Describing the King's escape from Zembla, 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 Rippleson Caves, sea caves in Blawick, where a powerful motorboat was prepared for him:
Three hours later he trod level ground. Two old women working in an orchard unbent in slow motion and stared after him. He had passed the pine groves of Boscobel and was approaching the quay of Blawick; when a black police car turned out on a transverse road and pulled up next to him: "The joke has gone too far," said the driver. "One hundred clowns are packed in Onhava jail, and the ex-King should be among them. Our local prison is much too small for more kings. The next masquerader will be shot at sight. What's your real name, Charlie?" "I'm British. I'm a tourist," said the King. "Well, anyway, take off that red fufa. And the cap. Give them here." He tossed the things in the back of the car and drove off.
The King walked on; the top of his blue pajamas tucked into his skiing pants might easily pass for a fancy shirt. There was a pebble in his left shoe but he was too fagged out to do anything about it.
He recognized the seashore restaurant where many years earlier he had lunched incognito with two amusing, very amusing, sailors. Several heavily armed Extremists were drinking beer on the geranium-lined veranda, among the routine vacationists, some of whom were busy writing to distant friends. Through the geraniums, a gloved hand gave the King a picture postcard on which he found scribbled: Proceed to R.C. Bon voyage! Feigning a casual stroll, he reached the end of the embankment.
It was a lovely breezy afternoon with a western horizon like a luminous vacuum that sucked in one's eager heart. The King, now at the most critical point of his journey, looked about him, scrutinizing the few promenaders and trying to decide which of them might be police agents in disguise, ready to pounce upon him as soon as he vaulted the parapet and made for the Rippleson Caves. Only a single sail dyed a royal red marred with some human interest the marine expanse. Nitra and Indra (meaning "inner" and "outer"), two black islets that seemed to address each other in cloaked parley, were being photographed from the parapet by a Russian tourist, thickset, many-chinned, with a general's fleshy nape. His faded wife, wrapped up floatingly in a flowery écharpe, remarked in singsong Moscovan "Every time I see that kind of frightful disfigurement I can't help thinking of Nina's boy. War is an awful thing."
"War?" queried her consort. "That must have been the explosion at the Glass Works in 1951 - not war." They slowly walked past the King in the direction he had come from. On a sidewalk bench, facing the sea, a man with his crutches beside him was reading the Onhava Post which featured on the first page Odon in an Extremist uniform and Odon in the part of the Merman. Incredible as it may seem the palace guard had never realized that identity before. Now a goodly sum was offered for his capture. Rhythmically the waves lapped the shingle. The newspaper reader's face had been atrociously injured in the recently mentioned explosion, and all the art of plastic surgery had only resulted in a hideous tessellated texture with parts of pattern and parts of outline seeming to change, to fuse or to separate, like fluctuating cheeks and chins in a distortive mirror.
The short stretch of beach between the restaurant at the beginning of the promenade and the granite rocks at its end was almost empty: far to the left three fishermen were loading a rowboat with kelp-brown nets, and directly under the sidewalk, an elderly woman wearing a polka-dotted dress and having for headgear a cocked newspaper (EX-KING SEEN -) sat knitting on the shingle with her back to the street. Her bandaged legs were stretched out on the sand; on one side of her lay a pair of carpet slippers and on the other a ball of red wool, the leading filament of which she would tug at every now and then with the immemorial elbow jerk of a Zemblan knitter to give a turn to her yarn clew and slacken the thread. Finally, on the sidewalk a little girl in a ballooning skirt was clumsily but energetically clattering about on roller skates. Could a dwarf in the police force pose as a pigtailed child?
Waiting for the Russian couple to recede, the King stopped beside the bench. The mosaic-faced man folded his newspaper, and one second before he spoke (in the neutral interval between smoke puff and detonation), the King knew it was Odon.
"All one could do at short notice," said Odon, plucking at his cheek to display how the varicolored semi-transparent film adhered to his face, altering its contours according to stress. "A polite person," he added, "does not, normally, examine too closely a poor fellow's disfigurement."
"I was looking for shpiks [plainclothesmen]" said the King. "All day," said Odon, "they have been patrolling the quay. They are dining at present."
"I'm thirsty and hungry," said the King. "That's young Baron Mandevil - chap who had that duel last year. Let's go now."
"Couldn't we take him too?"
"Wouldn't come - got a wife and a baby. Come on, Charlie, come on, Your Majesty."
"He was my throne page on Coronation Day."
Thus chatting, they reached the Rippleson Caves. I trust the reader has enjoyed this note. (note to Line 149)
Rippleson Caves, sea caves in Blawick, named after a famous glass maker who embodied the dapple-and-ringle play and other circular reflections on blue-green sea water in his extraordinary stained glass windows for the Palace, 130, 149. (Index)
A Ripple Song (1894) is a poem by Rudyard Kopling:
Once red ripple came to land
In the golden sunset burning—
Lapped against a maiden's hand,
By the ford returning.
Dainty foot and gentle breast—
Here, across, be glad and rest.
"Maiden, wait," the ripple saith;
"Wait awhile, for I am Death!"
"Where my lover calls I go—
Shame it were to treat him coldly—
'Twas a fish that circled so,
Turning over boldly."
Dainty foot and tender heart,
Wait the loaded ferry-raft.
"Wait, ah, wait!" the ripple saith;
"Maiden, wait, for I am Death!"
"When my lover calls I haste—
Dame Disdain was never wedded!"
Ripple-ripple round her waist,
Clear the current eddied.
Foolish heart and faithful hand,
Little feet that touched no land.
Far away the ripple sped,
Ripple-ripple running red!
An English writer and poet, Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936) was born on December 30, 1865, in Bombay (now Mumbai), British India, to Alice and John Lockwood Kipling. He spent his early childhood there, speaking Hindustani before English, before being sent to school in England. He later returned to India to work as a journalist and author. Iz peshcher i debrey Indostana ("From the Caves and Wilds of Hindustan," 1883) is a travelogue by Helena Blavatsky (a Russian and American mystic, the co-founder of the Theosophical Society). A Zemblan seaside resort, Blawick seems to hint at Mme Blavatsky (born Helena von Hahn, 1831-1891):
Blawick, Blue Cove, a pleasant seaside resort on the Western Coast of Zembla, casino, golf course, sea food, boats for hire, 149. (Index)
According to Kinbote, Blawick means Blue Cove. In his Memoirs (1923) Count Sergey Wittle (Helena Blavatsky's first cousin, 1849-1915) says that Blavatsky had big blue eyes (later he never saw anybody who would have eyes as big as hers):
Рассказывая небывалые вещи и неправду, она, по-видимому, сама была уверена в том, что то, что она говорила, действительно было, что это правда, - поэтому я не могу не сказать, что в ней было что-то демоническое, что было в ней, сказав попросту, что то чертовское, хотя, в сущности, она была очень незлобивый, добрый человек. Она обладала такими громаднейшими голубыми глазами, каких я после никогда в моей жизни ни у кого не видел, и когда она начинала что-нибудь рассказывать, а в особенности небылицу, неправду, то эти глаза все время страшно искрились, и меня поэтому не удивляет, что она имела громадное влияние на многих людей, склонных к грубому мистицизму, ко всему необыкновенному, т. е. на людей, которым приелась жизнь на нашей планете и которые не могут возвыситься до истинного понимания и чувствования предстоящей всем нам загробной жизни, т. е. на людей, которые ищут начал загробной жизни и, так как они их душе недоступны, то они стараются увлечься хотя бы фальсификацией этой будущей жизни. Я думаю, что знаменитый Катков, столь умный человек, человек, который умел относиться к явлениям жизни реально, вероятно, раскусил бы Блавацкую, если бы он с нею сталкивался. Но, насколько у Блавацкой был своеобразный и великий талант, служит доказательством то, что такой человек, как Катков, мог увлекаться феерическими рассказами "В дебрях Туркестана", которые печатались в его журнале - рассказами, которые он считал безусловно выдающимися и необыкновенными. Впрочем, мне и до настоящего времени приходится иногда слышать самые восторженные отзывы об этих рассказах, которые печатались в "Русском Вестнике" несколько десятков лет тому назад. Конечно, цветочный магазин, открытый в Одессе г-жою Блавацкой, после того, как прогорел ее магазин по продаже чернил, также был закрыт по той же причине, и тогда Митрович, которому было уже 60 лет, получил ангажемент в итальянскую оперу в Каире, куда он и отправился вместе с Блавацкой. (Chapter I: "About my Ancestors")
Witte fluffs the title of Blavatsky's book, miscalling it "V debryakh Turkestana" ("In the Wilds of Turkestan"). Turkestanskie generaly ("The Turkestan Generals," 1912) is a poem by Nikolay Gumilyov (1886-1921), a poet who was executed by the Bolsheviks. Gumilyov is the author of Mik (1915), a long poem. Its hero, Mik is an African boy. Kipling is the author of Kim (1901), a novel set in India. Gumilyov's Mik and Kipling's Kim are coevals. Btw., Shade's IPH (a lay Institute of Preparation for the Hereafter) that he describes in Canto Three of his poem also brings to mind Kipling's poem If (1895). In the poem's last stanza Kipling mentions Kings:
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
The King's uncle Conmal (the Zemblan translator of Shakespeare) died soon after completing Kipling's "The Rhyme of the Three Sealers:"
English was not taught in Zembla before Mr. Campbell's time. Conmal mastered it all by himself (mainly by learning a lexicon by heart) as a young man, around 1880, when not the verbal inferno but a quiet military career seemed to open before him, and his first work (the translation of Shakespeare's Sonnets) was the outcome of a bet with a fellow officer. He exchanged his frogged uniform for a scholar's dressing gown and tackled The Tempest. A slow worker, he needed half a century to translate the works of him whom he called "dze Bart," in their entirety. After this, in 1930, he went on to Milton and other poets, steadily drilling through the ages, and had just completed Kipling's "The Rhyme of the Three Sealers" ("Now this is the Law of the Muscovite that he proves with shot and steel") when he fell ill and soon expired under his splendid painted bed ceil with its reproductions of Altamira animals, his last words in his last delirium being "Comment dit-on 'mourir' en anglais?" - a beautiful and touching end.
It is easy to sneer at Conmal's faults. They are the naive failings of a great pioneer. He lived too much in his library, too little among boys and youths. Writers should see the world, pluck its figs and peaches, and not keep constantly meditating in a tower of yellow ivory - which was also John Shade's mistake, in a way.
We should not forget that when Conmal began his stupendous task no English author was available in Zemblan except Jane de Faun, a lady novelist in ten volumes whose works, strangely enough, are unknown in England, and some fragments of Byron translated from French versions.
A large, sluggish man with no passions save poetry, he seldom moved from his warm castle and its fifty thousand crested books, and had been known to spend two years in bed reading and writing after which, much refreshed, he went for the first and only time to London, but the weather was foggy, and he could not understand the language, and so went back to bed for another year.
English being Conmal's prerogative, his Shakspere remained invulnerable throughout the greater part of his long life. The venerable Duke was famed for the nobility of his work; few dared question its fidelity. Personally, I had never the heart to check it. One callous Academician who did, lost his seat in result and was severely reprimanded by Conmal in an extraordinary sonnet composed directly in colorful, if not quite correct, English, beginning:
I am not slave! Let be my critic slave.
I cannot be. And Shakespeare would not want thus.
Let drawing students copy the acanthus,
I work with Master on the architrave! (note to Line 962)
Conmal, Duke of Aros, 1855-1955, K.'s uncle, the eldest half-brother of Queen Blenda (q.v.); noble paraphrast, 12; his version of Timon of Athens, 39, 130; his life and work, 962. (Index)
Kipling's poem "The Rhyme of the Three Sealers" (1893) begins as follows:
Away by the lands of the Japanee
Where the paper lanterns glow
And the crews of all the shipping drink
In the house of Blood Street Joe,
At twilight, when the landward breeze
Brings up the harbour noise,
And ebb of Yokohama Bay
Swigs chattering through the buoys,
In Cisco's Dewdrop Dining-Rooms
They tell the tale anew
Of a hidden sea and a hidden fight,
When the Baltic ran from the Northern Light
And the Stralsund fought the two.
In September 1905 Count Sergey Witte, Korostovets and Konstantin Nabokov (VN's uncle) signed the Portsmouth Treaty that ended the Russo-Japanese war of 1904-1905.