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), the eye of the mind sees Gradus (Shade's murderer), and the muscles of the mind feel him, as always streaking across the sky with black traveling bag in one hand and loosely folded umbrella in the other, in a sustained glide high over sea and land:
Lines 131-132: I was the shadow of the waxwing slain by feigned remoteness in the windowpane.
The exquisite melody of the two lines opening the poem is picked up here. The repetition of that long-drawn note is saved from monotony by the subtle variation in line 132 where the assonance between its second word and the rhyme gives the ear a kind of languorous pleasure as would the echo of some half-remembered sorrowful song whose strain is more meaningful than its words. Today, where the "feigned remoteness" has indeed performed its dreadful duty, and the poem we have is the only "shadow" that remains, we cannot help reading into these lines something more than mirrorplay and mirage shimmer. We feel doom, in the image of Gradus, eating away the miles and miles of "feigned remoteness" between him and poor Shade. He, too, is to meet, in his urgent and blind flight, a reflection that will shatter him.
Although Gradus availed himself of all varieties of locomotion - rented cars, local trains, escalators, airplanes - somehow the eye of the mind sees him, and the muscles of the mind feel him, as always streaking across the sky with black traveling bag in one hand and loosely folded umbrella in the other, in a sustained glide high over sea and land. The force propelling him is the magic action of Shade's poem itself, the very mechanism and sweep of verse, the powerful iambic motor. Never before has the inexorable advance of fate received such a sensuous form (for other images of that transcendental tramp's approach see note to line 17).
Gradus' black traveling bag brings to mind the Gladstone bag (named after William Gladstone, 1809-98, a British statesman and Liberal politician, the four-time Prime Minister of the United Kingdom) mentioned by Humbert Humbert (the narrator and main character in VN's novel Lolita, 1955) when he describes his first night with Lolita in The Enchanted Hunters (a hotel in Briceland):
She was again fast asleep, my nymphet, but still I did not dare to launch upon my enchanted voyage. La Petite Dormeuse ou l’Amant Ridicule. Tomorrow I would stuff her with those earlier pills that had so thoroughly numbed her mummy. In the glove compartment - or in the Gladstone bag? Should I wait a solid hour and then creep up again? The science of nympholepsy is a precise science. Actual contact would do it in one second flat. An interspace of a millimeter would do it in ten. Let us wait. (1.29)
Dolores Haze (Lolita's full name) was born on 1 January 1935, in Pisky. The name of Lolita's home town seems to hint at Pisces, a constellation of the zodiac. Pisces (♓︎) is the twelfth and final astrological sign in the zodiac. At the beginning of his essay (written in collaboration with J. W. Ferrier) The Philosophy of Umbrellas (1894) R. L. Stevenson says that we live under the sign of Aquarius (the eleventh sign of the zodiac):
It is wonderful to think what a turn has been given to our whole Society by the fact that we live under the sign of Aquarius—that our climate is essentially wet. A mere arbitrary distinction, like the walking-swords of yore, might have remained the symbol of foresight and respectability, had not the raw mists and dropping showers of our island pointed the inclination of Society to another exponent of those virtues. A ribbon of the Legion of Honour or a string of medals may prove a person’s courage; a title may prove his birth; a professorial chair his study and acquirement; but it is the habitual carriage of the umbrella that is the stamp of Respectability. The umbrella has become the acknowledged index of social position.
The stamp of Respectability brings to mind "a bigger, more respectable, more competent Gradus" mentioned by Kinbote at the end of his 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.
"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)
"A more competent Gradus" seems to hint at skhima ili Sena kompetentnee (the bosom of the Church or that of the Seine is more competent in these matters) in VN's obituary essay O Khodaseviche (On Hodasevich, 1939):
И хоть понятно, что личное отчаяние невольно ищет общего пути для своего облегчения, поэзия тут ни при чем, схима или Сена компетентнее.
And although one understands that private despair cannot help seeking a public path for its easement, poetry has nothing to do with it: the bosom of the Church or that of the Seine is more competent in these matters.
In his essay On Hodasevich VN mentions a parachute:
Правительственная воля, беспрекословно требующая ласково-литературного внимания к трактору или парашюту, к красноармейцу или полярнику, т. е. некой внешности мира, значительно могущественнее, конечно, наставления здешнего, обращённого к миру внутреннему, едва ощутимого для слабых, презираемого сильными, побуждавшего в двадцатых годах к рифмованной тоске по ростральной колонне, а ныне дошедшего до религиозных забот, не всегда глубоких, не всегда искренних.
The will of the government which implicitly demands a writer's affectionate attention toward a parachute, a farm tractor, a Red Army soldier, or the participant in some polar venture (i.e., toward this or that externality of the world) is naturally considerably more powerful than the injunction of exile, addressed to man's inner world. The latter precept is barely sensed by the weak and is scorned by the strong. In the nineteen twenties it induced nostalgic rhymes about St. Petersburg's rostral columns, and now, in the late thirties, it has evolved rhymed religious concerns, not always deep but always honest.
According to Kinbote, the disguised king arrived in America descending by parachute:
John Shade's heart attack (Oct. 17, 1958) practically coincided with the disguised king's arrival in America where he descended by parachute from a chartered plane piloted by Colonel Montacute, in a field of hay-feverish, rank-flowering weeds, near Baltimore whose oriole is not an oriole. (note to Line 691)
The disguised king's parachute makes one think of Gradus' umbrella. Hodasevich translated into Russian two poems by R. L. Stevenson: The Moon and The Land of Story-books. In the latter poem R. L. Stevenson mentions his nurse (cf. Kinbote's Zemblan nurse):
At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.
Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.
There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter's camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.
These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.
I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.
So, when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear land of Story-books.
Vladislav Hodasevich is the author of Poeziya Ignata Lebyadkina ("The Poetry of Ignat Lebyadkin," 1931). In Dostoevski's novel Besy ("The Possessed," 1872) Stavrogin offers Lebyadkin his umbrella:
- Неужели вы меня так и сбросите, как старый изношенный сапог?
- Я посмотрю, - засмеялся Николай Всеволодович, - ну, пустите.
- Не прикажете ли, я на крылечке постою-с... чтобы как-нибудь невзначай чего не подслушать... потому что комнатки крошечные.
- Это дело; постойте на крыльце. Возьмите зонтик.
- Зонтик, ваш... стоит ли для меня-с? - пересластил капитан.
- Зонтика всякий стоит.
- Разом определяете minimum прав человеческих...
Но он уже лепетал машинально; он слишком был подавлен известиями и сбился с последнего толку. И однако же, почти тотчас же, как вышел на крыльцо и распустил над собой зонтик, стала наклевываться в легкомысленной и плутоватой голове его опять всегдашняя успокоительная мысль, что с ним хитрят и ему лгут, а коли так, то не ему бояться, а его боятся.
“Will you really cast me off like an old worn-out shoe?”
“I’ll see,” laughed Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch. “Come, let me go.”
Wouldn’t you like me to stand on the steps … for fear I might by chance overhear something … for the rooms are small?”
“That’s as well. Stand on the steps. Take my umbrella.”
“Your umbrella.… Am I worth it?” said the captain over-sweetly.
“Anyone is worthy of an umbrella.”
“At one stroke you define the minimum of human rights.…”
But he was by now muttering mechanically. He was too much crushed by what he had learned, and was completely thrown out of his reckoning. And yet almost as soon as he had gone out on to the steps and had put up the umbrella, there his shallow and cunning brain caught again the ever-present, comforting idea that he was being cheated and deceived, and if so they were afraid of him, and there was no need for him to be afraid. (Part Two, Chapter II "Night (Continued)", 2)
In a letter of Oct. 31, 1838, to his brother Dostoevski says that philosophy is nothing but poetry, a higher degree (gradus) of poetry:
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!..
In Shakespeare’s Hamlet (1.5) Hamlet tells Horatio: "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." The name of the capital of Zembla, Onhava seems to hint at heaven. According to Kinbote, onhava-onhava means in Zemblan “far, far away.” In Chekhov's story Moya zhizn' ("My Life," 1895) Masha says that art gives us wings and carries us daleko-daleko (far, far away):
— Мы от начала до конца были искренни, — сказал я, — а кто искренен, тот и прав.
— Кто спорит? Мы были правы, но мы неправильно осуществляли то, в чем мы правы. Прежде всего, самые наши внешние приемы — разве они не ошибочны? Ты хочешь быть полезен людям, но уже одним тем, что ты покупаешь имение, ты с самого начала преграждаешь себе всякую возможность сделать для них что-нибудь полезное. Затем, если ты работаешь, одеваешься и ешь, как мужик, то ты своим авторитетом как бы узаконяешь эту их тяжелую, неуклюжую одежду, ужасные избы, эти их глупые бороды... С другой стороны, допустим, что ты работаешь долго, очень долго, всю жизнь, что в конце концов получаются кое-какие практические результаты, но что они, эти твои результаты, что они могут против таких стихийных сил, как гуртовое невежество, голод, холод, вырождение? Капля в море! Тут нужны другие способы борьбы, сильные, смелые, скорые! Если в самом деле хочешь быть полезен, то выходи из тесного круга обычной деятельности и старайся действовать сразу на массу! Нужна прежде всего шумная, энергичная проповедь. Почему искусство, например, музыка, так живуче, так популярно и так сильно на самом деле? А потому, что музыкант или певец действует сразу на тысячи. Милое, милое искусство! — продолжала она, мечтательно глядя на небо. — Искусство дает крылья и уносит далеко-далеко! Кому надоела грязь, мелкие грошовые интересы, кто возмущен, оскорблен и негодует, тот может найти покой и удовлетворение только в прекрасном.
"We have been sincere from beginning to end," said I, "and if anyone is sincere he is right."
"Who disputes it? We were right, but we haven't succeeded in properly accomplishing what we were right in. To begin with, our external methods themselves -- aren't they mistaken? You want to be of use to men, but by the very fact of your buying an estate, from the very start you cut yourself off from any possibility of doing anything useful for them. Then if you work, dress, eat like a peasant you sanctify, as it were, by your authority, their heavy, clumsy dress, their horrible huts, their stupid beards. . . . On the other hand, if we suppose that you work for long, long years, your whole life, that in the end some practical results are obtained, yet what are they, your results, what can they do against such elemental forces as wholesale ignorance, hunger, cold, degeneration? A drop in the ocean! Other methods of struggle are needed, strong, bold, rapid! If one really wants to be of use one must get out of the narrow circle of ordinary social work, and try to act direct upon the mass! What is wanted, first of all, is a loud, energetic propaganda. Why is it that art -- music, for instance -- is so living, so popular, and in reality so powerful? Because the musician or the singer affects thousands at once. Precious, precious art!" she went on, looking dreamily at the sky. "Art gives us wings and carries us far, far away! Anyone who is sick of filth, of petty, mercenary interests, anyone who is revolted, wounded, and indignant, can find peace and satisfaction only in the beautiful." (Chapter XV)
The umbrella is an attribute of Belikov, the main character in Chekhov's story Chelovek v futlyare ("The Man in a Case," 1898):
— Что же тут удивительного! — сказал Буркин. — Людей, одиноких по натуре, которые, как рак-отшельник или улитка, стараются уйти в свою скорлупу, на этом свете не мало. Быть может, тут явление атавизма, возвращение к тому времени, когда предок человека не был еще общественным животным и жил одиноко в своей берлоге, а может быть, это просто одна из разновидностей человеческого характера, — кто знает? Я не естественник и не мое дело касаться подобных вопросов; я только хочу сказать, что такие люди, как Мавра, явление не редкое. Да вот, недалеко искать, месяца два назад умер у нас в городе некий Беликов, учитель греческого языка, мой товарищ. Вы о нем слышали, конечно. Он был замечателен тем, что всегда, даже в очень хорошую погоду, выходил в калошах и с зонтиком и непременно в теплом пальто на вате. И зонтик у него был в чехле, и часы в чехле из серой замши, и когда вынимал перочинный нож, чтобы очинить карандаш, то и нож у него был в чехольчике; и лицо, казалось, тоже было в чехле, так как он всё время прятал его в поднятый воротник. Он носил темные очки, фуфайку, уши закладывал ватой, и когда садился на извозчика, то приказывал поднимать верх. Одним словом, у этого человека наблюдалось постоянное и непреодолимое стремление окружить себя оболочкой, создать себе, так сказать, футляр, который уединил бы его, защитил бы от внешних влияний. Действительность раздражала его, пугала, держала в постоянной тревоге, и, быть может, для того, чтобы оправдать эту свою робость, свое отвращение к настоящему, он всегда хвалил прошлое и то, чего никогда не было; и древние языки, которые он преподавал, были для него, в сущности, те же калоши и зонтик, куда он прятался от действительной жизни.
"What is there wonderful in that!" said Burkin. "There are plenty of people in the world, solitary by temperament, who try to retreat into their shell like a hermit crab or a snail. Perhaps it is an instance of atavism, a return to the period when the ancestor of man was not yet a social animal and lived alone in his den, or perhaps it is only one of the diversities of human character -- who knows? I am not a natural science man, and it is not my business to settle such questions; I only mean to say that people like Mavra are not uncommon. There is no need to look far; two months ago a man called Belikov, a colleague of mine, the Greek master, died in our town. You have heard of him, no doubt. He was remarkable for always wearing goloshes and a warm wadded coat, and carrying an umbrella even in the very finest weather. And his umbrella was in a case, and his watch was in a case made of grey chamois leather, and when he took out his penknife to sharpen his pencil, his penknife, too, was in a little case; and his face seemed to be in a case too, because he always hid it in his turned-up collar. He wore dark spectacles and flannel vests, stuffed up his ears with cotton-wool, and when he got into a cab always told the driver to put up the hood. In short, the man displayed a constant and insurmountable impulse to wrap himself in a covering, to make himself, so to speak, a case which would isolate him and protect him from external influences. Reality irritated him, frightened him, kept him in continual agitation, and, perhaps to justify his timidity, his aversion for the actual, he always praised the past and what had never existed; and even the classical languages which he taught were in reality for him goloshes and umbrellas in which he sheltered himself from real life.
In Chekhov's story Dama s sobachkoy (“The Lady with the Lapdog,” 1899) Gurov, as he speaks to his daughter (a schoolgirl of twelve), uses the phrase tri gradusa tepla (three degrees above freezing-point):
— Теперь три градуса тепла, а между тем идёт снег, — говорил Гуров дочери. — Но ведь это тепло только на поверхности земли, в верхних же слоях атмосферы совсем другая температура.
“It’s three degrees above freezing-point, and yet it is snowing,” said Gurov to his daughter. “The thaw is only on the surface of the earth; there is quite a different temperature at a greater height in the atmosphere.” (chapter IV)