Describing King Alfin's death, 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 Prince Andrey Kachurin, the famous Russian stunter and War One hero, who had shown to King Alfin a tricky vertical loop in Gatchina:
Alfin the Vague (1873-1918; regnal dates 1900-1918, but 1900-1919 in most biographical dictionaries, a fumble due to the coincident calendar change from Old Style to New) was given his cognomen by Amphitheatricus, a not unkindly writer of fugitive poetry in the liberal gazettes (who was also responsible for dubbing my capital Uranograd!). King Alfin's absent-mindedness knew no bounds. He was a wretched linguist, having at his disposal only a few phrases of French and Danish, but every time he had to make a speech to his subjects - to a group of gaping Zemblan yokels in some remote valley where he had crash-landed - some uncontrollable switch went into action in his mind, and he reverted to those phrases, flavoring them for topical sense with a little Latin. Most of the anecdotes relating to his naïve fits of abstraction are too silly and indecent to sully these pages; but one of them that I do not think especially funny induced such guffaws from Shade (and returned to me, via the Common Room, with such obscene accretions) that I feel inclined to give it here as a sample (and as a corrective). One summer before the first world war, when the emperor of a great foreign realm (I realize how few there are to choose from) was paying an extremely unusual and flattering visit to our little hard country, my father took him and a young Zemblan interpreter (whose sex I leave open) in a newly purchased custom-built car on a jaunt in the countryside. As usual, King Alfin traveled without a vestige of escort, and this, and his brisk driving, seemed to trouble his guest. On their way back, some twenty miles from Onhava, King Alfin decided to stop for repairs. While he tinkered with the motor, the emperor and the interpreter sought the shade of some pines by the highway, and only when King Alfin was back in Onhava, did he gradually realize from a reiteration of rather frantic questions that he had left somebody behind ("What emperor?" has remained his only memorable mot). Generally speaking, in respect of any of my contributions (or what I thought to be contributions) I repeatedly enjoined my poet to record them in writing, by all means, but not to spread them in idle speech; even poets, however, are human.
King Alfin's absent-mindedness was strangely combined with a passion for mechanical things, especially for flying apparatuses. In 1912, he managed to rise in an umbrella-like Fabre "hydroplane" and almost got drowned in the sea between Nitra and Indra. He smashed two Farmans, three Zemblan machines, and a beloved Santos Dumont Demoiselle. A very special monoplane, Blenda IV, was built for him in 1916 by his constant "aerial adjutant" Colonel Peter Gusev (later a pioneer parachutist and, at seventy, one of the greatest jumpers of all time), and this was his bird of doom. On the serene, and not too cold, December morning that the angels chose to net his mild pure soul, King Alfin was in the act of trying solo a tricky vertical loop that Prince Andrey Kachurin, the famous Russian stunter and War One hero, had shown him in Gatchina. Something went wrong, and the little Blenda was seen to go into an uncontrolled dive. Behind and above him, in a Caudron biplane, Colonel Gusev (by then Duke of Rahl) and the Queen snapped several pictures of what seemed at first a noble and graceful evolution but then turned into something else. At the last moment, King Alfin managed to straighten out his machine and was again master of gravity when, immediately afterwards, he flew smack into the scaffolding of a huge hotel which was being constructed in the middle of a coastal heath as if for the special purpose of standing in a king's way. This uncompleted and badly gutted building was ordered razed by Queen Blenda who had it replaced by a tasteless monument of granite surmounted by an improbable type of aircraft made of bronze. The glossy prints of the enlarged photographs depicting the entire catastrophe were discovered one day by eight-year-old Charles Xavier in the drawer of a secretary bookcase. In some of these ghastly pictures one could make out the shoulders and leathern casque of the strangely unconcerned aviator, and in the penultimate one of the series, just before the white-blurred shattering crash, one distinctly saw him raise one arm in triumph, and reassurance. The boy had hideous dreams after that but his mother never found out that he had seen those infernal records. (note to Line 71)
King Alfin's wife, Queen Blenda (the mother of Charles the Beloved) is a horsewoman. At the end of his poem To Prince S. M. Kachurin (1947) VN mentions Captain Mayne Reid's novel The Headless Horseman (1865):
Мне хочется домой. Довольно.
Качурин, можно мне домой?
В пампасы молодости вольной,
в техасы, найденные мной.
Я спрашиваю, не пора ли
вернуться к теме тетивы,
к чарующему чапаралю
из "Всадника без головы",
чтоб в Матагордовом Ущелье
заснуть на огненных камнях
с лицом, сухим от акварели,
с пером вороньим в волосах?
I want to go home. Enough, in truth.
Kachurin, may I now go home?
To the pampas of my free youth,
the Texas I found once on a roam.
I ask you, isn't it time withal
to return unto the theme of the bow,
to what's charmingly hight "chaparral"
in The Headless Horseman, you well know,
to sleep in Matagordo Gorge
on the fiery boulders you find there,
with a face that watercolors forge,
and a feather in one's hair? (4)
The main character in Mayne Reid's novel, Maurice Gerald (a young mustanger) brings to mind Gerald Emerald, a young instructor at Wordsmith University who gives Gradus (Shade's murderer) a lift to Kinbote's rented house in New Wye:
Gradus returned to the Main Desk.
"Too bad," said the girl, "I just saw him leave."
"Bozhe moy, Bozhe moy," muttered Gradus, who sometimes at moments of stress used Russian ejaculations.
"You'll find him in the directory," she said pushing it towards him, and dismissing the sick man's existence to attend to the wants of Mr. Gerald Emerald who was taking out a fat bestseller in a cellophane jacket.
Moaning and shifting from one foot to the other, Gradus started leafing through the college directory but when he found the address, he was faced with the problem of getting there.
"Dulwich Road," he cried to the girl. "Near? Far? Very far, probably?"
"Are you by any chance Professor Pnin's new assistant?" asked Emerald.
"No," said the girl. "This man is looking for Dr. Kinbote, I think. You are looking for Dr. Kinbote, aren't you?"
"Yes, and I can't any more," said Gradus.
"I thought so," said the girl. "Doesn't he live somewhere near Mr. Shade, Gerry?"
"Oh, definitely," said Gerry, and turned to the killer: "I can drive you there if you like. It is on my way."
Did they talk in the car, these two characters, the man in green and the man in brown? Who can say? They did not. After all, the drive took only a few minutes (it took me, at the wheel of my powerful Kramler, four and a half).
"I think I'll drop you here," said Mr. Emerald. "It's that house up there."
One finds it hard to decide what Gradus alias Grey wanted more at that minute: discharge his gun or rid himself of the inexhaustible lava in his bowels. As he began hurriedly fumbling at the car door, unfastidious Emerald leaned, close to him, across him, almost merging with him, to help him open it - and then, slamming it shut again, whizzed on to some tryst in the valley. My reader will, I hope, appreciate all the minute particulars I have taken such trouble to present to him after a long talk I had with the killer; he will appreciate them even more if I tell him that, according to the legend spread later by the police, Jack Grey had been given a lift, all the way from Roanoke, or somewhere, by a lonesome trucker! One can only hope that an impartial search will turn up the trilby forgotten in the Library - or in Mr. Emerald's car. (note to Line 949)
The characters in Oscar Wilde's play A Woman of No Importance (1893) include Gerald Arbuthnot. Oscar Wilde is the author of The Importance of Being Earnest (1895), a play. Wilde's novel The Picture of Dorian Gray (1891) brings to mind Gray Star, a settlement in the remotest Northwest where Mrs. Richard F. Schiller (in VN's novel Lolita, 1955, Lolita's married name) dies in childbed. In his 'Postscript to the Russian Edition of Lolita' (1967) VN calls Earnest Hemingway (1899-1961), a writer popular in the Soviet Russia, "the modern substitute of Mayne Reid:"
С тех пор «Лолита» переводилась на многие языки: она вышла отдельными изданиями в Арабских странах, Аргентине, Бразилии, Германии, Голландии, Греции, Дании, Израиле, Индии, Италии, Китае, Мексике, Норвегии, Турции, Уругвае, Финляндии, Франции, Швеции и Японии. Продажу ее только что разрешили в Австралии, но она все еще запрещена в Испании и Южно-Африканской Республике. Не появлялась она и в пуританских странах за железным занавесом. Из всех этих переводов я отвечаю, в смысле точности и полноты, только за французский, который я сам проверил до напечатания. Воображаю, что сделали с бедняжкой египтяне и китайцы, а еще яснее воображаю, что сделала бы с ней, если бы я допустил это, «перемещенная дама», недавно научившаяся английскому языку, или американец, который «брал» русский язык в университете. Вопрос же — для кого, собственно, «Лолита» переводится, относится к области метафизики и юмора. Мне трудно представить себе режим, либеральный ли или тоталитарный, в чопорной моей отчизне, при котором цензура пропустила бы «Лолиту». Кстати, не знаю, кого сейчас особенно чтят в России — кажется, Гемингвея, современного заместителя Майн Рида, да ничтожных Фолкнера и Сартра, этих баловней западной буржуазии. Зарубежные же русские запоем читают советские романы, увлекаясь картонными тихими донцами на картонных же хвостах-подставках или тем лирическим доктором с лубочно-мистическими позывами, мещанскими оборотами речи и чаровницей из Чарской, который принес советскому правительству столько добротной иностранной валюты.
A writer of fugitive poetry who dubbed Onhava (the capital of Kinbote's Zembla) "Uranograd," Amphitheatricus hints at Aleksandr Amfiteatrov (1862-1938). The author of Gospoda Obmanovy (“The Obmanov Family,” 1902), a satire on the Russian imperial family (the Romanovs), in his book Zver’ iz bezdny (“Beast from the Abyss,” 1911) Amfitearov speaks of the phenomenon that K. H. Ulrichs dubbed uranizm (Urningism) and mentions the trial of Oscar Wilde:
С 1864 по 1880 год в Лейпциге у Отто и Кадлера вышла целая серия работ по социальной физиологии некоего советника Ульрикса, озаглавленных в большинстве латинскими титулами — Vindex-Inclusa, Vindicta, Formatrix, Ara spei, Gladius furens. Критические стрелы. Идея этих статей — что «половое чувство не имеет отношения к полу». В мужском теле может заключаться женская и женскими страстями одаренная душа (anima muliebris in corpore virili inclusa) и, наоборот, женщина по телу может обладать душою и страстями мужчины. Ульрикс настаивал, что явление это, которое он назвал «уранизмом», есть лишь физиологическое исключение, а отнюдь не патологическая аномалия. На этом основании он требовал, чтобы закон и общество относились к любви урнингов как к явлению совершенно дозволительному и естественному и советовал даже разрешать браки между лицами одного и того же поля, которых судьба создала с урнингическими наклонностями. Нельзя не согласиться, что мальчишеские выходки развратного и пьяного юноши- язычника, которому было «все дозволено», оставлены обдуманной и научно поставленной теорией Ульрикса, старого ученого-христианина, далеко за флагом. А процесс Оскара Уайльда? А столь много нашумевшие разоблачения «Pall Mall Gazette» о подвигах английской родовой и коммерческой аристократии в лондонских трущобах? А записки Горона? А Эйленбург? А гомосексуальные радения — «лиги любви» — в современной России? А повести, в которых участники гомосексуального приключения предварительно молятся коленопреклоненно пред «иконами, приведшими де нас к общей радости»? Если урнингизм пытается переползти порог этики, его воспрещающей, — это симптом, пожалуй, поярче того, что две тысячи лет тому назад он откровенно переползал порог этики, к нему совершенно равнодушной. (vol. III, “The Orgy,” chapter 1)
Oscar Wilde's last words were: 'My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us has to go.' In his poem To Prince S.M. Kachurin VN mentions issledovateli oboyev (the investigators of wallpaper):
Качурин, твой совет я принял
и вот уж третий день живу
в музейной обстановке, в синей
гостиной с видом на Неву.
Священником американским
твой бедный друг переодет,
и всем долинам дагестанским
я шлю завистливый привет.
От холода, от перебоев
в подложном паспорте, не сплю:
исследователям обоев
лилеи и лианы шлю.
Но спит, на канапе устроясь,
коленки приложив к стене
и завернувшись в плед по пояс,
толмач, приставленный ко мне.
Kachurin, I've taken your advice
and here I three long days persever
in museologic digs, a nice
blue room that looks out on the Neva.
As an American clergyman
disguised is your poor little friend,
and to the vales of Daghestan
I envious salutations send.
For chilliness, for palpitations
of a false passport, I cannot rest:
unto wallpaper investigations
I do lianas and lilies bequest.
He sleeps on a canapé,
knees pressed up against the wall,
plaid rug wrapping him halfway,
the interpreter I put up withal. (1)