In his foreword and 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 his powerful red Kramler:
February and March in Zembla (the two last of the four "white-nosed months," as we call them) used to be pretty rough too, but even a peasant's room there presented a solid of uniform warmth - not a reticulation of deadly drafts. It is true that, as usually happens to newcomers, I was told I had chosen the worst winter in years - and this at the latitude of Palermo. On one of my first mornings there, as I was preparing to leave for college in the powerful red car I had just acquired, I noticed that Mr. and Mrs. Shade, neither of whom I had yet met socially (I was to learn later that they assumed I wished to be left alone), were having trouble with their old Packard in the slippery driveway where it emitted whines of agony but could not extricate one tortured rear wheel out of a concave inferno of ice. John Shade busied himself clumsily with a bucket from which, with the gestures of a sower, he distributed handfuls of brown sand over the blue glaze. He wore snowboots, his vicuña collar was up, his abundant gray hair looked berimed in the sun. I knew he had been ill a few months before, and thinking to offer my neighbors a ride to the campus in my powerful machine, I hurried out toward them. A lane curving around the slight eminence on which my rented castle stood separated it from my neighbors' driveway, and I was about to cross that lane when I lost my footing and sat down on the surprisingly hard snow. My fall acted as a chemical reagent on the Shades' sedan, which forthwith budged and almost ran over me as it swung into the lane with John at the wheel strenuously grimacing and Sybil fiercely talking to him. I am not sure either saw me.
A few days later, however, namely on Monday, February 16, I was introduced to the old poet at lunch time in the faculty club. "At last presented credentials," as noted, a little ironically, in my agenda. I was invited to join him and four or five other eminent professors at his usual table, under an enlarged photograph of Wordsmith College as it was, stunned and shabby, on a remarkably gloomy summer day in 1903. His laconic suggestion that I "try the pork" amused me. I am a strict vegetarian, and I like to cook my own meals. Consuming something that had been handled by a fellow creature was, I explained to the rubicund convives, as repulsive to me as eating any creature, and that would include - lowering my voice - the pulpous pony-tailed girl student who served us and licked her pencil. Moreover, I had already finished the fruit brought with me in my briefcase, so I would content myself, I said, with a bottle of good college ale. My free and simple demeanor set everybody at ease. The usual questionsmere fired at me about eggnogs and milkshakes being or not being acceptable to one of my persuasion. Shade said that with him it was the other way around: he must make a definite effort to partake of a vegetable. Beginning a salad, was to him like stepping into sea water on a chilly day, and he had always to brace himself in order to attack the fortress of an apple. I was not yet used to the rather fatiguing jesting and teasing that goes on among American intellectuals of the inbreeding academic type and so abstained from telling John Shade in front of all those grinning old males how much I admired his work lest a serious discussion of literature degenerate into mere facetiation. Instead I asked him about one of my newly acquired students who also attended his course, a moody, delicate, rather wonderful boy; but with a resolute shake of his hoary forelock the old poet answered that he had ceased long ago to memorize faces and names of students and that the only person in his poetry class whom he could visualize was an extramural lady on crutches. "Come, come," said Professor Hufey, "do you mean, John, you really don't have a mental or visceral picture of that stunning blonde in the black leotard who haunts Lit. 202?" Shade, all his wrinkles beaming, benignly tapped Hurley on the wrist to make him stop. Another tormentor inquired if it was true that I had installed two ping-pong tables in my basement. I asked, was it a crime? No, he said, but why two? "Is that a crime?" I countered, and they all laughed.
Despite a wobbly heart (see line 735), a slight limp, and a certain curious contortion in his method of progress, Shade had an inordinate liking for long walks, but the snow bothered him, and he preferred, in winter, to have his wife call for him after classes with the car. A few days later, as I was about to leave Parthenocissus Hall – or Main Hall (or now Shade Hall, alas), I saw him waiting outside for Mrs. Shade to fetch him. I stood beside him for a minute, on the steps of the pillared porch, while pulling my gloves on, finger by finger, and looking away, as if waiting to review a regiment: "That was a thorough job," commented the poet. He consulted his wrist watch. A snowflake settled upon it. "Crystal to crystal," said Shade. I offered to take him home in my powerful Kramler. "Wives, Mr. Shade, are forgetful." He cocked his shaggy head to look at the library clock. Across the bleak expanse of snow-covered turf two radiant lads in colorful winter clothes passed, laughing and sliding. Shade glanced at his watch again and, with a shrug, accepted my offer. (Foreword)
Moaning and shifting from one foot to the other, Gradus started leafing through the college directory but when he found the address, he was faced with the problem of getting there.
"Dulwich Road," he cried to the girl. "Near? Far? Very far, probably?"
"Are you by any chance Professor Pnin's new assistant?" asked Emerald.
"No," said the girl. "This man is looking for Dr. Kinbote, I think. You are looking for Dr. Kinbote, aren't you?"
"Yes, and I can't any more," said Gradus.
"I thought so," said the girl. "Doesn't he live somewhere near Mr. Shade, Gerry?"
"Oh, definitely," said Gerry, and turned to the killer: "I can drive you there if you like. It is on my way."
Did they talk in the car, these two characters, the man in green and the man in brown? Who can say? They did not. After all, the drive took only a few minutes (it took me, at the wheel of my powerful Kramler, four and a half).
"I think I'll drop you here," said Mr. Emerald. "It's that house up there." (note to Line 949)
Kramler seems to blend Kraft (German for "force, power") with Daimler (Gottlieb Wilhelm Daimler, 1834-1900, a German engineer, pioneer of internal-combustion engines and automobile development). Kraft und Stoff ("Force and Matter," 1855) is a book by Ludwig Büchner (1824-1899). In Turgenev's novel Ottsy i deti (Fathers and Sons, 1862) Bazarov suggests that Arkadiy Kirsanov gives his father Büchner's Stoff und Kraft (sic) to read:
Однажды они как-то долго замешкались; Николай Петрович вышел к ним навстречу в сад и, поравнявшись с беседкой, вдруг услышал быстрые шаги и голоса обоих молодых людей. Они шли по ту сторону беседки и не могли его видеть.
— Твой отец добрый малый, — промолвил Базаров, — но он человек отставной, его песенка спета.
Николай Петрович приник ухом... Аркадий ничего не отвечал.
«Отставной человек» постоял минуты две неподвижно и медленно поплелся домой.
— Третьего дня, я смотрю, он Пушкина читает, — продолжал между тем Базаров. — Растолкуй ему, пожалуйста, что это никуда не годится. Ведь он не мальчик: пора бросить эту ерунду. И охота же быть романтиком в нынешнее время! Дай ему что-нибудь дельное почитать.
— Что бы ему дать? — спросил Аркадий.
— Да, я думаю, Бюхнерово «Stoff und Kraft» на первый случай.
Я сам так думаю, — заметил одобрительно Аркадий. — «Stoff und Kraft» написано популярным языком...
— Вот как мы с тобой, — говорил в тот же день после обеда Николай Петрович своему брату, сидя у него в кабинете, — в отставные люди попали, песенка наша спета. Что ж? Может быть, Базаров и прав; но мне, признаюсь, одно больно: я надеялся именно теперь тесно и дружески сойтись с Аркадием, а выходит, что я остался назади, он ушел вперед, и понять мы друг друга не можем.
— Да почему он ушел вперед? И чем он от нас так уж очень отличается? — с нетерпением воскликнул Павел Петрович. — Это все ему в голову синьор этот вбил, нигилист этот. Ненавижу я этого лекаришку; по-моему, он просто шарлатан; я уверен, что со всеми своими лягушками он и в физике недалеко ушел.
— Нет, брат, ты этого не говори: Базаров умен и знающ.
— И самолюбие какое противное, — перебил опять Павел Петрович.
— Да, — заметил Николай Петрович, — он самолюбив. Но без этого, видно, нельзя; только вот чего я в толк не возьму. Кажется, я все делаю, чтобы не отстать от века: крестьян устроил, ферму завел, так что даже меня во всей губернии красным величают; читаю, учусь, вообще стараюсь стать в уровень с современными требованиями, — а они говорят, что песенка моя спета. Да что, брат, я сам начинаю думать, что она точно спета.
— Это почему?
— А вот почему. Сегодня я сижу да читаю Пушкина... помнится, «Цыгане» мне попались... Вдруг Аркадий подходит ко мне и молча, с этаким ласковым сожалением на лице, тихонько, как у ребенка, отнял у меня книгу и положил передо мной другую, немецкую... улыбнулся, и ушел, и Пушкина унес.
— Вот как! Какую же он книгу тебе дал?
— Вот эту. И Николай Петрович вынул из заднего кармана сюртука пресловутую брошюру Бюхнера, девятого издания. Павел Петрович повертел ее в руках.
— Гм! — промычал он. — Аркадий Николаевич заботится о твоем воспитании. Что ж, ты пробовал читать?
— Пробовал.
— Ну и что же?
— Либо я глуп, либо это все — вздор. Должно быть, я глуп.
— Да ты по-немецки не забыл? — спросил Павел Петрович.
— Я по-немецки понимаю.
Павел Петрович опять повертел книгу в руках и исподлобья взглянул на брата. Оба помолчали.
One day they had lingered rather late; Nikolay Petrovich went to meet them in the garden, and as he reached the arbour he suddenly heard the quick steps and voices of the two young men. They were walking on the other side of the arbour, and could not see him.
'You don't know my father well enough,' said Arkadiy.
'Your father's a nice chap,' said Bazarov, 'but he's behind the times; his day is done.'
Nikolai Petrovich listened intently.... Arkadiy made no answer.
The man whose day was done remained two minutes motionless, and stole slowly home.
'The day before yesterday I saw him reading Pushkin,' Bazarov was continuing meanwhile. 'Explain to him, please, that that's no earthly use. He's not a boy, you know; it's time to throw up that rubbish. And what an idea to be a romantic at this time of day! Give him something sensible to read.'
'What ought I to give him?' asked Arkadiy.
'Oh, I think Büchner's Stoff und Kraft to begin with.'
'I think so too,' observed Arkadiy approving, 'Stoff und Kraft is written in popular language....'
'So it seems,' Nikolay Petrovich said the same day after dinner to his brother, as he sat in his study, 'you and I are behind the times, our day's over. Well, well. Perhaps Bazarov is right; but one thing I confess, makes me feel sore; I did so hope, precisely now, to get on to such close intimate terms with Arkadiy, and it turns out I'm left behind, and he has gone forward, and we can't understand one another.'
'How has he gone forward? And in what way is he so superior to us already?' cried Pavel Petrovich impatiently. 'It's that high and mighty gentleman, that nihilist, who's knocked all that into his head. I hate that doctor fellow; in my opinion, he's simply a quack; I'm convinced, for all his tadpoles, he's not got very far even in medicine.'
'No, brother, you mustn't say that; Bazarov is clever, and knows his subject.'
'And his conceit's something revolting,' Pavel Petrovich broke in again.
'Yes,' observed Nikolay Petrovich, 'he is conceited. But there's no doing without that, it seems; only that's what I did not take into account. I thought I was doing everything to keep up with the times; I have started a model farm; I have done well by the peasants, so that I am positively called a "Red Radical" all over the province; I read, I study, I try in every way to keep abreast with the requirements of the day—and they say my day's over. And, brother, I begin to think that it is.'
'Why so?'
'I'll tell you why. This morning I was sitting reading Pushkin.... I remember, it happened to be The Gipsies ... all of a sudden Arkadiy came up to me, and, without speaking, with such a kindly compassion on his face, as gently as if I were a baby, took the book away from me, and laid another before me—a German book ... smiled, and went away, carrying Pushkin off with him.'
'Upon my word! What book did he give you?'
'This one here.'
And Nikolay Petrovich pulled the famous treatise of Büchner, in the ninth edition, out of his coat-tail pocket.
Pavel Petrovich turned it over in his hands. 'Hm!' he growled. 'Arkadiy Nikolaevich is taking your education in hand. Well, did you try reading it?'
'Yes, I tried it.'
'Well, what did you think of it?'
'Either I'm stupid, or it's all—nonsense. I must be stupid, I suppose.'
'Haven't you forgotten your German?' queried Pavel Petrovich.
'Oh, I understand the German.'
Pavel Petrovich again turned the book over in his hands, and glanced from under his brows at his brother. Both were silent. (Chapter X)
In his commentary to Shade's poem Kinbote mentions heliotropes (Heliotropium turgenevi):
I am happy to report that soon after Easter my fears disappeared never to return. Into Alphina's or Betty's room another lodger moved, Balthasar, Prince of Loam, as I dubbed him, who with elemental regularity fell asleep at nine and by six in the morning was planting heliotropes (Heliotropium turgenevi). This is the flower whose odor evokes with timeless intensity the dusk, and the garden bench, and a house of painted wood in a distant northern land. (note to Line 62)
In Turgenev’s novel Dym (“Smoke,” 1867) a fragrance of fresh heliotrope stirs something in Litvinov’s memory:
Литвинов сломил крупную гербовую печать и принялся было читать... Сильный, очень приятный и знакомый запах поразил его. Он оглянулся и увидел на окне в стакане воды большой букет свежих гелиотропов. Литвинов нагнулся к ним не без удивления, потрогал их, понюхал ... Что-то как будто вспомнилось ему, что-то весьма отдаленное... но что именно, он не мог придумать.
Litvinov broke the thick heraldic seal, and was just setting to work to read it . . . when he was struck by a strong, very agreeable, and familiar fragrance, and saw in the window a great bunch of fresh heliotrope in a glass of water. Litvinov bent over them not without amazement, touched them, and smelt them. . . . Something seemed to stir in his memory, something very remote . . . but what, precisely, he could not discover. (Chapter Six)
In VN's novel Dar ("The Gift," 1937) Fyodor describes his first love and mentions a Turgenevian odor of heliotrope in his mistress’s bedroom:
По вечерам я провожал её домой. Эти прогулки мне когда-нибудь пригодятся. В её спальне был маленький портрет царской семьи, и пахло по-тургеневски гелиотропом. Я возвращался за-полночь, благо гувернёр уехал в Англию, -- и никогда я не забуду того чувства лёгкости, гордости, восторга и дикого ночного голода (особенно хотелось простокваши с чёрным хлебом), когда я шёл по нашей преданно и даже льстиво шелестевшей аллее к тёмному дому (только у матери -- свет) и слышал лай сторожевых псов.
Those walks will come in handy sometime. In her bedroom there was a little picture of the Tsar's family and a Turgenevian odor of heliotrope. I used to return long after midnight (my tutor, fortunately, had gone back to England), and I shall never forget that feeling of lightness, pride, rapture and wild night hunger (I particularly yearned for curds-and-whey with black bread) as I walked along our faithfully and even fawningly soughing avenue toward the dark house (only Mother had a light on) and heard the barking of the watchdogs. (Chapter Three)
Ivan Turgenev (1818-83) brings to mind Thurgus the Third, surnamed The Turgid, the grandfather of Charles the Beloved:
Thurgus the Third, surnamed The Turgid, K's grandfather, d. 1900 at seventy-five, after a long dull reign; sponge-bagcapped, and with only one medal on his Jaeger jacket, he liked to bicycle in the park; stout and bald, his nose like a congested plum, his martial mustache bristling with obsolete passion, garbed in a dressing gown of green silk, and carrying a flambeau in his raised hand, he used to meet, every night, during a short period in the middle-Eighties, his hooded mistress, Iris Acht (q.v.) midway between palace and theater in the secret passage later to be rediscovered by his grandson, 130. (Index)
Acht, Iris, celebrated actress, d. 1888, a passionate and powerful woman, favorite of Thurgus the Third (q. v.), 130. She died officially by her own hand; unofficially, strangled in her dressing room by a fellow actor, a jealous young Gothlander, now, at ninety, the oldest, and least important, member of the Shadows (q. v.) group. (Index)
Shadows, the, a regicidal organization which commissioned Gradus (q. v.) to assassinate the self-banished king; its leader's terrible name cannot be mentioned, even in the Index to the obscure work of a scholar; his maternal grandfather, a well-known and very courageous master builder, was hired by Thurgus the Turgid, around 1885, to make certain repairs in his quarters, and soon after that perished, poisoned in the royal kitchens, under mysterious circumstances, together with his three young apprentices whose first names Yan, Yonny, and Angeling, are preserved in a ballad still to be heard in some of our wilder valleys. (Index)
There is Acht in Macht (Germ., power) and in Nacht (Germ., night). Kraft is a character in Dostoevski's novel Podrostok ("The Adolescent," 1875). A character in The Adolescent, Andronnikov (the lawyer) brings to mind Andronnikov and Niagarin (the two Soviet esperts whom the new Zemblan government hired to find the crown jewels). The author of Psychopathia Sexualis (1886), Richard von Krafft-Ebing (1840-1902) was a German psychiatrist. On May 13, 1872, von Krafft-Ebing was able to inaugurate his psychiatric clinic in Strasbourg. After the death of her husband, Gradus' mother moved to Strasbourg:
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)