granite surmounted by an improbable type of aircraft made of bronze. The glossy prints of the enlarged photographs depicting the entire catastrophe were discovered one day by eight-year-old Charles Xavier in the drawer of a secretary bookcase. In some of these ghastly pictures one could make out the shoulders and leathern casque of the strangely unconcerned aviator, and in the penultimate one of the series, just before the white-blurred shattering crash, one distinctly saw him raise one arm in triumph, and reassurance. The boy had hideous dreams after that but his mother never found out that he had seen those infernal records. (note to Line 71)
"What emperor?" has remained King Alfin's only memorable mot. In Ulm Night Aldanov points out that on August 30, 1619, in Frankfurt, René Descartes saw the coronation of Ferdinand II (1578-1637), Holy Roman Emperor, King of Bohemia, Hungary, and Croatia from 1619 until his death in 1637.
In the same note to Line 71 of Shade's poem Kinbote (the author of a remarkable book on surnames) says that Lukin (the maiden name of Shade's mother) and Lukashevich come from Luke:
With commendable alacrity, Professor Hurley produced an Appreciation of John Shade's published works within a month after the poet's death. It came out in a skimpy literary review, whose name momentarily escapes me, and was shown to me in Chicago where I interrupted for a couple of days my automobile journey from New Wye to Cedarn, in these grim autumnal mountains.
A Commentary where placid scholarship should reign is not the place for blasting the preposterous defects of that little obituary. I have only mentioned it because that is where I gleaned a few meager details concerning the poet's parents. His father, Samuel Shade, who died at fifty, in 1902, had studied medicine in his youth and was vice-president of a firm of surgical instruments in Exton. His chief passion, however, was what our eloquent necrologist calls "the study of the feathered tribe," adding that "a bird had been named for him: Bombycilla Shadei" (this should be "shadei," of course). The poet's mother, nee Caroline Lukin, assisted him in his work and drew the admirable figures of his Birds of Mexico, which I remember having seen in my friend's house. What the obituarist does not know is that Lukin comes from Luke, as also do Locock and Luxon and Lukashevich. It represents one of the many instances when the amorphous-looking but live and personal hereditary patronymic grows, sometimes in fantastic shapes, around the common pebble of a Christian name. The Lukins are an old Essex family. Other names derive from professions such as Rymer, Scrivener, Linner (one who illuminates parchments), Botkin (one who makes bottekins, fancy footwear) and thousands of others. My tutor, a Scotsman, used to call any old tumble-down building "a hurley-house." But enough of this.
The author of Ob'yasnenie assiriyskikh imyon ("The Interpretation of Assyrian Names," 1868), Platon Lukashevich (1809-1887) was Gogol's schoolmate at the Nezhin Lyceum. On the other hand, in Ulm Night Aldanov mentions tryokhvalentnaya logika Lukashevicha (Łukasiewicz's trivalent logic):
А. - Весьма сомневаюсь, чтобы "ремонт" когда-либо кончился. Но мы уделим законам природы нашу следующую беседу, в связи с теорией вероятностей. Я нисколько не отрицаю, что самые тонкие и искушенные в философии ученые все же надеются прийти к чистой истине, хотя подход их к ней теперь не таков, каким был сто или двести лет тому назад. Мизес - для него несколько неожиданно - высказывает надежду, что при помощи усовершенствованной (частью им самим) теории вероятностей можно будет прийти zur Erkenntnis der Wahrheit. Но он характера этой истины не разъясняет. В теории, орудиями остаются логика и математика. Однако, они теперь меняются неизмеримо быстрее, чем прежде. В настоящее время историки науки занялись вопросом о том,, что появилось раньше, математика или логика. Этот вопрос разрешен в пользу математики (с астрономией). Производить изыскания, даже гениальные, в любой точной науке можно, не заглянув ни разу в жизни ни в один учебник логики. Так это, вероятно, и было с огромным большинством великих естествоиспытателей: они и вообще не были знатоками чисто-философских наук. Но когда мы говорим о "постижении истины" в смысле Мизеса, то уж надо указать, из какой логики мы будем исходить: из Аристотеля? из Фреге? из Ресселя? из Брувера? из трехвалентной логики Лукашевича? Арнольд Реймон пришел теперь к тому, что есть шестнадцать возможных функций (скорее видов) научной истины. Не только Аристотелю, но и Джону Стюарту Миллю показался бы диким самый язык современных (последовавших за Фреге) логиков, с их vrai possible, vrai probabilitaire, vrai démontré, vrai non encore démontré, vrai catégorique, vrai relatif ("правда возможная", "правда вероятная", "правда доказанная", "правда еще не доказанная", "правда категорическая", "правда относительная"). А закон причинности? Сам Мизес уже говорит об "ограниченной причинности" ("begrenzte Casuation"). Шредингер предложил исключить понятие причинности. Другие знаменитые физики теперь сочетают причинность с "комплементарностью". Нильс Бор даже так доволен этим сочетанием, что предлагает его перенести в биологию и в социологию. В этой последней науке ему уж совершенно нечего делать, там оно ничего, кроме путаницы, произвести не может. Да и теперь, пока это еще, к счастью, не сделано, почти неловко говорить о неизменной аксиоматике в социологии, в гуманитарных науках вообще, - это после результатов в новейшей математике и в так называемых точных науках. (I. Dialogue about the Axioms)
Jan Łukasiewicz (1878-1956) was a Lvov-born Polish logician and philosopher. His three-valued (or trivalent) logic makes one think of the three main characters in Pale Fire. John Shade's birthday, July 5 is also Charles Kinbote's and Jakob Gradus' birthday (while Shade was born in 1898, Kinbote and Gradus were born in 1915). The poet Shade, his commentator Kinbote and his murderer Gradus seem to represent three different aspects of one and the same person whose "real" name is Botkin. An American scholar of Russian descent, Professor Vsevolod Petrovich Botkin (Samuel Shade, Colonel Peter Gusev and Martin Gradus are one and the same person whose "real" name is Pyotr Botkin) went mad and became Shade, Kinbote and Gradus after the tragic death of his daughter Nadezhda (Hazel Shade's "real" name). Nadezhda means "hope." There is a hope that, when Kinbote completes his work on Shade's poem and commits suicide (on October 19, 1959, the anniversary of Pushkin's Lyceum), Botkin, like Count Vorontsov (a target of Pushkin's epigrams, "half-milord, half-merchant," etc.), will be full again.
Btw., a historic city in southwestern Germany, located in the state of Baden-Württemberg on the Danube River, Ulm is Albert Einstein's birthplace. In his humorous story Tochka opory ("A Place to Stand," 1923) Alexander Amfiteatrov (cf. Amphitheatricus, a writer of fugitive poetry in the liberal gazettes who was responsible for dubbing Onhava, the capital of Kinbote's Zembla, "Uranograd") mentions Saturn, Uran and Professor Einstein:
Эйфелева башня кувыркалась где то далеко, между Сатурном и Ураном, в перегонку с неистово визжавшей Айседорой Дункан. Прыгали сапоги в смятку и из кулька в рогожку сыпались звезды — до Сириуса и Красной Звезды включительно. Мелькнул, как метеор профессор Эйнштейн, верхом на Илье Эренбурге, — погрозил Слюзину кулаком, прокричал: «ну, брат Дмитрий Алексеевич, воля твоя, а это свин…» и, не досказав, умолк под обломками рухнувшаго откуда то сверху Павла Николаевича Милюкова.
According to Humbert Humbert (the narrator and main character in VN’s novel Lolita, 1955), his father had a dash of the Danube in his veins:
I was born in 1910, in Paris. My father was a gentle, easy-going person, a salad of racial genes: a Swiss citizen, of mixed French and Austrian descent, with a dash of the Danube in his veins. I am going to pass around in a minute some lovely, glossy-blue picture-postcards. He owned a luxurious hotel on the Riviera. His father and two grandfathers had sold wine, jewels and silk, respectively. At thirty he married an English girl, daughter of Jerome Dunn, the alpinist, and granddaughter of two Dorset parsons, experts in obscure subjects - paleopedology and Aeolian harps, respectively. My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and, save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which, if you can still stand my style (I am writing under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges.
My mother’s elder sister, Sybil, whom a cousin of my father’s had married and then neglected, served in my immediate family as a kind of unpaid governess and housekeeper. Somebody told me later that she had been in love with my father, and that he had lightheartedly taken advantage of it one rainy day and forgotten it by the time the weather cleared. I was extremely fond of her, despite the rigidity - the fatal rigidity of some of her rules. Perhaps she wanted to make of me, in the fullness of time, a better widower than my father. Aunt Sybil had pink-rimmed azure eyes and a waxen complexion. She wrote poetry. She was poetically superstitious. She said she knew she would die soon after my sixteenth birthday, and did. Her husband, a great traveler in perfumes, spent most of his time in America, where eventually he founded a firm and acquired a bit of real estate.
I grew, a happy, healthy child in a bright world of illustrated books, clean sand, orange trees, friendly dogs, sea vistas and smiling faces. Around me the splendid Hotel Mirana revolved as a kind of private universe, a whitewashed cosmos within the blue greater one that blazed outside. From the aproned pot-scrubber to the flanneled potentate, everybody liked me, everybody petted me. Elderly American ladies leaning on their canes listed towards me like towers of Pisa. Ruined Russian princesses who could not pay my father, bought me expensive bonbons. He, mon cher petit papa, took me out boating and biking, taught me to swim and dive and water-ski, read to me Don Quixote and Les Miserables, and I adored and respected him and felt glad for him whenever I overheard the servants discuss his various lady-friends, beautiful and kind beings who made much of me and cooed and shed precious tears over my cheerful motherlessness. (1.2)
Humbert's Aunt Sybil brings to mind Sybil Shade (the poet's wife). Sybil Shade and Queen Disa seem to be one and the same person whose "real" name is Sofia Botkin, born Lastochkin.