In Paris Jakob Gradus (one of the three main characters in VN's novel Pale Fire, 1962, Shade's murderer) visits Oswin Bretwit, the former Zemblan consul. According to Kinbote (Shade's mad commentator who imagines that he is Charles the Beloved, the last self-exiled king of Zembla), the name Bretwit means Chess Intelligence:
His smile gone, Bretwit (the name means Chess Intelligence) got up from his chair. In a larger room he would have paced up and down - not in this cluttered study. Gradus the Bungler buttoned all three buttons of his tight brown coat and shook his head several times.
"I think," he said crossly, "one must be fair. If I bring you these valuable papers, you must in return arrange an interview, or at least give me his address."
"I know who you are," cried Bretwit pointing. "You're a reporter! You are from the cheap Danish paper sticking out of your pocket" (Gradus mechanically fumbled at it and frowned). "I had hoped they had given up pestering me! The vulgar nuisance of it! Nothing is sacred to you, neither cancer, nor exile, nor the pride of a king" (alas, this is true not only of Gradus - he has colleagues in Arcady too).
Gradus sat staring at his new shoes - mahogany red with sieve-pitted caps. An ambulance screamed its impatient way through dark streets three stories below. Bretwit vented his irritation on the ancestral letters lying on the table. He snatched up the neat pile with its detached wrapping and flung it all in the wastepaper basket. The string dropped outside, at the feet of Gradus who picked it up and added it to the scripta.
In a larger room Oswin Bretwit would have paced up and down - not in this cluttered study. Before he jumps to his death from the bathroom window, Luzhin, the mad chess maestro in VN's novel Zashchita Luzhina ("The Luzhin Defense," 1930), is walking back and forth through the three adjoining rooms of the Berlin flat rented for him and his wife by his father-in-law:
И тут началась странная прогулка, — по трем смежным комнатам взад и вперед ходил Лужин, словно с определенной целью, и жена то шла рядом с ним, то садилась куда-нибудь, растерянно на него глядя, и иногда Лужин направлялся в коридор, заглядывал в комнаты, выходившие окнами во двор, и опять появлялся в кабинете. Минутами ей казалось, что, может быть, все это одна из тяжеленьких лужинских шуток, но было в лице у Лужина выражение, которого она не видела никогда, выражение… торжественное, что ли… трудно было определить словами, но почему-то, глядя на это лицо, она чувствовала наплыв неизъяснимого страха. И он все продолжал, откашливаясь и с трудом переводя дыхание, ровной поступью ходить по комнатам. «Ради Христа, садитесь, Лужин, — тихо говорила она, не сводя с него глаз. — Ну, поговорим о чем-нибудь. Лужин! Я купила вам несессер. Ах, садитесь, пожалуйста! Вы умрете, если будете так много гулять. Завтра мы поедем на кладбище. Завтра еще нужно многое сделать. Несессер из крокодиловой кожи. Лужин, пожалуйста!»
Но он не останавливался и только изредка замедлял шаг у окон, поднимал руку, но, пораздумав, шел дальше. В столовой было накрыто на восемь человек. Она спохватилась, что вот, сейчас-сейчас, придут гости, — поздно уже отзванивать, — а тут… этот ужас. «Лужин, — крикнула она, — ведь сейчас будут люди. Я не знаю, что делать… Скажите мне что-нибудь. Может быть, у вас несчастье, может быть, вы кого-нибудь встретили из неприятных знакомых? Скажите мне. Я так вас прошу, больше не могу просить…»
И вдруг Лужин остановился. Это было так, словно остановился весь мир. Случилось же это в гостиной, около граммофона.
«Стоп-машина», — тихо сказала она и вдруг расплакалась.
And now began a strange promenade— Luzhin walking back and forth through the three adjoining rooms, as if with a definite objective, and his wdfe now walking beside him, now sit- ting down somewhere and looking at him distractedly, and occasionally Luzhin would go into the corridor, look into the rooms whose windows faced onto the yard, and again reappear in the study. For whole minutes it seemed to her that perhaps this was one of Luzhin s ponderous little jokes, but his face bore an expression she had never seen before, an expression . . . solemn, perhaps? ... it was difficult to define in words, but as she gazed at his face she felt a rush of inexplicable terror. And clearing his throat, and catching his breath with difficulty, he still continued to walk about the rooms with his even gait. “For God's sake sit down, Luzhin," she said softly, not taking her eyes off him. “Come, let’s talk about something. Luzhin! I bought you a toilet case. Oh, sit down, please! You’ll die if you walk so much! Tomorrow well go to the cemetery. We still have a lot to do tomorrow. A toilet case made of crocodile leather. Luzhin, please!"
But he did not halt and only slowed his step from time to time by the windows, raising his hand, thinking a mo- ment and then going on. The table in the dining room was laid for eight people. She remembered that it was just time for the guests to arrive— it was too late to call them off— and here . . . this horror. “Luzhin," she cried, “people will be here any minute. I don’t know what to do. . . . Say something to me. Perhaps you've had u accident, perhaps you met an unpleasant acquaintances Tell me. I beg you, I can’t beg any more. . .
And suddenly Luzhin stopped. It was as if the whole world had stopped. It happened in the drawing room, by the phonograph.
“Full stop," she said softly and burst into tears. (Chapter 14)
Oswin Bretwit is a diplomat. In The Luzhin Defense Luzhin's father-in-law had adopted a mannerism from a certain diplomat who used to say "skoal" (from Danish/Norwegian/Swedish skål, which is used when making a toast and also means "bowl") very elegantly. VN wrote The Luzhin Defense in South France, in 1929. In that year Richard Aldington completed his novel Death of a Hero:
To HALCOTT GLOVER
MY DEAR HAL, — Remembering George Moore’s denunciation of prefaces, I felt that what I wanted to say here could be best expressed in a letter to you. Although you are a little older than I, you belong essentially to the same generation — those who spent their childhood and adolescence struggling, like young Samsons, in the toils of the Victorians; whose early manhood coincided, with the European War. A great humber of the men of our generation died prematurely. We are unlucky or lucky enough to remain.
I began this book almost immediately after the Armistice, in a little Belgian cottage — my billet. I remember the landscape was buried deep in snow, and that we had very little fuel. Then came demobilization, and the effort of readjustment cost my manuscript its life. I threw it aside, and never picked it up again. The attempt was premature. Then, ten years later, almost day for day, I felt the impulse return, and began this book. You, I know, will read it sympathetically for many reasons. But I cannot expect the same favour from others.
This book is not the work of a professional novelist. It is, apparently, not a novel at all. Certain conventions of form and method in the novel have been erected, I gather, into immutable laws, and are looked upon with quite superstitious reverence. They are entirely disregarded here. To me the excuse for the novel is that one can do any damn thing one pleases. I am told I have done things as terrible as if you produced asides and soliloquies into your plays, and came on to the stage in the middle of a scene to take part in the action. You know how much I should be interested if you did that — I am all for disregarding artistic rules of thumb. I dislike standardized art as much as standardized life. Whether I have been guilty of Expressionism or Super-realism or not, I don’t and don’t care. I knew what I wanted to say, and said it. And I know I have not tried to be “original”.
The technique of this book, if it can be said to have one, is that which I evolved for myself in writing a longish modern poem (which you liked) called “A Fool i’ th’ Forest”. Some people said that was “jazz priate that is to the theme.
I believe you at least will be sympathetic to the implied or expressed idealism of this book. Through a good many doubts and hesitations and changes I have always preserved a certain idealism. I believe in men, I believe in a certain fundamental integrity and comradeship, without which society could not endure. How often that integrity is perverted, how often that comradeship betrayed, there is no need to tell you. I disbelieve in bunk and despotism, even in a dictatorship of the intelligentsia. I think you and I are not wholly unacquainted with the intelligentsia?
Some of the young, they who will “do the noble things that we forgot”, think differently. According to them, bunk must be parried by super-bunk. Sincerity is superannuated. It doesn’t matter what you have to say; what matters is whether you can put it across successfully. And the only hope is to forbid everybody to read except a few privileged persons (chosen how and by whom?) who will autocratically tell the rest of us what to do. Well, do we believe that? I answer on your behalf as well as my own that we emphatically do not. Of course, these young men may be Swiftian ironists.
But, as you will see, this book is really a threnody, a memorial in its ineffective way to a generation which hoped much, strove honestly, and suffered deeply. Others, of course, may see it all very differently. Why should they not? I believe that all we claim is that we try to say what appears to be the truth, and that we are not afraid either to contradict ourselves or to retract an error.
Always yours,
RICHARD ALDINGTON
Paris, 1929
Halcott Glover (an English playwright to whom Richard Aldington's letter is addressed) is the author of The King's Jewry (1921), a play that explores themes of prejudice, power, and identity, and offers a nuanced portrayal of the tensions between Jews and Christians in medieval England. VN's wife, Vera Nabokov (born Slonim) was Jewish. In the surname Slonim (curtailed Slonimsky) there is slon. Slon means in Russian elephant and chess bishop.
The King in Halcott Glover's play The King's Jewry, is Edward I (1239-1307), also known as Edward Longshanks and the Hammer of the Scots (Latin: Malleus Scotorum), King of England from 1272 to 1307. The son of Osric (a cousin of king Edwin of Northumbria), Oswin (died Aug. 20, 651) was the king of Deira in northern England. In Shakespeare’s Hamlet (5.2) Horatio calls Osric (the courtier sent by Claudius to invite Hamlet to participate in the duel with Laertes) “this lapwing:”
This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head.
A European bird, northern lapwing (Vanellus vanellus) brings to mind waxwing, the bird mentioned by Shade at the beginning (and, presumably, at the end) of his poem:
I was the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff--and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky. (ll. 1-4)
Kinbote carefully synchronizes Shade's work on his poem with his murderer's moves:
I, too, was wont to draw my poet's attention to the idyllic beauty of airplanes in the evening sky. Who could have guessed that on the very day (July 7) Shade penned this lambent line (the last one on his twenty-third card) Gradus, alias Degré, had flown from Copenhagen to Paris, thus completing the second lap of his sinister journey! Even in Arcady am I, says Death in the tombal scripture.
The activities of Gradus in Paris had been rather neatly planned by the Shadows. They were perfectly right in assuming that not only Odon but our former consul in Paris, the late Oswin Bretwit, would know where to find the King. They decided to have Gradus try Bretwit first. That gentleman had a flat in Meudon where he dwelt alone, seldom going anywhere except the National Library (where he read theosophic works and solved chess problems in old newspapers), and did not receive visitors. The Shadows' neat plan sprang from a piece of luck. Suspecting that Gradus lacked the mental equipment and mimic gifts necessary for the impersonation of an enthusiastic Royalist, they suggested he had better pose as a completely apolitical commissioner, a neutral little man interested only in getting a good price for various papers that private parties had asked him to take out of Zembla and deliver to their rightful owners. Chance, in one of its anti-Karlist moods, helped. One of the lesser Shadows whom we shall call Baron A. had a father-in-law called Baron B., a harmless old codger long retired from the civil service and quite incapable of understanding certain Renaissance aspects of the new regime. He had been, or thought he had been (retrospective distance magnifies things), a close friend of the late Minister of Foreign Affairs, Oswin Bretwit's father, and therefore was looking forward to the day when he would be able to transmit to "young" Oswin (who, he understood, was not exactly persona grata with the new regime) a bundle of precious family papers that the dusty baron had come across by chance in the files of a governmental office. All at once he was informed that now the day had come: the documents would be immediately forwarded to Paris. He was also allowed to prefix a brief note to them which read:
Here are some precious papers belonging to your family. I cannot do better than place them in the hands of the son of the great man who was my fellow student in Heidelberg and my teacher in the diplomatic service. Verba volant, scripta manent. (note to Line 286)
Oswin Bretwit is not exactly persona grata with the new regime. The anonymous narrator of Richard Aldington's novel says that he was not persona grata with those in authority, because he happened to sympathize then with the young Russian Revolution:
Elizabeth’s resistance, at that precise moment, to the advances of Mr. Reginald Burnside, seems to me a striking example of George’s infelicity. I mean that I see a direct link between it and the sudden inexplicable standing up of a man in khaki before a murderous machine-gun fire, not long after dawn, on the morning of the 4th of November 1918… Not that I wish melodramatically “to set the brand of Cain” upon Elizabeth or upon Fanny or upon both jointly. Far from it. They didn’t make the war. They didn’t give George the jumps. And after all there is a doubt, almost a mystery, involved in George’s death. Did he really commit suicide? I don’t know. I’ve only got circumstantial evidence and my own hunch about it, a sort of intuition, a something haunting in my memory of the man, an Orestes-like feeling of some inexpiated guilt. Who is to say whether a man can really commit suicide on a battlefield? Desperate recklessness and looking for trouble may be the very means of his escaping the death which finds the prudent coward crouching in a shell-hole. And suppose he did deliberately get himself killed, ought we, ought I, to attach any blame to Elizabeth and Fanny? I don’t think so. There were plenty of other things to disgust him with life. And even supposing that he realized the war was ending, realized that in his state of mind he simply could not face the problem of his relation with those two women, still I think them utterly blameless. The mess was as much his fault as theirs. It was really quite an easy mess to clear up. What made it impossible was George’s shattered nerves, and for that they were not to blame. Oh, not in the least. Perhaps I’m as much to blame as anybody. I ought to have done something to get George sent out of the line. I think I might have gone to the Brigadier and have told him in private what I knew about George’s state of mind – or perhaps to his Colonel. But I didn’t go. At that time I was not persona grata with those in authority, for I happened to sympathize then with the young Russian Revolution, and had foolishly argued hotly about it. So perhaps my effort would have been wasted. And anyhow it was a very difficult and ticklish thing to do, and I was tired, very, very tired. (Part Two: Andante Cantabile, 6)
The title of Richard Aldington's novel brings to mind Joseph Campbell's The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949), a work of comparative mythology, in which the author discusses his theory of the mythological structure of the journey of the archetypal hero found in world myths. The Scottish tutor of Prince Charles Xavier Vseslav, Walter Campbell plays chess with Monsieur Beauchamp (the Prince's French tutor):
As soon as Monsieur Beauchamp had sat down for a game of chess at the bedside of Mr. Campbell and had offered his raised fists to choose from, the young Prince took Oleg to the magical closet. The wary, silent, green-carpeted steps of an escalier dérobé led to a stone-paved underground passage. Strictly speaking it was "underground" only in brief spells when, after burrowing under the southwest vestibule next to the lumber room, it went under a series of terraces, under the avenue of birches in the royal park, and then under the three transverse streets, Academy Boulevard, Coriolanus Lane and Timon Alley, that still separated it from its final destination. Otherwise, in its angular and cryptic course it adapted itself to the various structures which it followed, here availing itself of a bulwark to fit in its side like a pencil in the pencil hold of a pocket diary, there running through the cellars of a great mansion too rich in dark passageways to notice the stealthy intrusion. Possibly, in the intervening years, certain arcane connections had been established between the abandoned passage and the outer world by the random repercussions of work in surrounding layers of masonry or by the blind pokings of time itself; for here and there magic apertures and penetrations, so narrow and deep as to drive one insane, could be deduced from a pool of sweet, foul ditch water, bespeaking a moat, or from a dusky odor of earth and turf, marking the proximity of a glacis slope overhead; and at one point, where the passage crept through the basement of a huge ducal villa, with hothouses famous for their collections of desert flora, a light spread of sand momentarily changed the sound of one's tread. Oleg walked in front: his shapely buttocks encased in tight indigo cotton moved alertly, and his own erect radiance, rather than his flambeau, seemed to illume with leaps of light the low ceiling and crowding wails. Behind him the young Prince's electric torch played on the ground and gave a coating of flour to the back of Oleg's bare thighs. The air was musty and cold. On and on went the fantastic burrow. It developed a slight ascending grade. The pedometer had tocked off 1,888 yards, when at last they reached the end. The magic key of the lumber room closet slipped with gratifying ease into the keyhole of a green door confronting them, and would have accomplished the act promised by its smooth entrance, had not a burst of strange sounds coming from behind the door caused our explorers to pause. Two terrible voices, a man's and a woman's, now rising to a passionate pitch, now sinking to raucous undertones, were exchanging insults in Gutnish as spoken by the fisherfolk of Western Zembla. An abominable threat made the woman shriek out in fright. Sudden silence ensued, presently broken by the man's murmuring some brief phrase of casual approval ("Perfect, my dear," or "Couldn't be better") that was more eerie than anything that had come before.
Without consulting each other, the young Prince and his friend veered in absurd panic and, with the pedometer beating wildly, raced back the way they had come. "Ouf!" said Oleg once the last shelf had been replaced. "You're all chalky behind," said the young Prince as they swung upstairs. They found Beauchamp and Campbell ending their game in a draw. It was near dinner time. The two lads were told to wash their hands. The recent thrill of adventure had been superseded already by another sort of excitement. They locked themselves up. The tap ran unheeded. Both were in a manly state and moaning like doves. (note to Line 130)
U vas vsya spina belaya ("Your back is all white") is one of the few phrases (a joke) in the vocabulary of Ellochka the Cannibal, a character in Ilf and Petrov's novel Dvenadtsat' stuliev ("The Twelve Chairs," 1928). Ellochka's vocabulary that consists of thirty words and short phrases is contrasted to that of William Shakespeare:
Словарь Вильяма Шекспира, по подсчету исследователей, составляет 12000 слов. Словарь негра из людоедского племени «Мумбо-Юмбо» составляет 300 слов.
Эллочка Щукина легко и свободно обходилась тридцатью.
William Shakespeare's vocabulary has been estimated by the experts at twelve thousand words. The vocabulary of a Negro from the Mumbo Jumbo cannibal tribe amounts to three hundred words.
Ellochka Shchukin managed easily and fluently on thirty. (Chapter XXII)
Lyudoedka Ellochka brings to mind Kinbote's vegetarianism. According to Kinbote, he became a confirmed vegetarian after reading a story about an Italian despot:
Such things rankle - but what can Gradus do? The huddled fates engage in a great conspiracy against Gradus. One notes with pardonable glee that his likes are never granted the ultimate thrill of dispatching their victim themselves. Oh, surely, Gradus is active, capable, helpful, often indispensable. At the foot of the scaffold, on a raw and gray morning, it is Gradus who sweeps the night's powder snow off the narrow steps; but his long leathery face will not be the last one that the man who must mount those steps is to see in this world. It is Gradus who buys the cheap fiber valise that a luckier guy will plant, with a time bomb inside, under the bed of a former henchman. Nobody knows better than Gradus how to set a trap by means of a fake advertisement, but the rich old widow whom it hooks is courted and slain by another. When the fallen tyrant is tied, naked and howling, to a plank in the public square and killed piecemeal by the people who cut slices out, and eat them, and distribute his living body among themselves (as I read when young in a story about an Italian despot, which made of me a vegetarian for life), Gradus does not take part in the infernal sacrament: he points out the right instrument and directs the carving. (note to Line 171)
Kolya and Liza Kalachov (the characters in The Twelve Chairs) are the poor students who live in the Brother Berthold Schwartz Hostel (as Bender calls it) and eat in a cheap vegetarian canteen. A German monk, brother Berthold Schwartz is credited with the invention of gunpowder. The German word for gunpowder is Pulver. In The Luzhin Defense Kurt and Karl (the German revelers) mistake Luzhin who fainted in the street after his game with Turati for their friend Pulvermacher (as the author of a book on surnames, Kinbote would know that Pulvermacher is one who makes gunpowder). In Vasyuki Ostap Bender (the main character in The Twelve Chairs and its sequel novel, The Golden Calf, 1931) gives a lecture on chess, "The Fruitful Opening Idea," and plays simultaneous chess. In a conversation with Kinbote Shade mentions those joint authors of genius, Ilf and Petrov:
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)
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 Vsevolod 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 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), Botkin, like Count Vorontsov (a target of Pushkin's epigrams, "half-milord, half-merchant," etc.) will be full again.