Describing his rented house, 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 the black cat that came with the house:
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 essay Razgovory s det'mi ("Talks with Children") that appeared in the almanac Polyarnaya zvezda ("Polar Star," 1859, V) Alexander Herzen (a Russian writer and thinker, 1812-1870, who lived in exile in London) says that to ask "can the soul exist without the body?" is like asking the question "can the black cat leave the room and the black color stay behind?":
Вымыслы не только отдаляют пониманье, но забывают самую возможность правильно поставить вопрос; в манере спрашивать видно, что сделанный вопрос вперед решен.
Так, вопрос «Может ли душа существовать без тела?» заключает в себе целое нелепое рассуждение, предшествовавшее ему и основанное на том, что душа и тело — две разные вещи. Что сказали бы вы человеку, который бы вас спросил: «Может ли черная кошка выйти из комнаты, а черный цвет остаться?» Вы его сочли бы за сумасшедшего — а оба вопроса совершенно одинакие. Само собою разумеется, тот, кто может себе представить черный цвет, оставленный кошкой, или ласточку, которая летает без крыльев и легких, тому легко представить себе душу без тела, такое целое, которого части уничтожены... а затем почему ему и не бояться на кладбище или на кургане встречи с давно умершими, ходящими без мускулов одними костями, говорящих без языка.
Есть люди, которые без малейшего основания говорят, что души умерших отправляются на другие планеты; это понять не легче. (I. "Empty Fears. Inventions")
According to Herzen, he who can imagine the black color left behind by a cat or a swallow that flies without wings and lungs can easily imagine the soul without the body, such a whole whose parts have been destroyed. Lastochka (a swallow) mentioned by Herzen brings to mind Sofia Botkin, born Lastochin, the "real" name of both Sybil Shade (the poet's wife) and Queen Disa (the wife of Charles the Beloved). In the next paragraph, Herzen mentions people who without the slightest ground say that the souls of the deceased go to other planets. Describing IPH (a lay Institute of Preparation for the Hereafter) in Canto Three of his poem, John Shade (the poet in Pale Fire) mentions the great Starover Blue (the college astronomer) who reviewed the role planets had played as landfalls of the soul:
We heard cremationists guffaw and snort
At Grabermann's denouncing the Retort
As detrimental to the birth of wraiths.
We all avoided criticizing faiths.
The great Starover Blue reviewed the role
Planets had played as landfalls of the soul.
The fate of beasts was pondered. A Chinese
Discanted on the etiquette at teas
With ancestors, and how far up to go.
I tore apart the fantasies of Poe,
And dealt with childhood memories of strange
Nacreous gleams beyond the adults' range. (ll. 623-634)
In his Kolokol article (August 1, 1865) Starovery i evrei ("Old Believers and Jews") Herzen mentions Congress of Poland (Tsarstvo Pol'skoe, then part of the Russian Empire) and the order of the Warsaw Ober-Polizeimeister:
Маски падают одна за одной, их бросают впредь до новых: кровавых святок. «Кёльнская газета» говорит, что с полным-усмирением восстания в Литве начались снова невыносимые гонения на староверов. Им это урок, пора им знать, что неблагодарность австрийского правительства, которой хотел удивить мир Шварценберг, ничего не значит перед петербургской способностью неблагодарности. Горько раскаются они в своих, уступках и лицемерной преданности. За раскольниками, урок евреям.
Приказ варшавского обер-полициймейстера.
Приказом по исполнительной полиции минувшего 1864 года, за № 36, предписано было иметь наблюдение за точным исполнением постановления совета управления Царства Польского от 19-го июня (1-го июля) 1853 года относительно недозволения евреям носить воспрещенные высочайшим повелением еврейские уборы. Распоряжение это по случаю особых и исключительных в минувшем году усиленных действий полиции, при бывшем в крае беспорядке, лишило ее возможности следить за выполнением оного и принудило по необходимости ограничиваться одними лишь напоминаниями о выполнении высочайшего указа. Ныне, при восстановленном уже порядке, в городе усматривается, что большею частию евреями подтверждение это не только не выполнено, но многие из них допускают себе носить самые безобразные и неприличные костюмы, показываясь в оных на улицах и даже в местах общественных гуляний, почему высшее начальство и нашлось вынужденным сделать подтверждение о точном выполнении вышесказанного указа. Для исполнения сего и понуждения всех дозволивших себе евреев отступать от изданного и неотмененного постановления мною вместе с сим предложено варшавским раввинам объявить под расписки всем евреям, что, назначая им семидневный срок для приведения своих головных уборов в надлежащий вид, предваряю, что если по истечении сего срока, т. е. с 30 июня (12 июля) кто-либо из них еще дозволит себе носить крымки, пейсы и неприличное для горожанина одеяние, то будет задерживаем. полициею и по распоряжению, вместе с сим сделанному, не принимая никаких причин в оправдание, будет понужден к исполнению полицейскими уже мерами. Имея же в виду, что многие евреи низшего класса по бедности своей не в состоянии бы были в столь короткий срок заменить настоящие свои костюмы на общепринятый для горожан всех исповеданий, дается им семимесячный срок, но с тем, чтобы головные уборы были ими сняты в семидневный срок, как выше сказано, и чтобы при донашивании ими старого одеяния они не смели себе дозволить являться в места общественных собраний в неприличной одежде.(«Рус. инв.»).
...Так и пахнуло съезжей и Николаем. Какая тупость, какая узкость, какое мелочничество у этого несчастного правительства! Враги ли его толкают в эти ямы глупости или собственная, в кровь и мозг вошедшая, фельдфебельская страсть к регламентации? Нет, это цирульное, портняжническое правительство ничего не примерит, ничего не сделает, никуда не поведет — pas de rêveries!
According to Kinbote, Starover Blue is the son of Sinyavin's son Blue and Stella Lazurchik, an Americanized Kashube:
Presumably, permission from Prof. Blue was obtained but even so the plunging of a real person, no matter how sportive and willing, into an invented milieu where he is made to perform in accordance with the invention, strikes one as a singularly tasteless device, especially since other real-life characters, except members of the family, of course, are pseudonymized in the poem.
This name, no doubt, is most tempting. The star over the blue eminently suits an astronomer though actually neither his first nor second name bears any relation to the celestial vault: the first was given him in memory of his grandfather, a Russian starover (accented, incidentally, on the ultima), that is, Old Believer (member of a schismatic sect), named Sinyavin, from siniy, Russ. "blue." This Sinyavin migrated from Saratov to Seattle and begot a son who eventually changed his name to Blue and married Stella Lazurchik, an Americanized Kashube. So it goes. Honest Starover Blue will probably be surprised by the epithet bestowed upon him by a jesting Shade. The writer feels moved to pay here a small tribute to the amiable old freak, adored by everybody on the campus and nicknamed by the students Colonel Starbottle, evidently because of his exceptionally convivial habits. After all, there were other great men in our poet's entourage - for example, that distinguished Zemblan scholar Oscar Nattochdag. (note to Line 627: The great Starover Blue)
The Kashubians are a West Slavic ethnic group native to the historical region of Pomerania (a historical region on the southern shore of the Baltic Sea in Central Europe, split between Poland and Germany). Grab being the German word for grave, Grabermann (the surname comes from graben, "to dig") mentioned by Shade brings to mind kladbishche ili kurgan (a cemetery or a burial mound) in the above quoted paragraph of Herzen's essay Talks with Children. An American short-story writer and poet, E. A. Poe (1809-1849) is the author of The Black Cat (1845). At the beginning of VN's novel Dar ("The Gift," 1937) Fyodor Konstantinovich Godunov-Cherdyntsev (the narrator and main character) mentions his landlady's tabby cat:
Хозяйка пришла звать его к телефону, и он, вежливо сутулясь, последовал за ней в столовую. «Во-первых, — сказал Александр Яковлевич, — почему это, милостивый государь, у вас в пансионе так неохотно сообщают ваш новый номер? Выехали, небось, с треском? А во‑вторых, хочу вас поздравить… Как — вы еще не знаете? Честное слово?» («Он еще ничего не знает», — обратился Александр Яковле‑ вич другой стороной голоса к кому‑то вне телефона). «Ну, в таком случае возьмите себя в руки и слушайте, я буду читать: “Только что вышедшая книга стихов до сих пор неизвестного автора, Федора Годунова-Чердынцева, кажется нам явлением столь ярким, поэтический талант автора столь несомненен…” — Знаете что, оборвем на этом, а вы приходите вечером к нам, тогда получите всю статью. Нет, Федор Константинович дорогой, сейчас ничего не скажу, ни где, ни что, — а если хотите знать, что я сам думаю, то не обижайтесь, но он вас перехваливает. Значит, придете? Отлично. Будем ждать».
Вешая трубку, он едва не сбил со столика стальной жгут с карандашом на привязи; хотел его удержать, но тут‑то и смахнул; потом въехал бедром в угол буфета; потом выронил папиросу, которую на ходу тащил из пачки; и наконец, зазвенел дверью, не рассчитав размаха, так что проходившая по коридору с блюдцем молока фрау Стобой холодно произнесла: упс! Ему захотелось сказать ей, что ее пале‑ вое в сизых тюльпанах платье прекрасно, что пробор в гофрированных волосах и дрожащие мешки щек сообщают ей нечто жорж-сандово-царственное; что ее столовая верх совершенства; но он ограничился сияющей улыбкой и чуть не упал на тигровые полоски, не поспевшие за отскочившим котом, но в конце концов он никогда и не сомневался, что так будет, что мир, в лице нескольких сот любителей литературы, покинувших Петербург, Москву, Киев, немедленно оценит его дар.
The landlady came to call him to the telephone, and he, politely stooping his shoulders, followed her into the dining room. “In the first place, my dear sir,” said Alexander Yakovlevich Chernyshevski, “why are they so reluctant at your old boardinghouse to divulge your new number? Left there with a bang, didn’t you? In the second place, I want to congratulate you…. What, you haven’t heard yet? Honestly?” (“He hasn’t heard anything about it yet,” said Alexander Yakovlevich, turning the other side of his voice toward someone out of the range of the telephone). “Well, in that case get a firm grip on yourself and listen to this—I’m going to read it to you: ‘The newly published collection of poems by the hitherto unknown author Fyodor Godunov-Cherdyntsev strikes one as such a brilliant phenomenon, and the poetic talent of the author is so indisputable….’ You know what, I shan’t go on, but you come over to our place tonight. Then you will get the whole article. No, Fyodor Konstantinovich, my good friend, I won’t tell you anything now, neither who wrote this review, nor in what émigré Russian-language paper it appeared, but if you want my personal opinion, then don’t be offended, but I think the fellow is treating you much too kindly. So you’ll come? Excellent. We’ll be expecting you.”
As he hung up the receiver Fyodor nearly knocked the stand with flexible steel rod and attached pencil off the table; he tried to catch it, and it was then that he did knock it off; then he bumped his hip against the corner of the sideboard; then he dropped a cigarette that he was pulling out of the pack as he walked; and finally he miscalculated the swing of the door which flew open so resonantly that Frau Stoboy, just then passing along the corridor with a saucer of milk in her hand, uttered an icy “Oops!” He wanted to tell her that her pale yellow dress with bluish tulips was beautiful, that the parting in her frizzled hair and the quivering bags of her cheeks endowed her with a George-Sandesque regality; that her dining room was the height of perfection; but he limited himself to a beaming smile and nearly tripped over the tiger stripes which had not kept up with the cat as it jumped aside; after all, though, he had never doubted that it would be this way, that the world, in the person of a few hundred lovers of literature who had left St. Petersburg, Moscow and Kiev, would immediately appreciate his gift. (Chapter One)
After the suicide of his son Yasha, Alexander Yakovlevich Chernyshevski (a character in The Gift) went mad and began to see his son's ghost. Describing his visit to zheltovatyi dom (“the semi-loony bin”), Fyodor mentions obshchestvo bor’by s potustoronnim (the Society for Struggle with the Other World) whose Chairman poor 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 Society for Struggle with the Other World brings to mind Shade's IPH and Strange Other World mentioned by Shade in a discarded variant quoted by Kinbote in his commentary:
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 the poet Shade, his commentator Kinbote and his murderer Gradus after the tragic death of his daughter Nadezhda (Hazel Shade’s “real name”). Nadezhda means in Russian “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.
In Zhizn' Chernyshevskogo ("The Life of Chernyshevski"), Chapter Four of The Gift, Fyodor describes Chernyshevski's trip to London and his meeting with Herzen:
Как бы то ни было, 26 июня 1859 года Чернышевский прибыл в Лондон (все думали, что он в Саратове) и оставался там до 30-го. Среди тумана этих четырех дней пробивается косой луч: Тучкова-Огарева идет через зал в солнечный сад, неся на руках годовалую дочку в кружевной пелериночке. По залу (действие происходит в Патнэй, у Герцена) ходит взад и вперед с Александром Ивановичем (тогда были очень приняты эти комнатные прогулки) среднего роста господин, с лицом некрасивым, «но озаренным удивительным выражением самоотверженности и покорности судьбе» (что было вернее всего лишь игрою памяти мемуаристки, вспоминавшей это лицо сквозь призму судьбы, уже свершившейся). Герцен познакомил ее со своим собеседником. Чернышевский погладил ребенка по волосам и проговорил своим тихим голосом: «У меня тоже есть такие, но я почти никогда их не вижу» (он путал имена своих детей: в Саратове находился его маленький Виктор, вскоре там умерший, ибо судьба детей таких описок не прощает, – а он посылал поцелуй «Сашурке», который уже вернулся к нему). «Поздоровайся, подай рученьку», – скороговоркой произнес Герцен и потом сразу стал отвечать на что-то, сказанное до того Чернышевским: «…ну да, – вот и посылали их в рудники»; а Тучкова проплыла в сад, и косой луч погас навеки.
However that may have been, on the 26th June (New Style?), 1859, Chernyshevski arrived in London (everyone thought that he was in Saratov) and stayed there until the 30th. An oblique ray pierces the fog of these four days: Mme. Tuchkov-Ogaryov walks through a drawing room and into a sunny garden, carrying in her arms her year-old baby girl dressed in a little lace pelerine. In the drawing room (the action takes place in Putney, at Herzen’s house) Alexander Ivanovich is walking back and forth (these indoor walks were very much the thing in those days) with a gentleman of medium height whose face is unattractive “but illumined by a wonderful expression of self-abnegation and submissiveness to fate” (which most likely was merely a trick of the memoirist’s memory, recalling that face through the prism of a fate which had already been accomplished). Herzen introduced his companion to her. Chernyshevski stroked the infant’s hair and said in his quiet voice: “I also have some like this, but I hardly ever see them.” (He used to confuse the names of his children: little Victor was in Saratov, where he soon died, for the fate of children does not forgive such slips of the pen—but he sent a kiss to “little Sasha” who had already been brought back to St. Petersburg). “Say how do you do, give us your hand,” said Herzen rapidly, and then immediately began to reply to something that had been said by Chernyshevski: “Yes, exactly—that’s why they sent them to the Siberian mines”; while Mme. Tuchkov floated into the garden and the oblique ray was extinguished forever.
The surname Chernyshevski comes from chyornyi (black). Chernysh (as Zina Mertz calls Chernyshevski) is a common Russian name for a black cat.