In a conversation at the Faculty Club 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) says that the name Zembla is a corruption not of the Russian zemlya, but of Semblerland, a land of reflections, of "resemblers:"
Pictures of the King had not infrequently appeared in America during the first months of the Zemblan Revolution. Every now and then some busybody on the campus with a retentive memory, or one of the clubwomen who were always after Shade and his eccentric friend, used to ask me with the inane meaningfulness adopted in such cases if anybody had told me how much I resembled that unfortunate monarch. I would counter with something on the lines of "all Chinese look alike" and change the subject. One day, however, in the lounge of the Faculty Club where I lolled surrounded by a number of my colleagues, I had to put up with a particularly embarrassing onset. A visiting German lecturer from Oxford kept exclaiming, aloud and under his breath, that the resemblance was "absolutely unheard of," and when I negligently observed that all bearded Zemblans resembled one another - and that, in fact, the name Zembla is a corruption not of the Russian zemlya, but of Semblerland, a land of reflections, of "resemblers" - my tormentor said: "Ah, yes, but King Charles wore no beard, and yet it is his very face! I had [he added] the honor of being seated within a few yards of the royal box at a Sport Festival in Onhava which I visited with my wife, who is Swedish, in 1956. We have a photograph of him at home, and her sister knew very well the mother of one of his pages, an interesting woman. Don't you see [almost tugging at Shade's lapel] the astounding similarity of features - of the upper part of the face, and the eyes, yes, the eyes, and the nose bridge?"
"Nay, sir" [said Shade, refolding a leg and slightly rolling in his armchair as wont to do when about to deliver a pronouncement] "there is no resemblance at all. I have seen the King in newsreels, and there is no resemblance. Resemblances are the shadows of differences. Different people see different similarities and similar differences."
Good Netochka, who had been looking singularly uncomfortable during this exchange, remarked in his gentle voice how sad it was to think that such a "sympathetic ruler" had probably perished in prison.
A professor of physics now joined in. He was a so-called Pink, who believed in what so-called Pinks believe in (Progressive Education, the Integrity of anyone spying for Russia, Fall-outs occasioned solely by US-made bombs, the existence in the near past of a McCarthy Era, Soviet achievements including Dr. Zhivago, and so forth): "Your regrets are groundless" [said he]. "That sorry ruler is known to have escaped disguised as a nun; but whatever happens, or has happened to him, cannot interest the Zemblan people. History has denounced him, and that is his epitaph."
Shade: "True, sir. In due time history will have denounced everybody. The King may be dead, or he may be as much alive as you and Kinbote, but let us respect facts. I have it from him [pointing to me] that the widely circulated stuff about the nun is a vulgar pro-Extremist fabrication. The Extremists and their friends invented a lot of nonsense to conceal their discomfiture; but the truth is that the King walked out of the palace, and crossed the mountains, and left the country, not in the black garb of a pale spinster but dressed as an athlete in scarlet wool."
"Strange, strange," said the German visitor, who by some quirk of alderwood ancestry had been alone to catch the eerie note that had throbbed by and was gone.
Shade [smiling and massaging my knee]: "Kings do not die--they only disappear, eh, Charles?"
"Who said that?" asked sharply, as if coming out of a trance, the ignorant, and always suspicious, Head of the English Department.
"Take my own case," continued my dear friend ignoring Mr. H. "I have been said to resemble at least four people: Samuel Johnson; the lovingly reconstructed ancestor of man in the Exton Museum; and two local characters, one being the slapdash disheveled hag who ladles out the mash in the Levin Hall cafeteria."
"The third in the witch row," I precised quaintly, and everybody laughed.
"I would rather say," remarked Mr. Pardon--American History--"that she looks like Judge Goldsworth" ("One of us," interposed Shade inclining his head), "especially when he is real mad at the whole world after a good dinner."
"I heard," hastily began Netochka, "that the Goldsworths are having a wonderful time--"
"What a pity I cannot prove my point," muttered the tenacious German visitor. "If only there was a picture here. Couldn't there be somewhere--"
"Sure," said young Emerald and left his seat.
Professor Pardon now spoke to me: "I was under the impression that you were born in Russia, and that your name was a kind of anagram of Botkin or Botkine?"
Kinbote: "You are confusing me with some refugee from Nova Zembla [sarcastically stressing the "Nova"].
"Didn't you tell me, Charles, that kinbote means regicide in your language?" asked my dear Shade.
"Yes, a king's destroyer," I said (longing to explain that a king who sinks his identity in the mirror of exile is in a sense just that).
Shade [addressing the German visitor]: "Professor Kinbote is the author of a remarkable book on surnames. I believe [to me] there exists an English translation?"
"Oxford, 1956," I replied.
"You do know Russian, though?" said Pardon. "I think I heard you, the other day, talking to--what's his name--oh, my goodness" [laboriously composing his lips].
Shade: "Sir, we all find it difficult to attack that name" [laughing].
Professor Hurley: "Think of the French word for 'tire': punoo."
Shade: "Why, sir, I am afraid you have only punctured the difficulty" [laughing uproariously].
"Flatman," quipped I. "Yes," I went on, turning to Pardon, "I certainly do speak Russian. You see, it was the fashionable language par excellence, much more so than French, among the nobles of Zembla at least, and at its court. Today, of course, all this has changed. It is now the lower classes who are forcibly taught to speak Russian."
"Aren't we, too trying to teach Russian in our schools?" said Pink.
In the meantime, at the other end of the room, young Emerald had been communing with the bookshelves. At this point he returned with the the T-Z volume of an illustrated encyclopedia.
"Well," said he, "here he is, that king. But look, he is young and handsome" ("Oh, that won't do," wailed the German visitor.) "Young, handsome, and wearing a fancy uniform," continued Emerald. "Quite the fancy pansy, in fact."
"And you," I said quietly, "are a foul-minded pup in a cheap green jacket."
"But what have I said?" the young instructor inquired of the company, spreading out his palms like a disciple in Leonardo's Last Supper.
"Now, now," said Shade. "I'm sure, Charles, our young friend never intended to insult your sovereign and namesake."
"He could not, even if he had wished," I observed placidly, turning it all into a joke.
Gerald Emerald extended his hand--which at the moment of writing still remains in that position. (note to Line 894)
In his memoir essay Vstrecha s Turgenevym ("A Meeting with Turgenev," 1931) Nikolay Minsky (a Russian poet of Jewish descent, born Vilenkin, 1855-1937) describes his visit to Louis Viardot's villa Les Frênes (The Ash Trees) in Bougival where Ivan Turgenev (a Russian writer, 1818-1883) lived with the family of Pauline Viardot-García (a French opera singer of Spanish descent, 1821-1910) in the summer of 1880 (after July 14):
Летом 1880 года я был в Париже и, воспользовавшись рекомендательным письмом от редактора «Вестника Европы», М. М. Стасюлевича, навестил Тургенева. Я знал от Стасюлевича, что он отзывался с похвалой о первых моих стихотворениях, напечатанных в «Вестнике Европы». Тургенев ждал меня. Я приехал к нему днем в Буживаль, где он жил на даче у Виардо. Консьерж сказал мне, что Тургенев в саду, в павильоне. Я постучался в павильон и вошел. Навстречу мне поднялся высокий старик, в котором я по портретам узнал Тургенева и обратился к нему по-русски.
К удивлению моему, старик улыбнулся и сказал мне по-французски, что он Виардо, а что Тургенев тут рядом, в другом павильоне. Сходство между Виардо и Тургеневым было поразительное.
Когда, однако, я вошел к Тургеневу во второй павильон, то увидел перед собой человека не то что высокого, а гигантского роста, широкоплечего, с густыми седыми волосами, остриженными по-русски, в скобку, с седой бородой, и с простым лицом славянского и даже чисто крестьянского типа.
According to Minsky (who never met Turgenev before but knew him by his portraits), he mistook Louis Viardot (a French writer, art historian, art critic, theatrical figure, and translator, 1800-1883) for Turgenev and addressed him in Russian. "The resemblance between Viardot and Turgenev was striking." Minsky says that Turgenev was chelovek gigantskogo rosta (a giant of a man). In his forword to Shade's poem Kinbote describes himself as a soft, clumsy giant:
Imagine a soft, clumsy giant; imagine a historical personage whose knowledge of money is limited to the abstract billions of a national debt; imagine an exiled prince who is unaware of the Golconda in his cuff links! This is to say - oh, hyperbolically - that I am the most impractical fellow in the world. Between such a person and an old fox in the book publishing business, relations are at first touchingly carefree and chummy, with expansive banterings and all sorts of amiable tokens. I have no reason to suppose that anything will ever happen to prevent this initial relationship with good old Frank, my present publisher, from remaining a permanent fixture.
According to Minsky, in a conversation with Turgenev (that lasted more than three hours) he rashly remarked that, for the young writers who came after such giants as Turgenev, Tolstoy, Goncharov, it is difficult to write, because all main themes are exhausted:
Я необдуманно заметил, что молодым писателям, пришедшим после таких гигантов, как Тургенев, Толстой, Гончаров, трудно писать, так как все главные темы исчерпаны.
Должно быть, говоря это, я продолжал несколько смущенно улыбаться, и это окончательно вывело из себя Тургенева, всегда подозревавшего младшее поколение в неуважительном к себе отношении.
— Вздор вы говорите! — накинулся он на меня. — У каждого поколения свои темы.
И потом вдруг закричал:
— Как вы смеете смеяться надо мной! Мне шестьдесят три года.
Я совершенно оторопел и не знал, что ему ответить. Мне, конечно, в голову не приходило смеяться над ним. Увидав мой искренний испуг, Тургенев опомнился, сразу переменил тон, стараясь сгладить впечатление от своей ничем не вызванной вспышки, и стал сыпать анекдотами и рассказами, увлекая меня необычайным блеском и талантом передачи разных воспоминаний.
Прежде всего он рассказал мне о своей единственной встрече с Пушкиным.
— Видел я его в книжной лавке Смирдина, когда он уходил, надевая шинель. А как вы думаете, — вдруг спросил он у меня, — какого у него были цвета волосы?
Я ответил, что представляю себе Пушкина брюнетом в связи с его происхождением.
— Ошибаетесь, — сказал Тургенев. — У Пушкина были светлые курчавые волосы.
И тут же, взяв карандаш и бумагу, Тургенев нарисовал очень похожий профиль Пушкина и отдал мне рисунок. К сожалению, я дал этот рисунок граверу Матэ и, где он теперь находится, не могу сказать.
The main character in Ivan Goncharov's novel Obryv ("The Precipice," 1869), Rayski brings to mind John Ray, Jr., in VN's novel Lolita (1955) the author of the foreword to Humbert Humbert's manuscript. Turgenev told Minsky about the ony occasion when he saw Pushkin and drew for him Pushkin's profile (closely resembling the poet's looks). Minsky quotes Turgenev's words to him: "How you dare to laugh at me, I'm sixty-three years old." Shade is sixty-one when he is killed by Gradus. The name of Shade's murderer brings to mind Turgenev's opinion of Alphonse Daudet (a French writer, 1840-1897):
О Додэ Тургенев отозвался довольно сдержанно.
— Это писатель чрезвычайно неровный, — говорил он. — Амплитуда его таланта, как ртуть в термометре, то поднимается, то опускается.
Меня, однако, удивил и этот сравнительно благосклонный отзыв об авторе «Тартарена», так как известно было, что в то время между Тургеневым и Додэ пробежала черная кошка из-за письма, написанного Додэ и содержавшего нелестный отзыв о Тургеневе.
According to Turgenev, Daudet is a very uneven writer. The amplitude of his talent is, like murcury in a thermometer, now higher, now lower. Gradus means in Russian degree and makes one think of gradusnik (thermometer). Chyornaya koshka (a black cat) that, according to Minsky, has run between Turgenev and Daudet because of a letter written by Daudet and containing an unflattering comment on Turgenev brings to mind the black cat (farmed out by Kinbote to Mrs. Finley, the cleaning woman) that came with the house rented for Kinbote by Sylvia O'Donnell (Odon's mother):
In the Foreword to this work I have had occasion to say something about the amenities of my habitation. The charming, charmingly vague lady (see note to line 691), who secured it for me, sight unseen, meant well, no doubt, especially since it was widely admired in the neighborhood for its "old-world spaciousness and graciousness." Actually, it was an old, dismal, white-and-black, half-timbered house, of the type termed wodnaggen in my country, with carved gables, drafty bow windows and a so-called "semi-noble" porch, surmounted by a hideous veranda. Judge Goldsworth had a wife, and four daughters. Family photographs met me in the hallway and pursued me from room to room, and although I am sure that Alphina (9), Betty (10), Candida (12), and Dee (14) will soon change from horribly cute little schoolgirls to smart young ladies and superior mothers, I must confess that their pert pictures irritated me to such an extent that finally I gathered them one by one and dumped them all in a closet under the gallows row of their cellophane-shrouded winter clothes. In the study I found a large picture of their parents, with sexes reversed, Mrs. G. resembling Malenkov, and Mr. G. a Medusa-locked hag, and this I replaced by the reproduction of a beloved early Picasso: earth boy leading raincloud horse. I did not bother, though, to do much about the family books which were also all over the house - four sets of different Children's Encyclopedias, and a stolid grown-up one that ascended all the way from shelf to shelf along a flight of stairs to burst an appendix in the attic. Judging by the novels in Mrs. Goldsworth's boudoir, her intellectual interests were fully developed, going as they did from Amber to Zen. The head of this alphabetic family had a library too, but this consisted mainly of legal works and a lot of conspicuously lettered ledgers. All the layman could glean for instruction and entertainment was a morocco-bound album in which the judge had lovingly pasted the life histories and pictures of people he had sent to prison or condemned to death: unforgettable faces of imbecile hoodlums, last smokes and last grins, a strangler's quite ordinary-looking hands, a self-made widow, the close-set merciless eyes of a homicidal maniac (somewhat resembling, I admit, the late Jacques d'Argus), a bright little parricide aged seven ("Now, sonny, we want you to tell us -"), and a sad pudgy old pederast who had blown up his blackmailer. What rather surprised me was that he, my learned landlord, and not his "missus," directed the household. Not only had he left me a detailed inventory of all such articles as cluster around a new tenant like a mob of menacing natives, but he had taken stupendous pains to write out on slips of paper recommendations, explanations, injunctions and supplementary lists. Whatever I touched on the first day of my stay yielded a specimen of Goldsworthiana. I unlocked the medicine chest in the second bathroom, and out fluttered a message advising me that the slit for discarded safety blades was too full to use. I opened the icebox, and it warned me with a bark that "no national specialties with odors hard to get rid of" should be placed therein. I pulled out the middle drawer of the desk in the study - and discovered a catalogue raisonné of its meager contents which included an assortment of ashtrays, a damask paperknife (described as "one ancient dagger brought by Mrs. Goldsworth's father from the Orient"), and an old but unused pocket diary optimistically maturing there until its calendric correspondencies came around again. Among various detailed notices affixed to a special board in the pantry, such as plumbing instructions, dissertations on electricity, discourses on cactuses and so forth, I found the diet of the black cat that came with the house:
Mon, Wed, Fri: Liver
Tue, Thu, Sat: Fish
Sun: Ground meat
(All it got from me was milk and sardines; it was a likable little creature but after a while its movements began to grate on my nerves and I farmed it out to Mrs. Finley, the cleaning woman.) But perhaps the funniest note concerned the manipulations of the window curtains which had to be drawn in different ways at different hours to prevent the sun from getting at the upholstery. A description of the position of the sun, daily and seasonal, was given for the several windows, and if I had heeded all this I would have been kept as busy as a participant in a regatta. A footnote, however, generously suggested that instead of manning the curtains, I might prefer to shift and reshift out of sun range the more precious pieces of furniture (two embroidered armchairs and a heavy "royal console") but should do it carefully lest I scratch the wall moldings. I cannot, alas, reproduce the meticulous schedule of these transposals but seem to recall that I was supposed to castle the long way before going to bed and the short way first thing in the morning. My dear Shade roared with laughter when I led him on a tour of inspection and had him find some of those bunny eggs for himself. Thank God, his robust hilarity dissipated the atmosphere of damnum infectum in which I was supposed to dwell. On his part, he regaled me with a number of anecdotes concerning the judge's dry wit and courtroom mannerisms; most of these anecdotes were doubtless folklore exaggerations, a few were evident inventions, and all were harmless. He did not bring up, my sweet old friend never did, ridiculous stories about the terrifying shadows that Judge Goldsworth's gown threw across the underworld, or about this or that beast lying in prison and positively dying of raghdirst (thirst for revenge) - crass banalities circulated by the scurrilous and the heartless - by all those for whom romance, remoteness, sealskin-lined scarlet skies, the darkening dunes of a fabulous kingdom, simply do not exist. But enough of this. Let us turn to our poet's windows. I have no desire to twist and batter an unambiguous apparatus criticus into the monstrous semblance of a novel. (note to Lines 47-48)
In his memoir essay Minsky tells his version of the anecdote about Turgenev and Dostoevski (who once came to Turgenev's apartment and invented a horrific story about abusing a little girl just to shock him):
Беседа перешла на Достоевского.
Тургенев понизил голос и заговорил несколько торжественным тоном:
— Жил я, — начал он, — в Петербурге, в гостинице. Однажды утром входит ко мне Достоевский в черном сюртуке, застегнутом на все пуговицы, и, не глядя на меня, начинает как бы читать наизусть заученный рассказ: «Вам известно, — говорит он, — что в „Дневнике писателя“ я вел кампанию против одной портнихи, мучившей свою малолетнюю ученицу. Я добился того, что ученица была отпущена на волю. Я подобрал девочку — и растлил ее. Долго я не знал, как наказать себя за этот гнусный поступок, и наконец придумал следующую кару: пойду я к человеку, самому для меня ненавистному на свете, — тут Достоевский поднял глаза на меня, — и откровенно расскажу ему про этот случай. Вот почему я пришел к вам». Сказав это, Достоевский поднялся и, не прощаясь, вышел из комнаты.
Вернувшись в Петербург, я передал этот рассказ Тургенева о Достоевском Максиму Белинскому (Иерониму Ясинскому), и он переделал его в повесть. Я должен сознаться, что когда Тургенев рассказывал мне об этом инциденте, мне казалось, что он не столько вспоминает, сколько сочиняет. Слишком рассказ был литературно отшлифован, для того чтобы быть верной передачей подлинного события.
Тургенев еще долго говорил о Достоевском в весьма недружелюбном тоне, рассказывал, что Достоевский развратничал по ночам, а утром бегал в Новодевичий и часами клал земные поклоны. Рассказывал он еще другие анекдотические подробности о разврате Достоевского, но о них лучше умолчать.
Minsky had the impression that the whole story of Dostoevski's visit was actually invented by Turgenev. Upon returning to St. Petersburg, Minsky told Turgenev's story to Maxim Belinski (a Russian writer, penname of Ieronim Yasinski, 1845-1931) who made of it a novella, entitled Ispoved' ("The Confession," 1888). According to John Ray, Jr., Humbert Humbert's manuscript is subtitled "the Confession of a White Widowed Male:"
“Lolita, or the Confession of a White Widowed Male,” such were the two titles under which the writer of the present note received the strange pages it preambulates. “Humbert Humbert,” their author, had died in legal captivity, of coronary thrombosis, on November 16, 1952, a few days before his trial was scheduled to start. His lawyer, my good friend and relation, Clarence Choate Clark, Esq., now of the District of Columbia bar, in asking me to edit the manuscript, based his request on a clause in his client’s will which empowered my eminent cousin to use the discretion in all matters pertaining to the preparation of “Lolita” for print. Mr. Clark’s decision may have been influenced by the fact that the editor of his choice had just been awarded the Poling Prize for a modest work (“Do the Senses make Sense?”) wherein certain morbid states and perversions had been discussed.
Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan on 16 November 1581 is a painting by Ilya Repin (a Russian realist painter, 1844-1930) made between 1883 and 1885. Repin is the author of Turgenev's portrait (painted in Paris in 1874). In a letter of November 25, 1892, to Alexey Suvorin Anton Chekhov (a Russian writer, 1860-1904) compares his story Palata №6 (Ward Six, 1892) to sweet lemonade and mentions the paintings of Repin and Shishkin:
Вас нетрудно понять, и Вы напрасно браните себя за то, что неясно выражаетесь. Вы горький пьяница, а я угостил Вас сладким лимонадом, и Вы, отдавая должное лимонаду, справедливо замечаете, что в нем нет спирта. В наших произведениях нет именно алкоголя, который бы пьянил и порабощал, и это Вы хорошо даете попять. Отчего нет? Оставляя в стороне "Палату No 6" и меня самого, будем говорить вообще, ибо это интересней. Будем говорить об общих причинах, коли Вам не скучно, и давайте захватим целую эпоху. Скажите по совести, кто из моих сверстников, т. е. людей в возрасте 30--45 лет, дал миру хотя одну каплю алкоголя? Разве Короленко, Надсон и все нынешние драматурги не лимонад? Разве картины Репина или Шишкина кружили Вам голову? Мило, талантливо, Вы восхищаетесь и в то же время никак не можете забыть, что Вам хочется курить. Наука и техника переживают теперь великое время, для нашего же брата это время рыхлое, кислое, скучное, сами мы кислы и скучны, умеем рождать только гуттаперчевых мальчиков, и не видит этого только Стасов, которому природа дала редкую способность пьянеть даже от помоев. Причины тут не в глупости нашей, не в бездарности и не в наглости, как думает Буренин, а в болезни, которая для художника хуже сифилиса и полового истощения. У нас нет "чего-то", это справедливо, и это значит, что поднимите подол нашей музе, и Вы увидите там плоское место. Вспомните, что писатели, которых мы называем вечными или просто хорошими и которые пьянят нас, имеют один общий и весьма важный признак: они куда-то идут и Вас зовут туда же, и Вы чувствуете не умом, а всем своим существом, что у них есть какая-то цель, как у тени отца Гамлета, которая недаром приходила и тревожила воображение. У одних, смотря по калибру, цели ближайшие -- крепостное право, освобождение родины, политика, красота или просто водка, как у Дениса Давыдова, у других цели отдалённые -- бог, загробная жизнь, счастье человечества и т. п. Лучшие из них реальны и пишут жизнь такою, какая она есть, но оттого, что каждая строчка пропитана, как соком, сознанием цели, Вы, кроме жизни, какая есть, чувствуете ещё ту жизнь, какая должна быть, и это пленяет Вас.
It is easy to understand you, and there is no need for you to abuse yourself for obscurity of expression. You are a hard drinker, and I have regaled you with sweet lemonade, and you, after giving the lemonade its due, justly observe that there is no spirit in it. That is just what is lacking in our productions—the alcohol which could intoxicate and subjugate, and you state that very well. Why not? Putting aside "Ward No. 6" and myself, let us discuss the matter in general, for that is more interesting. Let ms discuss the general causes, if that won't bore you, and let us include the whole age. Tell me honestly, who of my contemporaries—that is, men between thirty and forty-five—have given the world one single drop of alcohol? Are not Korolenko, Nadson, and all the playwrights of to-day, lemonade? Have Repin's or Shishkin's pictures turned your head? Charming, talented, you are enthusiastic; but at the same time you can't forget that you want to smoke. Science and technical knowledge are passing through a great period now, but for our sort it is a flabby, stale, and dull time. We are stale and dull ourselves, we can only beget gutta-percha boys, and the only person who does not see that is Stasov, to whom nature has given a rare faculty for getting drunk on slops. The causes of this are not to be found in our stupidity, our lack of talent, or our insolence, as Burenin imagines, but in a disease which for the artist is worse than syphilis or sexual exhaustion. We lack "something," that is true, and that means that, lift the robe of our muse, and you will find within an empty void. Let me remind you that the writers, who we say are for all time or are simply good, and who intoxicate us, have one common and very important characteristic; they are going towards something and are summoning you towards it, too, and you feel not with your mind, but with your whole being, that they have some object, just like the ghost of Hamlet's father, who did not come and disturb the imagination for nothing. Some have more immediate objects—the abolition of serfdom, the liberation of their country, politics, beauty, or simply vodka, like Denis Davydov; others have remote objects—God, life beyond the grave, the happiness of humanity, and so on. The best of them are realists and paint life as it is, but, through every line's being soaked in the consciousness of an object, you feel, besides life as it is, the life which ought to be, and that captivates you.
An empty void under the robe of our muse brings to mind the highly indecent (but very funny) shel'ma → shchel'ma pun cited by Turgenev:
Разговор перешел на тему о русском и других языках.
— Удивительно выразительный русский язык, — восторгался Тургенев. — Достаточно иногда одной буквы, чтобы усилить впечатление. Вот один мой приятель, например, жалуясь на свою тещу, сказал: «Это даже не шельма, а щельма».
One of Turgenev's pals, complaining of his mother-in-law, said: "She is not merely a Schelm, but a shchelm (a play on shchel', a slit, cleft). According to Kinbote, Shade had a childish predilection for so-called word golf:
Line 819: Playing a game of worlds
My illustrious friend showed a childish predilection for all sorts of word games and especially for so-called word golf. He would interrupt the flow of a prismatic conversation to indulge in this particular pastime, and naturally it would have been boorish of me to refuse playing with him. Some of my records are: hate-love in three, lass-male in four, and live-dead in five (with "lend" in the middle).