In his last letter to his publisher Mr. R., the writer in VN's novel Transparent Things (1972), calls his secretary, Mr. Tamworth, "Tom Tam:"
Dear Phil,
This, no doubt, is my last letter to you. I am leaving you. I am leaving you for another even greater Publisher. In that House I shall be proofread by cherubim – or misprinted by devils, depending on the department my poor soul is assigned to. So adieu, dear friend, and may your heir auction this off most profitably.
Its holographical nature is explained by the fact that I prefer it not to be read by Tom Tarn or one of his boy typists. I am mortally sick after a botched operation in the only private room of a Bolognese hospital. The kind young nurse who will mail it has told me with dreadful carving gestures something I paid her for as generously as I would her favors if I still were a man. Actually the favors of death knowledge are infinitely more precious than those of love. According to my almond-eyed little spy, the great surgeon, may his own liver rot, lied to me when he declared yesterday with a "deathhead's grin that the operazione had been perfetta. Well, it had been so in the sense Euler called zero the perfect number. Actually, they ripped me open, cast one horrified look at my decayed fegato, and without touching it sewed me up again. I shall not bother you with the Tamworth problem. You should have seen the smug expression of the oblong fellow's bearded lips when he visited me this morning. As you know – as everybody, even Marion, knows – he gnawed his way into all my affairs, crawling into every cranny, collecting every German-accented word of mine, so that now he can boswell the dead man just as he had bossed very well the living one. I am also writing my and your lawyer about the measures I would like to be taken after my departure in order to thwart Tamworth at every turn of his labyrinthian plans.
The only child I have ever loved is the ravishing, silly, treacherous little Julia Moore. Every cent and centime I possess as well as all literary remains that can be twisted out of Tamworth's clutches must go to her, whatever the ambiguous obscurities contained in my will: Sam knows what I am hinting at and will act accordingly.
The last two parts of my Opus are in your hands. I am very sorry that Hugh Person is not there to look after its publication. When you acknowledge this letter do not say a word of having received it, but instead, in a kind of code that would tell me you bear in mind this letter, give me, as a good old gossip, some information about him – why, for example, was he jailed, for a year – or more? – if he was found to have acted in a purely epileptic trance; why was he transferred to an asylum for the criminal insane after his case was reviewed and no crime found? And why was he shuttled between prison and madhouse for the next five or six years before ending up as a privately treated patient? How can one treat dreams, unless one is a quack? Please tell me all this because Person was one of the nicest persons I knew and also because you can smuggle all kinds of secret information for this poor soul in your letter about him.
Poor soul is right, you know. My wretched liver is as heavy as a rejected manuscript; they manage to keep the hideous hyena pain at bay by means of frequent injections but somehow or other it remains always present behind the wall of my flesh like the muffled thunder of a permanent avalanche which obliterates there, beyond me, all the structures of my imagination, all the landmarks of my conscious self. It is comic – but I used to believe that dying persons saw the vanity of things, the futility of fame, passion, art, and so forth. I believed that treasured memories in a dying man's mind dwindled to rainbow wisps; but now I feel just the contrary: my most trivial sentiments and those of all men have acquired gigantic proportions. The entire solar system is but a reflection in the crystal of my (or your) wrist watch. The more I shrivel the bigger I grow. I suppose this is an uncommon phenomenon. Total rejection of all religions ever dreamt up by man and total composure in the face of total death! If I could explain this triple totality in one big book, that book would become no doubt a new bible and its author the founder of a new creed. Fortunately for my self-esteem that book will not be written – not merely because a dying man cannot write books but because that particular one would never express in one flash what can only be understood immediately.
Note added by the recipient:
Received on the day of the writer's death. File under Repos – R. (Chapter 21)
In his essay Misticheskie khuligany ("The Mystic Hooligans," 1908) Dmitri Merezhkovski speaks of Rozanov's article Vechnaya pamyat' ("Eternal Memory") in Novoe Vremya (Suvorin's reactionary newspaper, the issue of Jan. 4, 1908) and quotes Rozanov's words "if I were a priest, I would create a religion of zdes' (here), and I am certain that they would better judge us tam (there), if tam exists at all:"
4 января 1908 года в «Новом времени» произошло, может быть, удивительное для многих, но меня нисколько не удивившее событие: в статье, озаглавленной «Вечная память», говоря о воскресении Христовом, о воскресении мертвых, Розанов назвал это воскресение «всемирным скандалом», «всемирной плевательницей». В следующем номере А. Столыпин, брат своего брата, должно быть, немного испугавшись «скандала», пролепетал что-то о духовидце Сведенборге, но такое невразумительное, что тотчас же сам сконфузился и умолк. А в сущности пугаться было нечего; никакого скандала не произошло: плевательница так плевательница. Меньшиковы уж, конечно, возражать Розанову не подумали. Ведь в сущности он только высказал вслух их тайную мысль: ведь все они только и делают, что, громко защищая православие, потихоньку плюют во «всемирную плевательницу».
— Алексей Сергеевич, есть Бог?
— А черт его знает, есть ли. Впрочем, наплевать — неинтересно…
«Не имею интереса к воскресению, — признается Розанов. — Говорят: мы воскреснем со стыдом, с „обнажением“… Ну что же… Зажмем глаза, не будем смотреть. Не осудим друг друга. Не заставит же Бог плевать нас друг на друга, не устроит такой всемирной плевательницы… Нет, это так глупо, что, конечно, этого не будет. Просто, я думаю, умрем… Так думаю, может быть, скверно, но так думаю».
Вот сущность мистического анархизма: может быть, скверно думаю, но это не важно, важно то, что я — я — Я так думаю; а ежели — я, то хорошо и скверное, потому что я — красота, я — истина, я — мера всего.
«Если бы я был великим иереем, — заключает Розанов, — я сотворил бы религию „здесь“ и „здешнего“, и, уверен, тогда бы нас гораздо лучше судили и „там“, если вообще есть „там“, что, впрочем, и не интересно, раз уже все положено „здесь“». И Розанов сообщает единственную заповедь этой новой религии:
«Оставьте все как есть. Не тяните ни туда, ни сюда».
According to Mr. R., the name of his secretary is pronounced like that of the English breed of black-blotched swine:
He did do something about it, despite all that fond criticism of himself. He wrote her a note from the venerable Versex Palace where he was to have cocktails in a few minutes with our most valuable author whose best book you did not like. Would you permit me to call on you, say Wednesday, the fourth? Because I shall be by then at the Ascot Hotel in your Witt, where I am told there is some excellent skiing even in summer. The main object of my stay here, on the other hand, is to find out when the old rascal's current book will be finished. It is queer to recall how keenly only the day before yesterday I had looked forward to seeing the great man at last in the flesh.
There was even more of it than our Person had expected on the strength of recent pictures. As he peeped through a vestibule window and watched him emerge from his car, no clarion of repute, no scream of glamour reverbed through his nervous system, which was wholly occupied with the bare-thighed girl in the sun-shot train. Yet what a grand sight R. presented - his handsome chauffeur helping the obese old boy on one side, his black-bearded secretary supporting him on the other, and two chasseurs from the hotel going through a mimicry of tentative assistance on the porch steps. The reporter in Person noted that Mr. R. wore Wallabees of a velvety cocoa shade, a lemon shirt with a lilac neck scarf, and a rumpled gray suit that seemed to have no distinction whatever - at least, to a plain American. Hullo, Person! They sat down in the lounge near the bar.
The illusory quality of the entire event was enhanced by the appearance and speech of the two characters. That monumental man with his clayey makeup and false grin, and Mr. Tamworth of the brigand's beard, seemed to be acting out a stiffly written scene for the benefit of an invisible audience from which Person, a dummy, kept turning away as if moved with his chair by Sherlock's concealed landlady, no matter how he sat or where he looked in the course of the brief but boozy interview. It was indeed all sham and waxworks as compared to the reality of Armande, whose image was stamped on the eye of his mind and shone through the show at various levels, sometimes upside down, sometimes on the teasing marge of his field of vision, but always there, always, true and thrilling. The commonplaces he and she had exchanged blazed with authenticity when placed for display against the forced guffaws in the bogus bar.
"Well, you certainly look remarkably fit," said Hugh with effusive mendacity after the drinks had been ordered.
Baron R. had coarse features, a sallow complexion, a lumpy nose with enlarged pores, shaggy bellicose eyebrows, an unerring stare, and a bulldog mouth full of bad teeth. The streak of nasty inventiveness so conspicuous in his writings also appeared in the prepared parts of his speech, as when he said, as he did now, that far from "looking fit" he felt more and more a creeping resemblance to the cinema star Reubenson who once played old gangsters in Florida-staged films; but no such actor existed.
"Anyway - how are you?" asked Hugh, pressing his disadvantage.
"To make a story quite short," replied Mr. R. (who had an exasperating way not only of trotting out hackneyed formulas in his would-be colloquial thickly accented English, but also of getting them wrong), "I had not been feeling any too healthy, you know, during the winter. My liver, you know, was holding something against me."
He took a long sip of whiskey, and, rinsing his mouth with it in a manner Person had never yet witnessed, very slowly replaced his glass on the low table. Then, à deux with the muzzled stuff, he swallowed it and shifted to his second English style, the grand one of his most memorable characters:
"Insomnia and her sister Nocturia harry me, of course, but otherwise I am as hale as a pane of stamps. I don't think you met Mr. Tamworth. Person, pronounced Parson; and Tamworth: like the English breed of black-blotched swine."
"No," said Hugh, "it does not come from Parson, but rather from Peterson."
"O.K., son. And how's Phil?"
They discussed briefly R.'s publisher's vigor, charm, and acumen.
"Except that he wants me to write the wrong books. He wants - " assuming a coy throaty voice as he named the titles of a competitor's novels, also published by Phil - "he wants A Boy for Pleasure but would settle for The Slender Slut, and all I can offer him is not Tralala but the first and dullest tome of my Tralatitions."
"I assure you that he is waiting for the manuscript with utmost impatience. By the way - "
By the way, indeed! There ought to exist some rhetorical term for that twist of nonlogic. A unique view through a black weave ran by the way. By the way, I shall lose my mind if I do not get her.
" - by the way, I met a person yesterday who has just seen your stepdaughter - "
"Former stepdaughter," corrected Mr. R. "Quite a time no see, and I hope it remains so. Same stuff, son" (this to the barman).
"The occasion was rather remarkable. Here was this young woman, reading - "
"Excuse me," said the secretary warmly, and folding a note he had just scribbled, passed it to Hugh.
"Mr. R. resents all mention of Miss Moore and her mother."
And I don't blame him. But where was Hugh's famous tact? Giddy Hugh knew quite well the whole situation, having got it from Phil, not Julia, an impure but reticent little girl.
Mr. R. had discovered one day, with the help of a hired follower, that his wife Marion was having an affair with Christian Pines, son of the well-known cinema man who had directed the film Golden Windows (precariously based on the best of our author's novels). Mr. R. welcomed the situation since he was assiduously courting Julia Moore, his eighteen-year-old stepdaughter, and now had plans for the future, well worthy of a sentimental lecher whom three or four marriages had not sated yet. Very soon, however, he learned from the same sleuth, who is at present dying in a hot dirty hospital on Formosa, an island, that young Pines, a handsome frog-faced playboy, soon also to die, was the lover of both mother and daughter, whom he had serviced in Cavaliere, Cal., during two summers. Hence the separation acquired more pain and plenitude than R. had expected. In the midst of all this, our Person, in his discreet little way (though actually he was half an inch taller than big R.), had happened to nibble, too, at the corner of the crowded canvas. (Chapter 10)
Svin'ya matushka ("Mother Pig," 1906) is an essay by Merezhkovski, the author of Gogol' i chyort ("Gogol and the Devil," 1906). The spectral narrators (including Mr. R.) in Transparent Things seem to be the devils.
The main character of Transparent Things, Hugh Person dies (chokes to death) in a hotel fire. Hugh tells Mr. R. that his name comes from Peterson. At the end of his article 'Krepkie napitki' i pozhary ("Strong Liquors and Fires," 1914) V. V. Rozanov mentions a certain Nikolay Pavlovich Petersen (a member of the Zaraysk district court):
Вообще вопрос, "почему же мы так бедны", "почему Русь так бедна?" -- получает разрешение, когда затронули вопрос о немцах в России. О ней можно повторить то, что говорится об угарном мужике, бывшем на чужом пиру: "По усам текло -- в рот не попало". В заключение письма -- характерные строки, отвечающие на вопрос: "Да что же мы, наконец, -- бездарный народ, что ли?" Автор письма сообщает только что бывший случай из их уездной жизни: попалась на базаре фальшивая трехрублевка. Полицейские власти стали искать, откуда вышла, кто кому дал "и так далее", и вот нашли источник. "Полиции удалось разыскать подделывателя. Подделывателем оказался крестьянский мальчик села Сенниц, Зарайского уезда, Александр Семенов Горбачев, тринадцати лет, которого я допрашивал, и он мне объяснил, что рисовать стал с шестилетнего возраста; копирует всякие картины, и вся изба их увешана его рисунками. Очевидно, талант, самородок. Не найдется ли кто помочь не заглохнуть этому самородку".
Откликнись, добрая Русь. За всеми сведениями, а также с возможною помощью для этого самородка прошу обратиться к уездному члену окружного суда города Зарайска, Рязанской губ., Николаю Павловичу Петерсену. Может быть, из мальчика вышел бы великолепный мастер редкого и драгоценного граверного искусства. Да рисование приложимо почти при всякой технике.
The gifted thirteen-year-old counterfeiter mentioned by Rozanov brings to mind Romantovski, the main character of VN's story Korolyok ("The Leonardo," 1933). Hugh Person was born in 1933 and dies in 1973 (a year after the publication of Transparent Things).