From VN's poem Slava (¡°Fame,¡± 1942):
§¿§ä§Ñ §ä§Ñ§Û§ß§Ñ §ä§Ñ-§ä§Ñ, §ä§Ñ-§ä§Ñ-§ä§Ñ-§ä§Ñ, §ä§Ñ-§ä§Ñ,
§Ñ §ä§à§é§ß§Ö§Ö §ã§Ü§Ñ§Ù§Ñ§ä§î §ñ §ß§Ö §Ó§á§â§Ñ§Ó§Ö.
§°§ä§ä§à§Ô§à §ä§Ñ§Ü §ã§Þ§Ö§ê§ß§Ñ §Þ§ß§Ö §á§å§ã§ä§Ñ§ñ §Þ§Ö§é§ä§Ñ
§à §é§Ú§ä§Ñ§ä§Ö§Ý§Ö, §ä§Ö§Ý§Ö §Ú §ã§Ý§Ñ§Ó§Ö.
§Á §Ò§Ö§Ù §ä§Ö§Ý§Ñ §â§Ñ§Ù§â§à§ã§ã§ñ, §Ò§Ö§Ù §à§ä§Ù§Ó§å§Ü§Ñ §Ø§Ú§Ó,
§Ú §ã§à §Þ§ß§à§Û §Þ§à§ñ §ä§Ñ§Û§ß§Ñ §Ó§ã§Ö§é§Ñ§ã§ß§à.
§¹§ä§à §Þ§ß§Ö §ä§Ý§Ö§ß§Ú§Ö §Ü§ß§Ú§Ô, §Ö§ã§Ý§Ú §Õ§Ñ§Ø§Ö §â§Ñ§Ù§â§í§Ó
§Þ§Ö§Ø§Õ§å §Þ§ß§à§Û §Ú §à§ä§é§Ú§Ù§ß§à§ð -- §é§Ñ§ã§ä§ß§à§ã§ä§î.
§±§â§Ú§Ù§ß§Ñ§ð§ã§î, §ç§à§â§à§ê§à §Ù§Ñ§ê§Ú§æ§â§à§Ó§Ñ§ß§Ñ §ß§à§é§î,
§ß§à §á§à§Õ §Ù§Ó§×§Ù§Õ§í §ñ §Ò§å§Ü§Ó§í §á§à§Õ§ã§ä§Ñ§Ó§Ú§Ý
§Ú §Ó §ã§Ö§Ò§Ö §á§â§à§é§Ú§ä§Ñ§Ý, §é§Ö§Þ §ã§Ö§Ò§ñ §á§â§Ö§Ó§à§Ù§Þ§à§é§î,
§Ñ §ä§à§é§ß§Ö§Ö §ã§Ü§Ñ§Ù§Ñ§ä§î §ñ §ß§Ö §Ó§á§â§Ñ§Ó§Ö.
That main secret tra-t¨¢-ta, tra-t¨¢-ta, tra-t¨¢ -
and I must not be overexplicit.
this is why I find laughable the empty dream
about readers, and body and glory.
Without body I've spread, without echo I thrive,
and with me all along is my secret.
A book's death can't affect me since even the break
between me and my land is a trifle.
I admit that the night has been ciphered right well
but in place of the stars I put letters,
and I've read in myself how the self to transcend -
and I must not be overexplicit.
Slava (glory; fame) rhymes with Poltava (a city in E Ukraine). In his long poem Poltava (1829) Pushkin describes the Ukrainian night:
§´§Ú§ç§Ñ §å§Ü§â§Ñ§Ú§ß§ã§Ü§Ñ§ñ §ß§à§é§î.
§±§â§à§Ù§â§Ñ§é§ß§à §ß§Ö§Ò§à. §©§Ó§×§Ù§Õ§í §Ò§Ý§Ö§ë§å§ä.
§³§Ó§à§Ö§Û §Õ§â§Ö§Þ§à§ä§í §á§â§Ö§Ó§à§Ù§Þ§à§é§î
§¯§Ö §ç§à§é§Ö§ä §Ó§à§Ù§Õ§å§ç. §¹§å§ä§î §ä§â§Ö§á§Ö§ë§å§ä
§³§â§Ö§Ò§â§Ú§ã§ä§í§ç §ä§à§á§à§Ý§Ö§Û §Ý§Ú§ã§ä§í.
§§å§ß§Ñ §ã§á§à§Ü§à§Û§ß§à §ã §Ó§í§ã§à§ä§í
§¯§Ñ§Õ §¢§Ö§Ý§à§Û-§¸§Ö§â§Ü§à§Ó§î§ð §ã§Ú§ñ§Ö§ä
§ª §á§í§ê§ß§í§ç §Ô§Ö§ä§Þ§Ñ§ß§à§Ó §ã§Ñ§Õ§í
§ª §ã§ä§Ñ§â§í§Û §Ù§Ñ§Þ§à§Ü §à§Ù§Ñ§â§ñ§Ö§ä.
The Ukrainian night is quiet.
The sky is transparent. The stars sparkle.
The air does not want to overcome
Its somnolence. The leaves
Of silvery poplars tremble slightly. (Canto Two)
Describing the battle of Poltava, Pushkin mentions the terrible lik (face) of Peter I:
§´§à§Ý§á§à§Û §Ý§ð§Ò§Ú§Þ§è§Ö§Ó §à§Ü§â§å§Ø§Ö§ß§ß§í§Û,
§£§í§ç§à§Õ§Ú§ä §±§×§ä§â. §¦§Ô§à §Ô§Ý§Ñ§Ù§Ñ
§³§Ú§ñ§ð§ä. §§Ú§Ü §Ö§Ô§à §å§Ø§Ñ§ã§Ö§ß.
§¥§Ó§Ú§Ø§Ö§ß§î§ñ §Ò§í§ã§ä§â§í. §°§ß §á§â§Ö§Ü§â§Ñ§ã§Ö§ß,
§°§ß §Ó§Ö§ã§î, §Ü§Ñ§Ü §Ò§à§Ø§Ú§ñ §Ô§â§à§Ù§Ñ.
Surrounded by the crowd of his favorites,
Peter comes out. His eyes
Are radiant. His face is terrible.
His movements are rapid. He is beautiful.
He¡¯s all like God¡¯s thunderstorm. (Canto Three)
Lik (1939) is a story by VN. As I pointed out before, its eponymous hero can be compared to Akakiy Akakievich Bashmachkin, the main character in Gogol¡¯s story Shinel¡¯ (¡°The Carrick,¡± 1842) who is mentioned in Slava:
§¦§ã§ä§î §Ó§Ö§ë§Ú, §Ó§Ö§ë§Ú,
§Ü§à§ä§à§â§í§Ö... §Õ§Ñ§Ø§Ö... (§¡§Ü§Ñ§Ü§Ú§Û §¡§Ü§Ñ§Ü§Ú§Ö§Ó§Ú§é
§Ý§ð§Ò§Ú§Ý, §Ö§ã§Ý§Ú §á§à§Þ§ß§Ú§ä§Ö, "§á§Ý§Ö§Ó§Ö§Ý§í §â§Ö§é§Ú",
§Ú §à§ß §Ü§Ñ§Ü §¯§Ñ§â§Ö§é§î§Ö, §Þ§à§Û §Ô§à§ã§ä§î §Ó§à§ã§Ü§à§Ó§à§Û),
§Ú §ã§Ö§â§Õ§è§Ö §á§â§à§ã§Ú§ä§ã§ñ, §Ú §ã§Ö§â§Õ§è§Ö §Þ§Ö§é§Ö§ä§ã§ñ,
§Ú §ñ §ß§Ö §Þ§à§Ô§å. §¡ §Ö§Ô§à §â§Ñ§Ù§Ô§à§Ó§à§â
§ä§Ñ§Ü §Ú §Ü§Ñ§ä§Ú§ä§ã§ñ §à§ã§ä§â§à§ð §à§ã§í§á§î§ð §á§à§Õ §Ô§à§â§å,
§Ú §Ü§Ñ§â§ä§Ñ§Ó§à§Ö, §Ü§â§à§ä§Ü§à§Ö §ã§Ý§å§ê§Ñ§ä§î §Õ§à§Ý§Ø§ß§à
§Ú §Ù§Ñ§ã§Ý§å§ê§Ú§Ó§Ñ§ä§î§ã§ñ §Ô§à§ã§á§à§Õ§Ú§ß§Ñ §Ò§à§Õ§â§à§Ô§à,
§à§ä§ä§à§Ô§à §é§ä§à §Ò§Ö§Ù §ã§Ý§à§Ó §Ú §Ò§Ö§Ù §ã§Ý§Ñ§Ó§í §à§ß§à.
There are matters, matters
which, so to speak, even¡ (Akakiy Akakievich
had a weakness, if you remember, for ¡°weed words,¡±
and he¡¯s like an Adverb, my waxy guest),
and my heart keeps pressing, my heart keeps tossing,
and I can¡¯t any more ¨C while his speech
fairly tumbles on downhill, like sharp loose gravel,
and the burry-R¡¯d meek heart must harken to him,
aye, harken entranced to the buoyant gentleman,
because it has got no words and no fame.
In my post of January 8, 2013, I suggest that the main secret in Slava (§ä§Ñ-§ä§Ñ, §ä§Ñ-§ä§Ñ-§ä§Ñ-§ä§Ñ, §ä§Ñ-§ä§Ñ) is spina trubochista chista (the back of the chimney-sweep is clean). In Gogol¡¯s Shinel¡¯ Akakiy Akakievich meets that chimney-sweep after leaving Petrovich, the tailor who refused to repair Akakiy Akakievich¡¯s old overcoat:
§£§í§ê§Ö§Õ §ß§Ñ §å§Ý§Ú§è§å, §¡§Ü§Ñ§Ü§Ú§Û §¡§Ü§Ñ§Ü§Ú§Ö§Ó§Ú§é §Ò§í§Ý §Ü§Ñ§Ü §Ó§à §ã§ß§Ö. "§¿§ä§Ñ§Ü§à§Ó§à-§ä§à §Õ§Ö§Ý§à §ï§ä§Ñ§Ü§à§Ö, - §Ô§à§Ó§à§â§Ú§Ý §à§ß §ã§Ñ§Þ §ã§Ö§Ò§Ö, - §ñ, §á§â§Ñ§Ó§à, §Ú §ß§Ö §Õ§å§Þ§Ñ§Ý, §é§ä§à§Ò§í §à§ß§à §Ó§í§ê§Ý§à §ä§à§Ô§à...- §Ñ §á§à§ä§à§Þ, §á§à§ã§Ý§Ö §ß§Ö§Ü§à§ä§à§â§à§Ô§à §Þ§à§Ý§é§Ñ§ß§Ú§ñ, §á§â§Ú§Ò§Ñ§Ó§Ú§Ý: - §´§Ñ§Ü §Ó§à§ä §Ü§Ñ§Ü! §ß§Ñ§Ü§à§ß§Ö§è §Ó§à§ä §é§ä§à §Ó§í§ê§Ý§à, §Ñ §ñ, §á§â§Ñ§Ó§à, §ã§à§Ó§ã§Ö§Þ §Ú §á§â§Ö§Õ§á§à§Ý§Ñ§Ô§Ñ§ä§î §ß§Ö §Þ§à§Ô, §é§ä§à§Ò§í §à§ß§à §Ò§í§Ý§à §ï§ä§Ñ§Ü". §©§Ñ§ã§Ú§Þ §á§à§ã§Ý§Ö§Õ§à§Ó§Ñ§Ý§à §à§á§ñ§ä§î §Õ§à§Ý§Ô§à§Ö §Þ§à§Ý§é§Ñ§ß§Ú§Ö, §á§à§ã§Ý§Ö §Ü§à§ä§à§â§à§Ô§à §à§ß §á§â§à§Ú§Ù§ß§×§ã: "§´§Ñ§Ü §ï§ä§Ñ§Ü-§ä§à! §Ó§à§ä §Ü§Ñ§Ü§à§Ö §å§Ø, §ä§à§é§ß§à, §ß§Ú§Ü§Ñ§Ü §ß§Ö§à§Ø§Ú§Õ§Ñ§ß§ß§à§Ö, §ä§à§Ô§à... §ï§ä§à§Ô§à §Ò§í §ß§Ú§Ü§Ñ§Ü... §ï§ä§Ñ§Ü§à§Ö-§ä§à §à§Ò§ã§ä§à§ñ§ä§Ö§Ý§î§ã§ä§Ó§à!" §³§Ü§Ñ§Ù§Ñ§Ó§ê§Ú §ï§ä§à, §à§ß, §Ó§Þ§Ö§ã§ä§à §ä§à§Ô§à §é§ä§à§Ò§í §Ú§Õ§ä§Ú §Õ§à§Þ§à§Û, §á§à§ê§Ö§Ý §ã§à§Ó§Ö§â§ê§Ö§ß§ß§à §Ó §á§â§à§ä§Ú§Ó§ß§å§ð §ã§ä§à§â§à§ß§å, §ã§Ñ§Þ §ä§à§Ô§à §ß§Ö §á§à§Õ§à§Ù§â§Ö§Ó§Ñ§ñ. §¥§à§â§à§Ô§à§ð §Ù§Ñ§Õ§Ö§Ý §Ö§Ô§à §Ó§ã§Ö§Þ §ß§Ö§é§Ú§ã§ä§í§Þ §ã§Ó§à§Ú§Þ §Ò§à§Ü§à§Þ §ä§â§å§Ò§à§é§Ú§ã§ä §Ú §Ó§í§é§Ö§â§ß§Ú§Ý §Ó§ã§Ö §á§Ý§Ö§é§à §Ö§Þ§å; §è§Ö§Ý§Ñ§ñ §ê§Ñ§á§Ü§Ñ §Ú§Ù§Ó§Ö§ã§ä§Ú §Ó§í§ã§í§á§Ñ§Ý§Ñ§ã§î §ß§Ñ §ß§Ö§Ô§à §ã §Ó§Ö§â§ç§å§ê§Ü§Ú §ã§ä§â§à§Ú§Ó§ê§Ö§Ô§à§ã§ñ §Õ§à§Þ§Ñ. §°§ß §ß§Ú§é§Ö§Ô§à §ï§ä§à§Ô§à §ß§Ö §Ù§Ñ§Þ§Ö§ä§Ú§Ý...
Akakiy Akakievitch went out into the street as if in a dream. "Such an affair!" he said to himself: "I did not think it had come to --" and then after a pause, he added, "Well, so it is! see what it has come to at last! and I never imagined that it was so!" Then followed a long silence, after which he exclaimed, "Well, so it is! see what already -- nothing unexpected that -- it would be nothing -- what a strange circumstance!" So saying, instead of going home, he went in exactly the opposite direction without himself suspecting it. On the way, a chimney-sweep bumped up against him, and blackened his shoulder, and a whole hatful of rubbish landed on him from the top of a house which was building. He did not notice it...
The chimney-sweep¡¯s nechistyi bok (unclean side) would have attracted Nabokov¡¯s attention. On the other hand, chyort (the devil) is often called nechistyi (cf. nechityi poputal, ¡°it¡¯s the devil¡¯s work¡±). In Slava the author¡¯s visitor (whose nostrils are soot-stuffed) must be the devil himself. But we should not forget (as in VN¡¯s play ¡°The Event¡± the portrait painter Troshcheykin does) that the devil is not as terrible as he is painted.
Lik¡¯s real name seems to be Kulikov. Kulik is a bird stint, sandpiper. In his story Strashnaya mest¡¯ (¡°The Terrible Vengeance,¡± 1832) Gogol (whose name means ¡°golden-eye¡±) famously says that a rare bird will fly to the middle of the Dnepr. In VN¡¯s Parizhskaya poema (¡°The Paris Poem,¡± 1943) there is an imitation of this hyperbolic passage in ¡°The Terrible Vengeance¡± beginning chuden Dnepr pri tikhoy pogode (wondrous is the Dnepr in the windless weather):
§¹§å§Õ§Ö§ß §ß§à§é§î§ð §±§Ñ§â§Ú§Ø §ã§å§ç§à§á§Ñ§â§í§Û¡
Wondrous at night is gaunt Paris.
Another line in ¡°The Paris Poem,¡± Ot kochuyushchikh, prazdno plutayushchikh (From those wandering, those idly straying), alludes to a line in Nekrasov¡¯s poem Rytsar¡¯ na chas (¡°The Knight for an Hour,¡± 1862), Ot likuyushchikh, prazdno boltayushchikh (From those jubilant, those idly babbling). Likuyushchiy (jubilant), the participle that comes from likovat¡¯ (to rejoice, exult), begins with lik. At the end of ¡°The Paris Poem¡± likuyushchie lipy (the jubilant lindens) and the bright din of the birds are mentioned:
§ª §á§à §ñ§â§Ü§à§Þ§å §Ô§à§Þ§à§ß§å §á§ä§Ú§é§î§Ö§Þ§å,
§á§à §Ý§Ú§Ü§å§ð§ë§Ú§Þ §Ý§Ú§á§Ñ§Þ §Ó §à§Ü§ß§Ö,
§á§à §Ú§ç §Ù§Ö§Ý§Ö§ß§Ú §á§â§Ö§å§Ó§Ö§Ý§Ú§é§Ö§ß§ß§à§Û,
§Ú §á§à §ã§à§Ý§ß§è§å §ß§Ñ §Þ§ß§Ö §Ú §Ó§à §Þ§ß§Ö,
§Ú §á§à §Ò§Ö§Ý§í§Þ §Ô§Ú§Ô§Ñ§ß§ä§Ñ§Þ §Ó §Ý§Ñ§Ù§å§â§Ú,
§é§ä§à §ã§ä§â§Ö§Þ§ñ§ä§ã§ñ §Ü§à §Þ§ß§Ö §ß§Ñ§á§â§ñ§Þ§Ú§Ü,
§á§à §ã§Ó§Ö§â§Ü§Ñ§ß§î§ð, §á§à §Þ§à§ë§Ú §á§â§Ú§ë§å§â§Ú§ä§î§ã§ñ
§Ú §å§Ù§ß§Ñ§ä§î §ã§Ó§à§Û §ã§Ö§Ô§à§Õ§ß§ñ§ê§ß§Ú§Û §Þ§Ú§Ô.
And by the bright din of the birds,
by the jubilant window-framed lindens,
by their extravagant greenery,
by the sunlight upon me and in me,
by the white colossi that rush through the blue
straight at me ¨C as I narrow my eyes ¨C
by all that sparkle and all that power
my present moment to recognize.
Alexey Sklyarenko