The characters in VN's novel Pnin (1957) include Oleg Komarov, a muralist in Waindell:
President Poore, a tall, slow, elderly man wearing dark glasses, had started to lose his sight a couple of years before and was now almost totally blind. With solar regularity, however, he would be led every day by his niece and secretary to Frieze Hall; he came, a 6gure of antique dignity, moving in his private darkness to an invisible luncheon, and although everybody had long grown accustomed to his tragic entrance, there was invariably the shadow of a hush while he was being steered to his carved chair and while he groped for the edge of the table; and it was strange to see, directly behind him on the wall, his stylized likeness in a mauve double-breasted suit and mahogany shoes, gazing with radiant magenta eyes at the scrolls handed him by Richard Wagner, Dostoyevsky, and Confucius, a group that Oleg Komarov, of the Fine Arts Department, had painted a decade ago into Lang's celebrated mural of 1938, which carried all around the dining-room a pageant of historical figures and Waindell faculty members.
Pnin, who wanted to ask his compatriot something, sat down beside him. This Komarov, a Cossack's son, was a very short man with a crew cut and a death's-head's nostrils. He and Serafima, his large, cheerful, Moscow-born wife, who wore a Tibetan charm on a long silver chain that hung down to her ample, soft belly, would throw Russki parties every now and then, with Russki hors d'oeuvres and guitar music and more or less phony folk-songs--occasions at which shy graduate students would be taught vodka-drinking rites and other stale Russianisms; and after such feasts, upon meeting gruff Pnin, Serafima and Oleg (she raising her eyes to heaven, he covering his with one hand) would murmur in awed self-gratitude: 'Gospodi, skol'ko my im dayom! (My, what a lot we give them!)'--'them' being the benighted American people. Only another Russian could understand the reactionary and Sovietophile blend presented by the pseudo-colourful Komarovs, for whom an ideal Russia consisted of the Red Army, an anointed monarch, collective farms, anthroposophy, the Russian Church, and the Hydro-Electric Dam. Pnin and Oleg Komarov were usually in a subdued state of war, but meetings were inevitable, and such of their American colleagues as deemed the Komarovs 'grand people' and mimicked droll Pnin were sure the painter and Pnin were excellent friends.
It would be hard to say, without applying some very special tests, which of them, Pnin or Komarov, spoke the worse English; probably Pnin; but for reasons of age, general education, and a slightly longer stage of American citizenship, he found it possible to correct Komarov's frequent English interpolations, and Komarov resented this even more than he did Pnin's antikvarnyi liberalizm.
'Look here, Komarov (Poslushayte, Komarov'--a rather discourteous manner of address)--said Pnin. ' I cannot understand who else here might want this book; certainly none of my students; and if it is you, I cannot understand why you should want it anyway.'
'I don't,' answered Komarov, glancing at the volume. 'Not interested,' he added in English.
Pnin moved his lips and lower jaw mutely once or twice, wanted to say something, did not, and went on with his salad. (Chapter Three, 6)
"Poslushayte, Komarov" (as Pnin discourteously addresses Komarov) brings to mind Mayakovski's poem Poslushayte! ("Please Listen!", 1914). In 1911-1914 Mayakovski studied at the Moscow School of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture. In VN's story Istreblenie tiranov ("Tyrants Destroyed," 1938) there is a Mayakovski pastiche:
Хорошо-с,-- а помните, граждане,
Как хирел наш край без отца?
Так без хмеля сильнейшая жажда
Не создаст ни пивца, ни певца.
Вообразите, ни реп нет,
Ни баклажанов, ни брюкв...
Так и песня, что днесь у нас крепнет,
Задыхалась в луковках букв.
Шли мы тропиной исторенной,
Горькие ели грибы,
Пока ворота истории
Не дрогнули от колотьбы!
Пока, белизною кительной
Сияя верным сынам,
С улыбкой своей удивительной
Правитель не вышел к нам.
Now then, citizens,
You remember how long
Our land wilted without a Father?...
Thus, without hops, no matter how strong
One’s thirst, it is rather
Difficult, isn’t it,
To make both the beer and the drinking song!
Just imagine, we lacked potatoes,
No turnips, no beets could we get:
Thus the poem, now blooming, wasted
In the bulbs of the alphabet!
A well-trodded road we had taken,
Bitter toadstools we ate.
Until by great thumps was shaking
History’s gate!
Until in his trim white tunic
Which upon us its radiance cast,
With his wonderful smile the Ruler
Came before his subjects at last! (chapter 16)
In VN's stroy, the ruler praises an old widow who succeeded in growing an eighty-pound turnip:
Я вял и толст, как шекспировский Гамлет. Что я могу? От меня, скромного учителя рисования в провинциальной гимназии, до него, сидящего за множеством чугунных и дубовых дверей в неизвестной камере главной столичной тюрьмы, превращенной для него в замок (ибо этот тиран называет себя "пленником воли народа, избравшего его"),-- расстояние почти невообразимое. Некто мне рассказывал, запершись со мной в погреб, про свою дальнюю родственницу старуху-вдову, которая вырастила двухпудовую репу и посему удостоилась высочайшего приема. Ее долго вели мраморными коридорами, без конца перед ней отпирая и за ней запирая опять очередь дверей, пока она не очутилась в белой, беспощадно-освещенной зале, вся обстановка которой состояла из двух золоченых стульев. Там ей было сказано ждать. Через некоторое время за дверью послышалось множество шагов и, с почтительными поклонами, пропуская друг друга, вошло человек пять его телохранителей. Испуганными глазами она искала его среди них; они же смотрели не на нее, а поверх ее головы, и обернувшись, она увидела, что сзади, через другую дверь, ею не замеченную, бесшумно вошел сам и, остановившись, положив руку на спинку стула, привычно поощрительно разглядывал государственную гостью. Затем он сел и предложил ей своими словами рассказать о ее подвиге (тут же был принесен служителем и положен на второй стул глиняный слепок с ее овоща), и она в продолжение десяти незабвенных минут рассказывала, как репу посадила, как тащила ее из земли и все не могла вытащить, хотя ей казалось, что призрак ее покойного мужа тащит вместе с ней, и как пришлось позвать сына, а потом внука да еще двух пожарных, отдыхавших на сеновале, и как, наконец, цугом пятясь, чудовище вытащили. Он был, видимо, поражен ее образным рассказом: "Вот это поэзия,-- резко обратился он к своим приближенным,-- вот бы у кого господам поэтам учиться",-- и сердито велев слепок отлить из бронзы, вышел вон. Но я реп не рощу, так что проникнуть к нему мне невозможно, да и если бы проник, как бы я донес заветное оружие до его логова? (Chapter 9)
The huge turnip grown by the old woman clearly hints at the well-known folklore lale (first published by Afanasiev in 1860) Repka ("The Little Turnip"). On the other hand, it makes one think of the pumpkin that turns into a carriage in Charles Perrault's fairy tale Cinderella, or the Little Glass Slipper. As suggested by Charles Nicol, Timofey Pnin has the small feet of Cinderella. One wonders, if at midnight, after Pnin has left Waindell with a stray dog in his car, his sedan does not turn into a turnip ? The Russian word for "midnight" is polnoch'. In his poem O pravitelyakh ("On Rulers," 1944) VN's mentions his pokoynyi tyazka ("late namesake," as VN calls Mayakovski) and polden' (noon):
Покойный мой тёзка,
писавший стихи и в полоску,
и в клетку, на самом восходе
всесоюзно-мещанского класса,
кабы дожил до полдня,
нынче бы рифмы натягивал
на "монументален",
на "переперчил"
и так далее.
If my late namesake,
who used to write verse, in rank
and in file, at the very dawn
of the Soviet Small-Bourgeois order,
had lived till its noon
he would be now finding taut rhymes
such as “praline”
or “air chill,”
and others of the same kind.
VN’s footnotes: Line 52: my late namesake. An allusion to the Christian name and patronymic of Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovski (1893-1930), minor Soviet poet, endowed with a certain brilliance and bite, but fatally corrupted by the regime he faithfully served.
Lines 58-59: “praline” … “air chill.” In the original, monumentalen, meaning “[he is] monumental” rhymes pretty closely with Stalin; and pereperchil, meaning “[he] put in too much pepper,” offers an ingenuous correspondence with the name of the British politician in a slovenly Russian pronunciation (“chair-chill”).
The narrator in Pnin has the same name and patronymic as VN, Vladimir Vladimirovich (but this does not imply that they are one and the same person). Pereperchil brings to mind Chekhov's humorous story Peresolil ("Overdoing it," 1886). Literally, peresolil means “[he] put in too much salt.” In Chekhov's humorous story Khameleon (The Chameleon, 1884) Khryukin, a drunkard, has had his finger snapped by a small dog (according to one witness, after thrusting a cigarette stub into the latter). The policeman Ochyumelov's attitude to the affair and the dog's future destiny fluctuates depending upon the coming information as to who the owner of the culprit might be. In Russian, khameleon neatly rhymes with Napoleon. Komarov had started to delete a sulky Napoleon that stood between young, plumpish (now gaunt) Blorenge and young, moustached (now shaven) Hagen, in order to paint in Pnin:
The Greyhound that brought me to Waindell on Monday the fourteenth arrived after nightfall. I was met by the Cockerells, who treated me to a late supper at their house, where I discovered I was to spend the night, instead of sleeping at a hotel as I had hoped. Gwen Cockerell turned out to be a very pretty woman in her late thirties, with a kitten's profile and graceful limbs. Her husband, whom I had once met in New Haven and remembered as a rather limp, moon-faced, neutrally blond Englishman, had acquired an unmistakable resemblance to the man he had now been mimicking for almost ten years. I was tired and not over-anxious to be entertained throughout the supper with a floor show, but I must admit that Jack Cockerell impersonated Pnin to perfection. He went on for at least two hours, showing me everything--Pnin teaching, Pnin eating, Pnin ogling a coed, Pnin narrating the epic of the electric fan which he had imprudently set going on a glass shelf right above the bathtub into which its own vibration had almost caused it to fall; Pnin trying to convince Professor Wynn, the ornithologist who hardly knew him, that they were old pals, Tim and Tom--and Wynn leaping to the conclusion that this was somebody impersonating Professor Pnin. It was all built, of course, around the Pninian gesture and the Pninian wild English, but Cockerell also managed to imitate such things as the subtle degree of difference between the silence of Pnin and the silence of Thayer, as they sat motionlessly ruminating in adjacent chairs at the Faculty Club. We got Pnin in the Stacks, and Pnin on the Campus Lake. We heard Pnin criticize the various rooms he had successively rented. We listened to Pnin's account of his learning to drive a car, and of his dealing with his first puncture on the way back from 'the chicken farm of some Privy Counsellor of the Tsar', where Cockerell supposed Pnin spent the summers. We arrived at last at Pnin's declaration one day that he had been' shot', by which, according to the impersonator, the poor fellow meant 'fired'--(a mistake I doubt my friend could have made). Brilliant Cockerell also told of the strange feud between Pnin and his compatriot Komarov--the mediocre muralist who had kept adding fresco portraits of faculty members in the college dining hall to those already depicted there by the great Lang. Although Komarov belonged to another political faction than Pnin, the patriotic artist had seen in Pnin's dismissal an anti-Russian gesture and had started to delete a sulky Napoleon that stood between young, plumpish (now gaunt) Blorenge and young, moustached (now shaven) Hagen, in order to paint in Pnin; and there was the scene between Pnin and President Poore at lunch - an enraged, spluttering Pnin losing all control over what English he had, pointing a shaking forefinger at the preliminary outlines of a ghostly muzhik on the wall, and shouting that he would sue the college if his face appeared above that blouse; and there was his audience, imperturbable Poore, trapped in the dark of his total blindness, waiting for Pnin to peter out and then asking at large: 'Is that foreign gentleman on our staff?' Oh, the impersonation was deliciously funny, and although Gwen Cockerell must have heard the programme many times before, she laughed so loud that their old dog Sobakevich, a brown cocker with a tear-stained face, began to fidget and sniff at me. The performance, I repeat, was magnificent, but it was too long. By midnight the fun began to thin; the smile I was keeping afloat began to develop, I felt, symptoms of labial cramp. Finally, the whole thing grew to be such a bore that I fell wondering if by some poetical vengeance this Pnin business had not become with Cockerell the kind of fatal obsession which substitutes its own victim for that of the initial ridicule. (Chapter Seven, 6).
Komarov's wife Serafima has the same name as Alexey Remizov's wife (born Serafima Dovgello, 1876-1943). In Krashenye ryla. Teatr i kniga ("Painted Snouts. Theater and Book," 1922) Remizov (a Russian writer, 1877-1957) says that his friend I. A. Ryazanski lived in Komarov's house at the corner of the Zolotonoshski and Telezhny Streets (not far from the Moskovski, formerly Nikolaevski, Railway Station in St. Petersburg). At the beginning of his story Rozhdestvo ("Christmas," 1919) Remizov describes the Komarovka (Komarov's house):
Из всех домов в Петербурге Комарова дом это единственный -- Комаровка.
От Невского два шага, а зайдешь с Миргородской да глянешь, так думается, не в Петербурге ходишь, а в Костромской Буй попал.
Направо дохлая лошадь валяется, наполовину съеденная собакой, а из уцелевшего забора вывороченная доска так и торчит. А налево вы не ходите, там такие кучи грязи намерзли, что уж наверняка лоб разобьешь.
Просто, как стали, поддайтесь немного правее, тут вам прямо дом Комарова и будет: желтенький стоит, как новорожденный цыпленок, облупленный, окна подвального этажа сплошь залеплены грязью -- ребятишки врагам своим мазали! -- а вверху над домом шпиль торчит, а на шпиле серебряное яблоко.
На крошечной табуретке перед дверями сидел швейцар Тимофей Иванович Мокеев и, как бывало кто сунется, всякого опросит и не очень-то:
-- Куда -- зачем -- к кому?
Если ответ точен и подозрительного ничего не внушает, учтиво отворит двери:
-- Пожалуйте.
А мальчишки так те обходили швейцара через дорогу: наозорничаешь, не обрадуешься, не спустит.
Все побаивались Тимофея Ивановича.
И даже архивариус, который теперь под самим Щеголевым в Сенате сидит, чудак из пятнадцатого номера, в своей бессменной лисичьей шубе, выходя, бывало, на крылечко и забывая, зачем собственно вышел, не забывал приподнять свою халдейскую шапку -- каракулевый колпак.
-- Здравствуйте, Тимофей Иванович! -- здоровался архивариус, точно жуя маковник медовый.
-- Как здоровье, Иван Александрович? -- отзывался Тимофей Иванович и, обнажив голову, размахивал дверь.
А пройдет дьякон -- и духовному лицу уважение.
А кухарке:
-- Ступай с заднего крыльца.
Боялись Тимофея Ивановича -- взыск, чин, порядок! -- но и все уважали -- кроме собственной жены Агафьи Петровны, иоанитки.
The angry porter in the Komarovka, Timofey Ivanovich Mokeyev, has the same first name as Pnin and the same profession as Ustin (the porter in the Nabokov's St. Petersburg house). In Drugie berega ("Other Shores," 1954), the Russian version of his autobiography Speak, Memory (1951), VN says that Remizov looked to him like a rook after untimely castling:
С писателями я видался мало. Однажды с Цветаевой совершил странную лирическую прогулку, в 1923 году, что ли, при сильном весеннем ветре, по каким-то пражским холмам. В тридцатых годах помню Куприна, под дождём и желтыми листьями поднимающего издали в виде приветствия бутылку красного вина. Ремизова, необыкновенной наружностью напоминавшего мне шахматную ладью после несвоевременной рокировки, я почему-то встречал только во французских кругах, на скучнейших сборищах Nouvelle Revue Francaise, и раз Paulhan зазвал его и меня на загородную дачу какого-то мецената, одного из тех несчастных дойных господ, которые, чтоб печататься, должны платить да платить. (Chapter Thirteen, 2)
VN mentions his strange lyrical tour with Marina Tsvetaev, in 1923, by a strong spring wind, along the hills of Prague. In Speak, Memory VN (a chess composer) mentions the highly finished but unpleasantly slick and insipid chess problems composed by Czech masters:
Experts distinguish several schools of the chess-problem art: the Anglo-American one that combines accurate construction with dazzling thematic patterns, and refuses to be bound by any conventional rules; the rugged splendor of the Teutonic school; the highly finished but unpleasantly slick and insipid products of the Czech style with its strict adherence to certain artificial conditions; the old Russian end-game studies, which attain the sparkling summits of the art, and the mechanical Soviet problem of the so-called “task” type, which replaces artistic strategy by the ponderous working of themes to their utmost capacity. Themes in chess, it may be explained, are such devices as forelaying, withdrawing, pinning, unpinning and so forth; but it is only when they are combined in a certain way that a problem is satisfying. Deceit, to the point of diabolism, and originality, verging upon the grotesque, were my notions of strategy; and although in matters of construction I tried to conform, whenever possible, to classical rules, such as economy of force, unity, weeding out of loose ends, I was always ready to sacrifice purity of form to the exigencies of fantastic content, causing form to bulge and burst like a sponge-bag containing a small furious devil. (Chapter Thirteen, 2)
During his transatlantic journey Pnin loses a game of chess to a German passanger and meets Doctor Eric Wind (Liza Bogolepov's husband, Victor Wind's father). The surname Komarov comes from komar (mosquito). We say in Russian of something done to perfection: komar nosa ne podtochit (it leaves nothing to be desired; literally: "a mosquito won't sharpen its nose"). Pnin leaves no chance to a mosquito.