According to Van Veen (the narrator and main character in VN’s novel Ada, 1969), the details of the L disaster in the beau milieu of the 19th century, which had the singular effect of both causing and cursing the notion of ‘Terra,’ are too well-known historically, and too obscene spiritually, to be treated at length in a book addressed to young laymen and lemans — and not to grave men or gravemen:
The details of the L disaster (and I do not mean Elevated) in the beau milieu of last century, which had the singular effect of both causing and cursing the notion of ‘Terra,’ are too well-known historically, and too obscene spiritually, to be treated at length in a book addressed to young laymen and lemans — and not to grave men or gravemen.
Of course, today, after great anti-L years of reactionary delusion have gone by (more or less!) and our sleek little machines, Faragod bless them, hum again after a fashion, as they did in the first half of the nineteenth century, the mere geographic aspect of the affair possesses its redeeming comic side, like those patterns of brass marquetry, and bric-à-Braques, and the ormolu horrors that meant ‘art’ to our humorless forefathers. For, indeed, none can deny the presence of something highly ludicrous in the very configurations that were solemnly purported to represent a varicolored map of Terra. Ved’ (‘it is, isn’t it’) sidesplitting to imagine that ‘Russia,’ instead of being a quaint synonym of Estoty, the American province extending from the Arctic no longer vicious Circle to the United States proper, was on Terra the name of a country, transferred as if by some sleight of land across the ha-ha of a doubled ocean to the opposite hemisphere where it sprawled over all of today’s Tartary, from Kurland to the Kuriles! But (even more absurdly), if, in Terrestrial spatial terms, the Amerussia of Abraham Milton was split into its components, with tangible water and ice separating the political, rather than poetical, notions of ‘America’ and ‘Russia,’ a more complicated and even more preposterous discrepancy arose in regard to time — not only because the history of each part of the amalgam did not quite match the history of each counterpart in its discrete condition, but because a gap of up to a hundred years one way or another existed between the two earths; a gap marked by a bizarre confusion of directional signs at the crossroads of passing time with not all the no-longers of one world corresponding to the not-yets of the other. It was owing, among other things, to this ‘scientifically ungraspable’ concourse of divergences that minds bien rangés (not apt to unhobble hobgoblins) rejected Terra as a fad or a fantom, and deranged minds (ready to plunge into any abyss) accepted it in support and token of their own irrationality. (1.3)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): beau milieu: right in the middle.
Faragod: apparently, the god of electricity.
braques: allusion to a bric-à-brac painter.
The spiritually obscene details of the Antiterran L disaster bring to mind tous les détails de cet épître (all the details of this epistle) to which Baron van Heeckeren (d'Anthès' adoptive father) refuses to respond in his letter of Jan. 26, 1837, to Pushkin:
Monsieur
Ne connaissant ni votre écriture ni votre signature, j’ai recours à Monsieur le Vicomte d’Archiac, qui vous remettra la présente pour constater que la lettre à laquelle je réponds, vient de vous. Son contenu est tellement hors de toutes les bornes du possible que je me refuse à répondre à tous les détails de cet épître. Vous paraissez avoir oublié Monsieur, que c’est vous qui vous êtes dedit de la provocation, que vous aviez fait adresser au Baron Georges de Heeckeren et qui avait été acceptée par lui. La preuve de ce que j’avance ici existe, écrite de votre main, et est restée entre les mains des seconds. Il ne me reste qu’à vous prévenir que Monsieur le Vicomte d’Archiac se rend chez vous pour convenir avec vous du lieu où vous vous rencontrerez avec le Baron Georges de Heeckeren et à vous prévenir que cette rencontre ne souffre aucun délai.
Je saurai plus tard, Monsieur, vous faire apprécier le respect du au Caractère dont je suis révêtu et qu’aucune démarche de votre part ne saurait atteindre.
Je suis
Monsieur
Votre très humble serviteur
B. de Heeckeren.
Lu et approuvé par moi
Le B-on Georges de Heeckeren.
In his offensive letter of Jan. 26, 1837, to Baron van Heeckeren Pushkin mentions malade de vérole (syphilis) allegedly contracted by d'Anthès:
Monsieur le Baron!
Permettez-moi de faire le résumé de ce qui vient de se passer. La conduite de Monsieur votre fils m’était connue depuis longtemps et ne pouvait m’être indifférente. Je me contentais de rôle d’observateur, quitte à intervenir lorsque je le jugerais à propos. Un incident, qui dans tout autre moment, m’eût été très désagréable, vint fort heureusement me tirer d’affaire: je reçus les lettres anonymes. Je vis que le moment était venu et j’en profitai. Vous savez le reste: je fis jouer à Monsieur votre fils un rôle si pitoyable, que ma femme, étonnée de tant de lâcheté et de platitude, ne put s’empêcher de rire, et que l’émotion que peut-être avait-elle ressentie pour cette grande et sublime passion, s’éteignit dans le mépris le plus calme et le dégoût le mieux mérité.
Je suis obligé d’avouer, Monsieur Le Baron, que votre rôle à vous n’a pas été tout à fait convenable. Vous, le représentant d’une tête couronée, vous avez été paternellement le maquereau de Monsieur votre fils. Il paraît que toute sa conduite (assez maladroite d’ailleurs) a été dirigée par vous. C’est vous qui, probablement, lui dictiez les pauvretés qu’il venait débiter et les niaiseries qu’il s’est mêlé d’écrire. Semblable à une obscène vieille, vous alliez guetter ma femme dans tous les coins pour lui parler de l’amour de votre bâtard, ou soi-disant tel; et lorsque malade de vérole il était retenu chez lui, vous disiez qu’il se mourait d’amour pour elle; vous lui marmottiez: rendez-moi mon fils.
Vous sentez bien, Monsieur le Baron, qu’après tout cela je ne puis souffrir que ma famille ait la moindre relation avec la vôtre. C’était à cette condition que j’avais consenti à ne pas donner suite à cette sale affaire, et à ne pas vous déshonorer aux yeux de notre cour et de la vôtre, comme j’en avais le pouvoir et l’intention. Je ne me soucie pas que ma femme écoute encore vos exhortations paternelles. Je ne puis permettre que Monsieur votre fils, après l’abjecte conduite qu’il a tenue, ose adresser la parole à ma femme, ni encore moins qu’il lui débite des calembours de corps de garde, et joue le dévouement et la passion malheureuse, tandis qu’il n’est qu’un lâche et qu’un chenapan. Je suis donc obligé de m’adresser à vous, pour vous prier de mettre fin à tout ce manège, si vous tenez à éviter un nouveau scandale, devant lequel, certes, je ne reculerai pas.
J’ai l’honneur d’être, Monsieur le Baron,
Votre très humble et très obéissant serviteur.
Alexandre Pouchkine.
26 Janvier 1837.
At the end of his farewell letter to Marina (Van's, Ada's and Lucette's mother) Demon Veen (Van's and Ada's father) says that Marina's runaway maid has been found by the police in a brothel here and will be shipped to Marina as soon as she is sufficiently stuffed with mercury:
‘Adieu. Perhaps it is better thus,’ wrote Demon to Marina in mid-April, 1869 (the letter may be either a copy in his calligraphic hand or the unposted original), ‘for whatever bliss might have attended our married life, and however long that blissful life might have lasted, one image I shall not forget and will not forgive. Let it sink in, my dear. Let me repeat it in such terms as a stage performer can appreciate. You had gone to Boston to see an old aunt — a cliché, but the truth for the nonce — and I had gone to my aunt’s ranch near Lolita, Texas. Early one February morning (around noon chez vous) I rang you up at your hotel from a roadside booth of pure crystal still tear-stained after a tremendous thunderstorm to ask you to fly over at once, because I, Demon, rattling my crumpled wings and cursing the automatic dorophone, could not live without you and because I wished you to see, with me holding you, the daze of desert flowers that the rain had brought out. Your voice was remote but sweet; you said you were in Eve’s state, hold the line, let me put on a penyuar. Instead, blocking my ear, you spoke, I suppose, to the man with whom you had spent the night (and whom I would have dispatched, had I not been overeager to castrate him). Now that is the sketch made by a young artist in Parma, in the sixteenth century, for the fresco of our destiny, in a prophetic trance, and coinciding, except for the apple of terrible knowledge, with an image repeated in two men’s minds. Your runaway maid, by the way, has been found by the police in a brothel here and will be shipped to you as soon as she is sufficiently stuffed with mercury.’ (1.2)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): Lolita, Texas: this town exists, or, rather, existed, for it has been renamed, I believe, after the appearance of the notorious novel.
penyuar: Russ., peignoir.
The Antiterran L disaster brings to mind "Oh, disaster" in VN's novel Lolita (1955):
Oh, disaster. Some confusion had occurred, she had misread a date in the Tour Book, and the Magic Cave ceremonies were over! She took it bravely, I must admit - and, when we discovered there was in kurortish Wace a summer theatre in full swing, we naturally drifted toward it one fair mid-June evening. I really could not tell you the plot of the play we saw. A trivial affair, no doubt, with self-conscious light effects and a mediocre leading lady. The only detail that pleased me was a garland of seven little graces, more or less immobile, prettily painted, bare-limbed - seven bemused pubescent girls in colored gauze that had been recruited locally (judging by the partisan flurry here and there among the audience) and were supposed to represent a living rainbow, which lingered throughout the last act, and rather teasingly faded behind a series of multiplied veils. I remember thinking that this idea of children-colors had been lifted by authors Clare Quilty and Vivian Darkbloom from a passage in James Joyce, and that two of the colors were quite exasperatingly lovely - Orange who kept fidgeting all the time, and Emerald who, when her eyes got used to the pitch-black pit where we all heavily sat, suddenly smiled at her mother or her protector.
As soon as the thing was over, and manual applause - a sound my nerves cannot stand - began to crash all around me, I started to pull and push Lo toward the exit, in my so natural amorous impatience to get her back to our neon-blue cottage in the stunned, starry night: I always say nature is stunned by the sights she sees. Dolly-Lo, however, lagged behind, in a rosy daze, her pleased eyes narrowed, her sense of vision swamping the rest of her senses to such an extent that her limp hands hardly came together at all in the mechanical action of clapping they still went through. I had seen that kind of thing in children before but, by God, this was a special child, myopically beaming at the already remote stage where I glimpsed something of the joint authors - a man’s tuxedo and the bare shoulders of a hawk-like, black-haired, strikingly tall woman.
“You’ve again hurt my wrist, you brute,” said Lolita in a small voice as she slipped into her car seat.
“I am dreadfully sorry, my darling, my own ultraviolet darling,” I said, unsuccessfully trying to catch her elbow, and I added, to change the conversation - to change the direction of fate, oh God, oh God: “Vivian is quite a woman. I am sure we saw her yesterday in that restaurant, in Soda pop.”
“Sometimes,” said Lo, “you are quite revoltingly dumb. First, Vivian is the male author, the gal author is Clare; and second, she is forty, married and has Negro blood.”
“I thought,” I said kidding her, “Quilty was an ancient flame of yours, in the days when you loved me, in sweet old Ramsdale.”
“What?” countered Lo, her features working. “that fat dentist? You must be confusing me with some other fast little article.”
And I thought to myself how those fast little articles forget everything, everything, while we, old lovers, treasure every inch of their nymphancy. (2.18)
When Humbert Humbert (the narrator and main character in Lolita) finally tracks down Clare Quilty (the playwright and pornographer who abducted Lolita from the Elphinstone hospital), Quilty offers Humbert an old-fashioned rencontre, sword or pistol, in Rio or elsewhere:
“Now look here, Mac,” he said. “You are drunk and I am a sick man. Let us postpone the matter. I need quiet. I have to nurse my impotence. Friends are coming in the afternoon to take me to a game. This pistol-packing farce is becoming a frightful nuisance. We are men of the world, in everything - sex, free verse, marksmanship. If you bear me a grudge, I am ready to make unusual amends. Even an old-fashioned rencontre, sword or pistol, in Rio or elsewhere - is not excluded. My memory and my eloquence are not at their best today, but really, my dear Mr. Humbert, you were not an ideal stepfather, and I did not force your little protégé to join me. It was she made me remove her to a happier home. This house is not as modern as that ranch we shared with dear friends. But it is roomy, cool in summer and winter, and in a word comfortable, so, since I intend retiring to England or Florence forever, I suggest you move in. It is yours, gratis. Under the condition you stop pointing at me that [he swore disgustingly] gun. By the way, I do not know if you care for the bizarre, but if you do, I can offer you, also gratis, as house pet, a rather exciting little freak, a young lady with three breasts, one a dandy, this is a rare and delightful marvel of nature. Now, soyons raisonnables. You will only wound me hideously and then rot in jail while I recuperate in a tropical setting. I promise you, Brewster, you will be happy here, with a magnificent cellar, and all the royalties from my next play - I have not much at the bank right now but I propose to borrow - you know, as the Bard said, with that cold in his head, to borrow and to borrow and to borrow. There are other advantages. We have here a most reliable and bribable charwoman, a Mrs. Vibrissa - curious name - who comes from the village twice a week, alas not today, she has daughters, granddaughters, a thing or two I know about the chief of police makes him my slave. I am a playwright. I have been called the American Maeterlinck. Maeterlinck-Schmetterling, says I. Come on! All this is very humiliating, and I am not sure I am doing the right thing. Never use herculanita with rum. Now drop that pistol like a good fellow. I knew your dear wife slightly. You may use my wardrobe. Oh, another thing - you are going to like this. I have an absolutely unique collection of erotica upstairs. Just to mention one item: the in folio de-luxe Bagration Island - by the explorer and psychoanalyst Melanie Weiss, a remarkable lady, a remarkable work - drop that gun - with photographs of eight hundred and something male organs she examined and measured in 1932 on Bagration, in the Barda Sea, very illuminating graphs, plotted with love under pleasant skies - drop that gun - and moreover I can arrange for you to attend executions, not everybody knows that the chair is painted yellow” (2.35)
In his letter to Pushkin Baron van Heeckeren says that cette rencontre (Pushkin's duel with d'Anthès) ne souffre aucun délai (should take place without delay).
Telling about the L disaster, Van Veen uses the phrase in the beau milieu (right in the middle). In a letter of October 11, 1830, from Boldino (Pushkin's family estate in the Province of Nizhniy Novgorod) to his bride, Natalia Goncharov, in Moscow Pushkin uses the phrase au beau milieu de la peste (in the midst of the pest, as Pushkin calls the epidemic of cholera):
L’entrée à Moscou est interdite et me voilà confiné à Boldino. Au nom du ciel, chère Наталья Николаевна, écrivez-moi malgré que vous ne le vouliez pas. Dites-moi où êtes-vous? avez-vous quitté Moscou? y a-t-il un chemin de travers qui puisse me mener à vos pieds? Je suis tout découragé et ne sais vraiment que faire. Il est clair que cette année (maudite année) notre mariage n’aura pas lieu. Mais n’est-ce pas que vous avez quitté Moscou? S’exposer de gaîté de cœur au beau milieu de la peste serait impardonnable. Je sais bien qu’on exagère toujours le tableau de ses ravages et le nombre des victimes; une jeune femme de Constantinople me disait jadis qu’il n’y avait que la canaille qui mourait de la peste — tout cela est bel et bon; mais il faut encore que les gens comme il faut prennent leurs précautions, car c’est là ce qui les sauve et non leur élégance et leur bon ton. Vous êtes donc à la campagne, bien à couvert de la choléra, n’est-ce pas? Envoyez-moi donc votre adresse et le bulletin de votre santé. Quant à nous, nous sommes cernés par les quarantaines, mais l’épidémie n’a pas encore pénétré. Boldino a l’air d’une île entourée de rochers. Point de voisins, point de livres. Un temps affreux. Je passe mon temps à griffonner et à enrager. Je ne sais que fait le pauvre monde, et comment va mon ami Polignac. Ecrivez-moi de ses nouvelles, car ici je ne lis point de journaux. Je deviens si imbécile que c’est une bénédiction. Что дедушка с его медной бабушкой? Оба живы и здоровы, не правда ли? Передо мной теперь географическая карта; я смотрю, как бы дать крюку и приехать к вам через Кяхту или через Архангельск? Дело в том, что для друга семь верст не крюк; а ехать прямо на Москву значит семь верст киселя есть (да еще какого? Московского!). Voilà bien de mauvaises plaisanteries. Je ris jaune, comme disent les poissardes. Adieu. Mettez-moi aux pieds de M-me votre mère; mes bien tendres hommages à toute la famille. Adieu, mon bel ange. Je baise le bout de vos ailes, comme disait Voltaire à des gens qui ne vous valaient pas.
Chronologically, the Antiterran L disaster in the beau milieu of the 19th century seems to correspond to the mock execution of Dostoevski and the Petrashevskians on Jan. 3, 1850, in our world. In Dostoevski's novel Besy ("The Possessed," 1872) Kirillov tells Stavrogin (who challenges Gaganov to a duel) that Pushkin wrote a furious letter to Heeckeren:
Кириллов, до сих пор не садившийся, тотчас же сел напротив и спросил:
— Вы что пришли?
— По делу. Вот прочтите это письмо, от Гаганова; помните, я вам говорил в Петербурге.
Кириллов взял письмо, прочел, положил на стол и смотрел в ожидании.
— Этого Гаганова,— начал объяснять Николай Всеволодович,— как вы знаете, я встретил месяц тому, в Петербурге, в первый раз в жизни. Мы столкнулись раза три в людях. Не знакомясь со мной и не заговаривая, он нашел-таки возможность быть очень дерзким. Я вам тогда говорил; но вот чего вы не знаете: уезжая тогда из Петербурга раньше меня, он вдруг прислал мне письмо, хотя и не такое, как это, но, однако, неприличное в высшей степени и уже тем странное, что в нем совсем не объяснено было повода, по которому оно писано. Я ответил ему тотчас же, тоже письмом, и совершенно откровенно высказал, что, вероятно, он на меня сердится за происшествие с его отцом, четыре года назад, здесь в клубе, и что я с моей стороны готов принести ему всевозможные извинения на том основании, что поступок мой был неумышленный и произошел в болезни. Я просил его взять мои извинения в соображение. Он не ответил и уехал; но вот теперь я застаю его здесь уже совсем в бешенстве. Мне передали несколько публичных отзывов его обо мне, совершенно ругательных и с удивительными обвинениями. Наконец, сегодня приходит это письмо, какого, верно, никто никогда не получал, с ругательствами и с выражениями: «ваша битая рожа». Я пришел, надеясь, что вы не откажетесь в секунданты.
— Вы сказали, письма никто не получал,— заметил Кириллов,— в бешенстве можно; пишут не раз. Пушкин Геккерну написал. Хорошо, пойду. Говорите: как?
Николай Всеволодович объяснил, что желает завтра же и чтобы непременно начать с возобновления извинений и даже с обещания вторичного письма с извинениями, но с тем, однако, что и Гаганов, с своей стороны, обещал бы не писать более писем. Полученное же письмо будет считаться как не бывшее вовсе.
Kirillov, who had not sat down till then, seated himself facing him, and inquired:
“Why have you come?”
“On business. Here, read this letter from Gaganov; do you remember, I talked to you about him in Petersburg.”
Kirillov took the letter, read it, laid it on the table and looked at him expectantly.
“As you know, I met this Gaganov for the first time in my life a month ago, in Petersburg,” Nikolay Vsevolodovich began to explain. “We came across each other two or three times in company with other people. Without making my acquaintance and without addressing me, he managed to be very insolent to me. I told you so at the time; but now for something you don’t know. As he was leaving Petersburg before I did, he sent me a letter, not like this one, yet impertinent in the highest degree, and what was queer about it was that it contained no sort of explanation of why it was written. I answered him at once, also by letter, and said, quite frankly, that he was probably angry with me on account of the incident with his father four years ago in the club here, and that I for my part was prepared to make him every possible apology, seeing that my action was unintentional and was the result of illness. I begged him to consider and accept my apologies. He went away without answering, and now here I find him in a regular fury. Several things he has said about me in public have been repeated to me, absolutely abusive, and making astounding charges against me. Finally, to-day, I get this letter, a letter such as no one has ever had before, I should think, containing such expressions as ‘the punch you got in your ugly face.’ I came in the hope that you would not refuse to be my second.”
“You said no one has ever had such a letter,” observed Kirillov, “they may be sent in a rage. Such letters have been written more than once. Pushkin wrote to Heeckeren. All right, I’ll come. Tell me how.”
Nikolay Vsevolodovich explained that he wanted it to be to-morrow, and that he must begin by renewing his offers of apology, and even with the promise of another letter of apology, but on condition that Gaganov, on his side, should promise to send no more letters. The letter he had received he would regard as unwritten. (Part Two, Chapter I, "The Night," 5)
A madman, Kirillov (Stavrogin's second in his pistol duel with Gaganov) shoots himself dead (and Stavrogin hangs himself; cf. Van's "and I do not mean Elevated"). In Dostoevski's story Son smeshnogo cheloveka (“The Dream of a Ridiculous Man,” 1877) the hero shoots himself in his dream and an angel takes him to a planet that looks exactly like Earth, but Earth before the fall. The first epigraph to Dostoevski's novel The Possessed is from Pushkin's poem Besy ("The Demons") composed in Boldino on September 7, 1830:
Хоть убей, следа не видно,
Сбились мы, что делать нам?
В поле бес нас водит, видно,
Да кружит по сторонам.
..........................
Сколько их, куда их гонят,
Что так жалобно поют?
Домового ли хоронят,
Ведьму ль замуж выдают?
“Strike me dead, the track has vanished,
Well, what now? We’ve lost the way,
Demons have bewitched our horses,
Led us in the wilds astray.
................................
“What a number! Whither drift they?
What’s the mournful dirge they sing?
Do they hail a witch’s marriage
Or a goblin’s burying?”
The second epigraph to The Possessed is from Luke (viii. 32-37):
Тут на горе паслось большое стадо свиней, и они просили Его, чтобы позволил им войти в них. Он позволил им. Бесы, вышедши из человека, вошли в свиней; и бросилось стадо с крутизны в озеро, и потонуло. Пастухи, увидя случившееся, побежали и рассказали в городе и по деревням. И вышли жители смотреть случившееся, и пришедши к Иисусу, нашли человека, из которого вышли бесы, сидящего у ног Иисусовых, одетого и в здравом уме и ужаснулись. Видевшие же рассказали им, как исцелился бесновавшийся.
“And there was one herd of many swine feeding on this mountain; and they besought him that he would suffer them to enter into them. And he suffered them. “Then went the devils out of the man and entered into the swine; and the herd ran violently down a steep place into the lake and were choked. “When they that fed them saw what was done, they fled, and went and told it in the city and in the country. “Then they went out to see what was done; and came to Jesus and found the man, out of whom the devils were departed, sitting at the feet of Jesus, clothed and in his right mind; and they were afraid.”
St. Luke the Evangelist brings to mind Caroline Lukin, in VN's novel Pale Fire (1962) the maiden name of Shade's mother:
With commendable alacrity, Professor Hurley produced an Appreciation of John Shade's published works within a month after the poet's death. It came out in a skimpy literary review, whose name momentarily escapes me, and was shown to me in Chicago where I interrupted for a couple of days my automobile journey from New Wye to Cedarn, in these grim autumnal mountains.
A Commentary where placid scholarship should reign is not the place for blasting the preposterous defects of that little obituary. I have only mentioned it because that is where I gleaned a few meager details concerning the poet's parents. His father, Samuel Shade, who died at fifty, in 1902, had studied medicine in his youth and was vice-president of a firm of surgical instruments in Exton. His chief passion, however, was what our eloquent necrologist calls "the study of the feathered tribe," adding that "a bird had been named for him: Bombycilla Shadei" (this should be "shadei," of course). The poet's mother, née Caroline Lukin, assisted him in his work and drew the admirable figures of his Birds of Mexico, which I remember having seen in my friend's house. What the obituarist does not know is that Lukin comes from Luke, as also do Locock and Luxon and Lukashevich. It represents one of the many instances when the amorphous-looking but live and personal hereditary patronymic grows, sometimes in fantastic shapes, around the common pebble of a Christian name. The Lukins are an old Essex family. Other names derive from professions such as Rymer, Scrivener, Limner (one who illuminates parchments), Botkin (one who makes bottekins, fancy footwear) and thousands of others. (Kinbote's note to Line 71)
In Canto Three of his poem John Shade (the poet in Pale Fire) speaks of IPH (a lay Institute of Preparation for the Hereafter) and mentions “Terra the Fair, an orbicle of jasp:”
While snubbing gods, including the big G,
Iph borrowed some peripheral debris
From mystic visions; and it offered tips
(The amber spectacles for life's eclipse) -
How not to panic when you're made a ghost:
Sidle and slide, choose a smooth surd, and coast,
Meet solid bodies and glissade right through,
Or let a person circulate through you.
How to locate in blackness, with a gasp,
Terra the Fair, an orbicle of jasp. (ll. 549-558)
According to Van Veen, the real destination of Marina's twin sister Aqua (who married Demon Veen) was Terra the Fair:
Actually, Aqua was less pretty, and far more dotty, than Marina. During her fourteen years of miserable marriage she spent a broken series of steadily increasing sojourns in sanatoriums. A small map of the European part of the British Commonwealth — say, from Scoto-Scandinavia to the Riviera, Altar and Palermontovia — as well as most of the U.S.A., from Estoty and Canady to Argentina, might be quite thickly prickled with enameled red-cross-flag pins, marking, in her War of the Worlds, Aqua’s bivouacs. She had plans at one time to seek a modicum of health (‘just a little grayishness, please, instead of the solid black’) in such Anglo-American protectorates as the Balkans and Indias, and might even have tried the two Southern Continents that thrive under our joint dominion. Of course, Tartary, an independent inferno, which at the time spread from the Baltic and Black seas to the Pacific Ocean, was touristically unavailable, though Yalta and Altyn Tagh sounded strangely attractive… But her real destination was Terra the Fair and thither she trusted she would fly on libellula long wings when she died. Her poor little letters from the homes of madness to her husband were sometimes signed: Madame Shchemyashchikh-Zvukov (‘Heart rending-Sounds’). (1.3)
Describing the torments of poor mad Aqua, Van mentions mental panic and physical pain:
But that phase elapsed too. Other excruciations replaced her namesake’s loquacious quells so completely that when, during a lucid interval, she happened to open with her weak little hand a lavabo cock for a drink of water, the tepid lymph replied in its own lingo, without a trace of trickery or mimicry: Finito! It was now the forming of soft black pits (yamï, yamishchi) in her mind, between the dimming sculptures of thought and recollection, that tormented her phenomenally; mental panic and physical pain joined black-ruby hands, one making her pray for sanity, the other, plead for death. Man-made objects lost their significance or grew monstrous connotations; clothes hangers were really the shoulders of decapitated Tellurians, the folds of a blanket she had kicked off her bed looked back at her mournfully with a stye on one drooping eyelid and dreary reproof in the limp twist of a livid lip. The effort to comprehend the information conveyed somehow to people of genius by the hands of a timepiece, or piece of time, became as hopeless as trying to make out the sign language of a secret society or the Chinese chant of that young student with a non-Chinese guitar whom she had known at the time she or her sister had given birth to a mauve baby. But her madness, the majesty of her madness, still retained a mad queen’s pathetic coquetry: ‘You know, Doctor, I think I’ll need glasses soon, I don’t know’ (lofty laugh), ‘I just can’t make out what my wrist watch says... For heaven’s sake, tell me what it says! Ah! Half-past for — for what? Never mind, never mind, "never" and "mind" are twins, I have a twin sister and a twin son. I know you want to examine my pudendron, the Hairy Alpine Rose in her album, collected ten years ago’ (showing her ten fingers gleefully, proudly, ten is ten!).
Then the anguish increased to unendurable massivity and nightmare dimensions, making her scream and vomit. She wanted (and was allowed, bless the hospital barber, Bob Bean) to have her dark curls shaved to an aquamarine prickle, because they grew into her porous skull and curled inside. Jigsaw pieces of sky or wall came apart, no matter how delicately put together, but a careless jolt or a nurse’s elbow can disturb so easily those lightweight fragments which became incomprehensible blancs of anonymous objects, or the blank backs of ‘Scrabble’ counters, which she could not turn over sunny side up, because her hands had been tied by a male nurse with Demon’s black eyes. But presently panic and pain, like a pair of children in a boisterous game, emitted one last shriek of laughter and ran away to manipulate each other behind a bush as in Count Tolstoy’s Anna Karenin, a novel, and again, for a while, a little while, all was quiet in the house, and their mother had the same first name as hers had. (1.3)
The characters in Pale Fire include Queen Disa (Duchess of Payn, of Great Payn and Mone, the wife of Charles the Beloved). Sybil Shade (the poet's wife) and Queen Disa seem to be one and the same person whose "real" name is Sofia Botkin, born Lastochkin. The three main characters in Pale Fire, the poet Shade, his commentator Kinbote (who imagines that he is Charles the Beloved) 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 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, will be full again.