In Canto Two of his poem John Shade (the poet in VN’s novel Pale Fire, 1962) tells about his daughter who “took her poor young life.” In Canto Three Shade describes IPH (a lay Institute of Preparation for the Hereafter):
L'if, lifeless tree! Your great Maybe, Rabelais:
The grand potato.
I.P.H., a lay
Institute (I) of Preparation (P)
For the Hereafter (H), or If, as we
Called it--big if!--engaged me for one term
To speak on death ("to lecture on the Worm,"
Wrote President McAber).
You and I,
And she, then a mere tot, moved from New Wye
To Yewshade, in another, higher state. (ll. 501-509)
In a discarded variant quoted by Kinbote (Shade’s mad commentator who imagines that he is Charles the Beloved, the last self-exiled king of Zembla) in his Commentary Shade mentions Strange Other World:
A beautiful variant, with one curious gap, branches off at this point in the draft (dated July 6):
Strange Other World where all our still-born dwell,
And pets, revived, and invalids, grown well,
And minds that died before arriving there:
Poor old man Swift, poor —, poor Baudelaire
What might that dash stand for? Unless Shade gave prosodic value to the mute e in “Baudelaire,” which I am quite certain he would never have done in English verse (cp. “Rabelais,” line 501), the name required here must scan as a trochee. Among the names of celebrated poets, painters, philosophers, etc., known to have become insane or to have sunk into senile imbecility, we find many suitable ones. Was Shade confronted by too much variety with nothing to help logic choose and so left a blank, relying upon the mysterious organic force that rescues poets to fill it in at its own convenience? Or was there something else—some obscure intuition, some prophetic scruple that prevented him from spelling out the name of an eminent man who happened to be an intimate friend of his? Was he perhaps playing safe because a reader in his household might have objected to that particular name being mentioned? And if it comes to that, why mention it at all in this tragical context? Dark, disturbing thoughts. (note to Line 231)
Kinbote is afraid that this dash stands for his name. Actually, it stands for Botkin (Shade’s, Kinbote’s and Gradus’ “real” name). An American scholar of Russian descent, Professor Vsevolod Botkin went mad and became Shade, Kinbote and Gradus (the poet’s murderer) 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 Oct. 19, 1959, the anniversary of Pushkin’s Lyceum and of Jonathan Swift's death), Botkin, like Count Vorontsov (a target of Pushkin’s epigrams, “half-milord, half-merchant, etc.”), will be full again.
The characters in VN’s novel Dar (“The Gift,” 1937) include the Chernyshevski couple, Alexander Yakovlevich and Alexandra Yakovlevna. After the suicide of his son Yasha poor Alexander Yakovlevich went mad and was hospitalized. Describing his visit to the hospital, Fyodor Godunov-Cherdyntsev (the narrator and main character in “The Gift”) mentions obshchestvo bor’by s potustoronnim (the Society for Struggle with the Other World) whose Chairman Alexander Yakovlevich is:
"Знаешь, - сказала Елизавета Павловна, осторожно-легко сходя с лестницы и не оборачивая опущенной головы к сыну, - я, кажется, просто куплю гильзы и табак, а то так выходит дороговатенько", - и тотчас добавила тем же голосом: "Господи, как ее жалко". И точно, нельзя было Александру Яковлевну не пожалеть. Её муж вот уже четвертый месяц содержался в приюте для ослабевших душой, в "желтоватом доме", как он сам игриво выражался в минуты просвета. Ещё в октябре Федор Константинович как то и посетил его там. В разумно обставленной палате сидел пополневший, розовый, отлично выбритый и совершенно сумасшедший Александр Яковлевич, в резиновых туфлях, и непромокаемом плаще с куколем. "Как, разве вы умерли?" - было первое, что он спросил, - скорее недовольно, чем удивленно. Состоя "председателем общества борьбы с потусторонним", он всё изобретал различные средства для непропускания призраков (врач, применяя новую систему "логического потворства", не препятствовал этому) и теперь, исходя вероятно из другой ее непроводности, испытывал резину, но повидимому результаты до сих пор получались скорее отрицательные, потому что, когда Федор Константинович хотел было взять для себя стул, стоявший в сторонке, Чернышевский раздраженно сказал: "Оставьте, вы же отлично видите, что там уже сидят двое", - и это "двое", и шуршащий, всплескивающий при каждом его движении плащ, и бессловесное присутствие служителя, точно это было свидание в тюрьме, и весь разговор больного показались Федору Константиновичу невыносимо карикатурным огрублением того сложного, прозрачного, еще благородного, хотя и полубезумного, состояния души, в котором так недавно Александр Яковлевич общался с утраченным сыном. Тем ядрено-балагурным тоном, который он прежде приберегал для шуток - а теперь говорил всерьез, - он стал пространно сетовать, всё почему-то по-немецки, на то, что люди-де тратятся на выдумывание зенитных орудий и воздушных отрав, а не заботятся вовсе о ведении другой, в миллион раз более важной борьбы. У Федора Константиновича была на окате виска запекшаяся ссадина, - утром стукнулся о ребро парового отопления, второпях доставая из-под него закатившийся колпачок от пасты. Вдруг оборвав речь, Александр Яковлевич брезгливо и беспокойно указал пальцем на его висок, "Was haben Sie da?", - спросил он, болезненно сморщась, - а затем нехорошо усмехнулся и, всё больше сердясь и волнуясь, начал говорить, что его не проведешь, - сразу признал, мол, свежего самоубийцу. Служитель подошел к Федору Константиновичу и попросил его удалиться. И идя через могильно-роскошный сад, мимо жирных клумб, где в блаженном успении цвели басисто-багряные георгины, по направлению к скамейке, на которой его ждала Чернышевская, никогда не входившая к мужу, но целые дни проводившая в непосредственной близости от его жилья, озабоченная, бодрая, всегда с пакетами, - идя по этому пестрому гравию между миртовых, похожих на мебель, кустов и принимая встречных посетителей за параноиков, Федор Константинович тревожно думал о том, что несчастье Чернышевских является как бы издевательской вариацией на тему его собственного, пронзенного надеждой горя, - и лишь гораздо позднее он понял всё изящество короллария и всю безупречную композиционную стройность, с которой включалось в его жизнь это побочное звучание.
“You know,” said Elizaveta Pavlovna, stepping lightly but cautiously down the stairs and not turning her lowered head toward her son, “I think I’ll just buy cigarette papers and tobacco, otherwise it comes out so dear,” and immediately she added in the same voice: “Goodness, how sorry I am for her.” And indeed, it was impossible not to pity Mme. Chernyshevski. Her husband had been kept over three months already in an institute for the mentally ailing, in “the semi-loony bin” as he himself playfully expressed it in moments of lucidity. As long ago as October Fyodor had once visited him there. In the sensibly furnished ward sat a fatter, rosier, beautifully shaven and completely insane Chernyshevski, in rubber slippers and a waterproof cloak with a hood. “Why, are you dead?” was the first thing he asked, more discontent than surprised. In his capacity as “Chairman of the Society for Struggle With the Other World” he was continually devising methods to prevent permeation by ghosts (his doctor, employing a new system of “logical connivance,” did not oppose this) and now, probably on the basis of its nonconductive quality in another sphere, he was trying out rubber, but evidently the results achieved so far were mainly negative since, when Fyodor was about to take a chair for himself which was standing to one side, Chernyshevski said irritably: “Leave it alone, you see very well there are two sitting on it already,” and this “two,” and the rustling cloak which plashed up with every movement, and the wordless presence of the attendant, as if this had been a meeting in prison, and the whole of the patient’s conversation seemed to Fyodor an unbearable, caricatured vulgarization of that complex, transparent and still noble though half-insane state of mind in which Chernyshevski had so recently communicated with his lost son. With the broad-comedy inflections he had formerly reserved for jokes—but which he now used in earnest—he launched into extensive lamentations, all for some reason in German, over the fact that people were wasting money to invent antiaircraft guns and poison gases and not caring at all about the conduct of another, million times more important, struggle. Fyodor had a healed-over scrape on the side of his temple—that morning he had knocked it against one of the ribs of a radiator in hastily recovering the top of a toothpaste tube which had rolled underneath it. Suddenly breaking off his speech, Chernyshevski pointed squeamishly and anxiously at his temple. “Was haben Sie da?” he asked, with a grimace of pain, and then smiled unpleasantly, and growing more and more angry and agitated, began to say that you could not get by him—he had recognized right away, he said, a recent suicide. The attendant came up to Fyodor and asked him to leave. And walking through the funereally luxuriant garden, past unctuous beds in which bass-toned, dark crimson dahlias were blooming in blessed sleep and eternal repose, toward the bench where he was awaited by Mme. Chernyshevski (who never went in to her husband but spent whole days in the immediate vicinity of his quarters, preoccupied, brisk, always with packages)—walking over the variegated gravel between myrtle shrubs resembling furniture and taking the visitors he passed for paranoiacs, troubled Fyodor kept pondering over the fact that the misfortune of the Chernyshevskis appeared to be a kind of mocking variation on the theme of his own hope-suffused grief, and only much later did he understand the full refinement of the corollary and all the irreproachable compositional balance with which these collateral sounds had been included in his own life. (Chapter Two)
The Chernyshevski couple in “The Gift” have the same name and patronymic as goluboy vorishka (the bashful chiseller) and his wife in Ilf and Petrov’s novel Dvenadtsat’ stul’yev (“The Twelve Chairs,” 1928):
Завхоз 2-го дома Старсобеса был застенчивый ворюга. Всё существо его протестовало против краж, но не красть он не мог. Он крал, и ему было стыдно. Крал он постоянно, постоянно стыдился, и поэтому его хорошо бритые щёчки всегда горели румянцем смущения, стыдливости, застенчивости и конфуза. Завхоза звали Александром Яковлевичем, а жену его – Александрой Яковлевной. Он называл её Сашхен, она звала его Альхен. Свет не видывал ещё такого голубого воришки, как Александр Яковлевич.
The Assistant Warden of the Second Home of Stargorod Social Security Administration was a shy little thief. His whole being protested against stealing, yet it was impossible for him not to steal. He stole and was ashamed of himself. He stole constantly and was constantly ashamed of himself, which was why his smoothly shaven cheeks always burned with a blush of confusion, shame, bashfulness and embarrassment. The assistant warden's name was Alexander Yakovlevich, and his wife's name was Alexandra Yakovlevna. He used to call her Sashchen, and she used to call him Alchen. The world has never seen such a bashful chiseller as Alexander Yakovlevich. (chapter VIII “The Bashful Chiseller”)
According to Kinbote, in a conversation with him Shade mentioned “those joint authors of genius Ilf and Petrov:”
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)
According to Kinbote, he 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)
In “The Twelve Chairs” Lasker arrives in Vasyuki (as imagined by the Vasyuki chess enthusiasts) descending by parachute:
Вдруг на горизонте была усмотрена чёрная точка. Она быстро приближалась и росла, превратившись в большой изумрудный парашют. Как большая редька, висел на парашютном кольце человек с чемоданчиком.
– Это он! – закричал одноглазый. – Ура! Ура! Ура! Я узнаю великого философа-шахматиста, доктора Ласкера. Только он один во всем мире носит такие зелёные носочки.
Suddenly a black dot was noticed on the horizon. It approached rapidly, growing larger and larger until it finally turned into a large emerald parachute. A man with an attache case was hanging from the harness, like a huge radish.
"Here he is!" shouted one-eye. "Hooray, hooray, I recognize the great philosopher and chess player Dr. Lasker. He is the only person in the world who wears those green socks." (Chapter 34 “The Interplanetary Chess Tournament”)
Lasker’s izumrudnyi parashyut (emerald parachute) brings to mind Izumrudov, one of the greater Shadows who visits Gradus in Nice and tells him the ex-King’s address, and Gerald Emerald, a young instructor at Wordsmith University who gives Gradus a lift to Kinbote’s rented house in New Wye. While Gerald Emerald is “the man in green,” Gradus is “the man in brown.” Zheltovatyi dom (the semi-loony bin; literally: “the yellowish house”), as Alexander Yakovlevich calls an institute for the mentally ailing, brings to mind zhyoltyi dom (the madhouse; literally: “the yellow house”) mentioned by the mother of Luzhin’s bride in VN’s novel Zashchita Luzhina (“The Luzhin Defense,” 1930):
В один из ближайших вечеров произошел давно назревший, давно рокотавший и наконец тяжело грянувший,- напрасный, безобразно громкий, но неизбежный,- разговор. Она только что вернулась из санатории, жадно ела гречневую кашу и рассказывала, что Лужину лучше, Родители переглянулись, и тут-то и началось.
"Я надеюсь,- звучно сказала мать,- что ты отказалась от своего безумного намерения". "Еще, пожалуйста",- попросила она, протягивая тарелку. "Из известного чувства деликатности..."- продолжала мать, и тут отец быстро перехватил эстафету. "Да,- сказал он,- из деликатности твоя мать ничего тебе не говорила эти дни,- пока не выяснилось положение твоего знакомого. Но теперь ты должна нас выслушать. Ты знаешь сама: главное наше желание, и забота, и цель, и вообще... желание - это то, чтоб тебе было хорошо, чтоб ты была счастлива и так далее. А для этого..." "В мое время просто бы запретили,- вставила мать,- и все тут". "Нет, нет, при чем тут запрет. Ты вот послушай, душенька. Тебе не восемнадцать лет. а двадцать пять, и вообще я не вижу во всем, что случилось, какого-нибудь увлечения, поэзии". "Ей просто нравится делать все наперекор,- опять перебила мать.- Это такой сплошной кошмар..." "О чем вы собственно говорите?"- наконец спросила дочь и улыбнулась исподлобья, мягко облокотившись на стол и переводя глаза с отца на мать. "О том, что пора выбросить дурь из головы,- крикнула мать.- О том, что брак с полунормальным нищим совершенная ересь". "Ох",- сказала дочь и, протянув по столу руку, опустила на нее голову. "Вот что,- снова заговорил отец.- Мы тебе предлагаем поехать на Итальянские озера. Поехать с мамой на Итальянские озера. Ты не можешь себе представить, какие там райские места. Я помню, что когда я впервые увидел Изола Белла..." У нее запрыгали плечи от мелкого смеха; затем она подняла голову и продолжала тихо смеяться, не открывая глаз. "Объясни, чего же ты хочешь",- спросила мать и хлопнула по столу. "Во-первых,- ответила она,- чтобы не было такого крика. Во-вторых, чтобы Лужин совсем поправился". "Изола Белла это значит Прекрасный Остров,- торопливо продолжал отец, стараясь многозначительной ужимкой показать жене, что он один справится.- Ты не можешь себе представить... Синяя лазурь, и жара, и магнолии, и превосходные гостиницы в Стрезе,- ну, конечно, теннис, танцы... И особенно я помню,- как это называется,- такие светящиеся мухи..." "Ну, а потом что?- с хищным любопытством спросила мать.- Ну, а потом, когда твой друг,- если не окочурится..." "Это зависит от него,- по возможности спокойно сказала дочь.- Я этого человека не могу бросить на произвол судьбы. И не брошу. Точка". "Будешь с ним в желтом доме,- живи, живи, матушка!" "В желтом или синем..."- начала с дрожащей улыбкой дочь. "Не соблазняет Италия?" - бодро крикнул отец. "Сумасшедшая... Я поседела из-за тебя! Ты не выйдешь за этого шахматного обормота!" "Сама обормот. Если захочу, выйду. Ограниченная и нехорошая женщина..." "Ну-ну-ну, будет, будет",- бубнил отец. "Я его больше сюда не впущу,- задыхалась мать.- Вот тебе крест". Дочь беззвучно расплакалась и вышла из столовой, стукнувшись мимоходом об угол буфета и жалобно сказав "черт возьми!". Буфет долго и обиженно звенел.
One night soon after this, there took place a long brewing, long rumbling and at last breaking, futile, disgracefully loud, but unavoidable scene. She had just returned from the sanatorium and was hungrily eating hot buckwheat cereal and relating that Luzhin was better. Her parents exchanged looks and then it began.
"I hope," said her mother resonantly, "that you have renounced your crazy intention." "More please," she asked, holding out her plate. "Out of a certain feeling of delicacy," continued her mother, and here her father quickly took up the torch. "Yes," he said, "out of delicacy your mother has said nothing to you these past days--until your friend's situation cleared up. But now you must listen to us. You yourself know that our main desire, and care, and aim, and in general ... desire is for you to be all right, for you to be happy, et cetera. But for this ..." "In my time parents would simply have forbidden it," put in her mother, "that's all." "No, no, what's forbidding got to do with this? You listen to me, my pet. You're not eighteen years old, but twenty-five, and I can see nothing whatsoever enticing or poetic in all that has happened." "She just likes to annoy us," interrupted her mother again. "It's just one continuous nightmare...." "What exactly are you talking about?" asked the daughter finally and smiled from beneath lowered brows, resting her elbows softly on the table and looking from her father to her mother. "About the fact that it's time you ceased to be silly," cried her mother. "About the fact that marriage to a penniless crackpot is nonsense." "Ach," uttered the daughter, and stretching her arm out on the table she put her head upon it. "Here's what," her father began again. "We suggest you go to the Italian lakes. Go with Mamma to the Italian lakes. You can't imagine what heavenly spots there are there. I remember the first time I saw Isola Bella ..." Her shoulders began to twitch from half-suppressed laughter; then she lifted her head and continued to laugh softly, keeping her eyes closed. "What is it you want?" asked her mother and banged on the table. "First," she replied, "that you stop shouting. Second, that Luzhin gets completely well." "Isola Bella means Beautiful Island," continued her father hastily, trying with a meaningful grimace to intimate to his wife that he alone would manage it. "You can't imagine ... An azure sky, and the heat, and magnolias, and the superb hotels at Stresa--and of course tennis, dancing ... And I particularly remember--what do you call them--those insects that light up ..." "Well and what then?" asked the mother with rapacious curiosity. "What then, when your friend--if he doesn't die ..." "That depends on him," said the daughter, trying to speak calmly. "I can't abandon him. And I won't. Period." "You'll be in the madhouse with him--that's where you'll be, my girl!" "Mad or not ..." began the daughter with a trembling smile. "Doesn't Italy tempt you?" cried her father. "The girl is crazy. You won't marry this chess moron!" "Moron yourself. If I want to I'll marry him. You're a narrow-minded, and wicked woman ..." "Now, now, now, that's enough, that's enough," mumbled her father. "I won't let him set foot in here again," panted her mother; "that's final." The daughter began to cry soundlessly and left the dining room, banging into a corner of the sideboard as she passed and letting out a plaintive "damn it!" The offended sideboard went on vibrating for a long time. (Chapter Ten)
It seems that Kinbote writes his Commentary to Shade’s poem not in “Cedarn, Utana,” but in a madhouse (in Quebec).
See also the updated version of my previous post, “Tarn, Terra, Rattner & Ranter in Ada.”