Describing the last moments of John Shade’s life, 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 forgotten butterfly of revelation:
Well did I know he could never resist a golden drop of this or that, especially since he was severely rationed at home. With an inward leap of exultation I relieved him of the large envelope that hampered his movements as he descended the steps of the porch, sideways, like a hesitating infant. We crossed the lawn, we crossed the road. Clink-clank, came the horseshoe music from Mystery Lodge. In the large envelope I carried I could feel the hard-cornered, rubberbanded batches of index cards. We are absurdly accustomed to the miracle of a few written signs being able to contain immortal imagery, involutions of thought, new worlds with live people, speaking, weeping, laughing. We take it for granted so simply that in a sense, by the very act of brutish routine acceptance, we undo the work of the ages, the history of the gradual elaboration of poetical description and construction, from the treeman to Browning, from the caveman to Keats. What if we awake one day, all of us, and find ourselves utterly unable to read? I wish you to gasp not only at what you read but at the miracle of its being readable (so I used to tell my students). Although I am capable, through long dabbling in blue magic, of imitating any prose in the world (but singularly enough not verse - I am a miserable rhymester), I do not consider myself a true artist, save in one matter: I can do what only a true artist can do - pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation, wean myself abruptly from the habit of things, see the web of the world, and the warp and the weft of that web. Solemnly I weighed in my hand what I was carrying under my left armpit, and for a moment, I found myself enriched with an indescribable amazement as if informed that fireflies were making decodable signals on behalf of stranded spirits, or that a bat was writing a legible tale of torture in the bruised and branded sky.
I was holding all Zembla pressed to my heart. (note to Line 991)
Babochka ("The Butterfly," 1884) is a poem by Afanasiy Fet:
Ты прав. Одним воздушным очертаньем
Я так мила.
Весь бархат мой с его живым миганьем —
Лишь два крыла.
Не спрашивай: откуда появилась?
Куда спешу?
Здесь на цветок я легкий опустилась
И вот — дышу.
Надолго ли, без цели, без усилья,
Дышать хочу?
Вот-вот сейчас, сверкнув, раскину крылья
И улечу.
In the penultimate line of his poem Uchis' u nikh - u duba, u beryozy ("Learn from them - from the oak, from the birch," 1883) Fet mentions the new revelations:
Учись у них — у дуба, у березы.
Кругом зима. Жестокая пора!
Напрасные на них застыли слезы,
И треснула, сжимаяся, кора.
Все злей метель и с каждою минутой
Сердито рвет последние листы,
И за сердце хватает холод лютый;
Они стоят, молчат; молчи и ты!
Но верь весне. Ее промчится гений,
Опять теплом и жизнию дыша.
Для ясных дней, для новых откровений
Переболит скорбящая душа.
In the butterfly chapter of his autobiography Speak, Memory (1951) VN quotes Fet's "Butterfly" and Robert Browning's poem By the Fire Side:
In the works of major Russian poets I can discover only two lepidopteral images of genuinely sensuous quality: Bunin’s impeccable evocation of what is certainly a Tortoiseshell:
And there will fly into the room
A colored butterfly in silk
To flutter, rustle and pit-pat
On the blue ceiling …
and Fet’s “Butterfly” soliloquizing:
Whence have I come and whither am I hasting
Do not inquire;
Now on a graceful flower I have settled
And now respire.
In French poetry one is struck by Musset’s well-known lines (in Le Saule):
Le phalène doré dans sa course légère
Traverse les prés embaumés
which is an absolutely exact description of the crepuscular flight of the male of the geometrid called in England the Orange moth; and there is Fargue’s fascinatingly apt phrase (in Les Quatres Journées) about a garden which, at nightfall, se glace de bleu comme l’aile du grand Sylvain (the Poplar Admirable). And among the very few genuine lepidopterological images in English poetry, my favorite is Browning’s
On our other side is the straight-up rock;
And a path is kept ’twixt the gorge and it
By boulder-stones where lichens mock
The marks on a moth, and small ferns fit
Their teeth to the polished block
(“By the Fire-side”) (Chapter Six, 3)
In 1857, in Paris, Afanasiy Fet married Maria Petrovna Botkin. The three main characters in Pale Fire, the poet Shade, his commentator Kinbote and his murderer Gradus, seem to represent three different aspects of one and the same person whose "real" name is Botkin. An American scholar of Russian descent, Professor Vsevolod Botkin went mad and became Shade, Kinbote and Gradus after the tragic death of his daughter Nadezhda (Hazel Shade’s “real” name). Nadezhda means 'hope.' Izmuchen zhizn’yu, kovarstvom nadezhdy (“By Life Tormented and by Cunning Hope,” 1864) is a poem by Fet:
Die Gleichmässigkeit des Laufes der Zeit in allen Kopfen beweist mehr, als irgend etwas, dass wir Alle in denselben Traum versenkt sind, ja dass es Ein Wesen ist, welches ihn träumt. That regularity of the passage of time in all our heads indicates, more than anything else, that we are all sunk in the same dream, and that it is a single Being that is dreaming it. Schopenhauer, Parerga II, § 29.)
Измучен жизнью, коварством надежды,
Когда им в битве душой уступаю,
И днём и ночью смежаю я вежды
И как-то странно порой прозреваю.
Ещё темнее мрак жизни вседневной,
Как после яркой осенней зарницы,
И только в небе, как зов задушевный,
Сверкают звёзд золотые ресницы.
И так прозрачна огней бесконечность,
И так доступна вся бездна эфира,
Что прямо смотрю я из времени в вечность
И пламя твоё узнаю, солнце мира.
И неподвижно на огненных розах
Живой алтарь мирозданья курится,
В его дыму, как в творческих грёзах,
Вся сила дрожит и вся вечность снится.
И всё, что мчится по безднам эфира,
И каждый луч, плотской и бесплотный, —
Твой только отблеск, о солнце мира,
И только сон, только сон мимолётный.
И этих грёз в мировом дуновеньи
Как дым несусь я и таю невольно,
И в этом прозреньи, и в этом забвеньи
Легко мне жить и дышать мне не больно.
By life tormented, and by cunning hope,
When my soul surrenders in its battle with them,
Day and night I press my eyelids closed
And sometimes I'm vouchsafed peculiar visions.
The gloom of quotidian existence deepens,
As after a bright flash of autumn lightning,
And only in the sky, like a call from the heart,
The stars' golden eyelashes sparkle.
And the flames of infinity are so transparent,
And the entire abyss of ether is so close,
That I gaze direct from time into eternity
And recognize your flame, universal sun.
Motionless, encircled by fiery roses,
The living altar of the cosmos smolders
And in its smoke, as in creative slumber,
All forces quiver, eternity's a dream.
And all that rushes through the abyss of ether,
And every ray, embodied or ethereal,-
Is but your reflection, O universal sun,
It is but a dream, but a fleeting dream.
Through the worldly breath of these reveries
I fly like smoke, involuntarily disperse,
And in this vision, in this delirium,
I can live with ease and breathe without pain.
The "real" name of both Sybil Shade (the poet's wife) and Queen Disa (the wife of Charles the Beloved) seems to be Sofia Botkin, born Lastochkin. Lastochki ("The Swallows," 1884) is a poem by Fet. The maiden name of Fet's mother was Charlotte Becker. In VN's novel Lolita (1955) Charlotte Becker is the maiden name of Lolita's mother. Describing his childhood romance with Annabel Leigh, Humbert Humbert (the narrator and main character in Lolita) mentions Annabel's mother, born Vanessa van Ness:
Let me therefore primly limit myself, in describing Annabel, to saying she was a lovely child a few months my junior. Her parents were old friends of my aunt’s, and as stuffy as she. They had rented a villa not far from Hotel Mirana. Bald brown Mr. Leigh and fat, powdered Mrs. Leigh (born Vanessa van Ness). How I loathed them! At first, Annabel and I talked of peripheral affairs. She kept lifting handfuls of fine sand and letting it pour through her fingers. Our brains were turned the way those of intelligent European preadolescents were in our day and set, and I doubt if much individual genius should be assigned to our interest in the plurality of inhabited worlds, competitive tennis, infinity, solipsism and so on. The softness and fragility of baby animals caused us the same intense pain. She wanted to be a nurse in some famished Asiatic country; I wanted to be a famous spy. (1.3)
At the end of his poem Shade mentions a dark Vanessa butterfly:
But it's not bedtime yet. The sun attains
Old Dr. Sutton's last two windowpanes.
The man must be - what? Eighty? Eighty-two?
Was twice my age the year I married you.
Where are you? In the garden. I can see
Part of your shadow near the shagbark tree.
Somewhere horseshoes are being tossed. Click, Clunk.
(Leaning against its lamppost like a drunk.)
A dark Vanessa with crimson band
Wheels in the low sun, settles on the sand
And shows its ink-blue wingtips flecked with white.
And through the flowing shade and ebbing light
A man, unheedful of the butterfly -
Some neighbor's gardener, I guess - goes by
Trundling an empty barrow up the lane. (ll. 985-999)
Shade’s poem is almost finished when the author is killed by Gradus. Kinbote believes that, to be completed, Shade’s poem needs but one line (Line 1000, identical to Line 1: “I was the shadow of the waxwing slain”). But it seems that, like some sonnets, Shade's poem also needs a coda (Line 1001: “By its own double in the windowpane”). Dvoynik ("The Double," 1846) is a short novel by Dostoevski. Dostoevski's portrait was painted (in 1872) by Vasiliy Perov (1834-1882). Konstanitn Perov is the main character in VN's story A Forgotten Poet (1944). Describing his heart attack in Canto Three of his poem, Shade mentions his wife's portrait by Lang and Hurricane Lolita:
It was a year of Tempests: Hurricane
Lolita swept from Florida to Maine.
Mars glowed. Shahs married. Gloomy Russians spied.
Lang made your portrait. And one night I died. (ll. 679-82)
In his Commentary Kinbote writes:
Major hurricanes are given feminine names in America. The feminine gender is suggested not so much by the sex of furies and harridans as by a general professional application. Thus any machine is a she to its fond user, and any fire (even a "pale" one!) is she to the fireman, as water is she to the passionate plumber. Why our poet chose to give his 1958 hurricane a little-used Spanish name (sometimes given to parrots) instead of Linda or Lois, is not clear. (note to Line 680)
Lois is a girl's name of Greek origin meaning "most desirable." Lois is actually a New Testament name: she was converted by Paul and was the grandmother of Timothy, who became one of Paul's disciples. Timofey Pavlovich Pnin is the title character of VN’s novel Pnin (1957). At Wordsmith University (where Shade and Kinbote teach) Professor Pnin is the head of the bloated Russian Department:
Speaking of the Head of the bloated Russian Department, Prof. Pnin, a regular martinet in regard to his underlings (happily, Prof. Botkin, who taught in another department, was not subordinated to that grotesque "perfectionist"): "How odd that Russian intellectuals should lack all sense of humor when they have such marvelous humorists as Gogol, Dostoevski, Chekhov, Zoshchenko, and those joint authors of genius Ilf and Petrov." (note to Line 172)