Lines 747-748: a story in the magazine about a Mrs. Z.
Anybody having access to a good library could, no doubt, easily trace that story to its source and find the name of the lady; but such humdrum potterings are beneath true scholarship.
Line 768: address
At this point my reader may be amused by my allusion to John Shade in a letter (of which I fortunately preserved a carbon copy) that I wrote to a correspondent living in southern France on April 2, 1959: My dear, you are absurd. I do not give you, and will not give you or anybody, my home address not because I fear you might look me up, as you are pleased to conjecture: all my mail goes to my office address. The suburban houses here have open letter boxes out in the street, and anybody can cram them with advertisements or purloin letters addressed to me (not out of mere curiosity, mind you, but from other, more sinister, motives). I send this by air and urgently repeat the address Sylvia gave you: Dr. C. Kinbote, KINBOTE (not «Charles X. Kingbot, Esq.,» as you, or Sylvia, wrote; please, be more careful — and more intelligent), Wordsmith University, New Wye, Appalachia, USA.
I am not cross with you but I have all sorts of worries, and my nerves are on edge. I believed — believed deeply and candidly — in the affection of a person who lived here, under my roof, but have been hurt and betrayed, as never happened in the days of my forefathers, who could have the offender tortured, though of course I do not wish to have anybody tortured.
It has been dreadfully cold here, but thank God now a regular northern winter has turned into a southern spring.
Do not try to explain to me what your lawyer tells you but have him explain it to my lawyer, and he will explain it to me.
My work at the university is pleasant, and I have a most charming neighbor — now do not sigh and raise your eyebrows, my dear — he is a very old gentleman — the old gentleman in fact who was responsible for that bit about the ginkgo tree in your green album (see again — I mean the reader should see again — the note to line 49).
It might be safer if you did not write me too often, my dear.
Line 782: your poem
An image of Mont Blanc’s «blue-shaded buttresses and sun-creamed domes» is fleetingly glimpsed through the cloud of that particular poem which I wish I could quote but do not have at hand. The «white mountain» of the lady’s dream, caused by a misprint to tally with Shade’s «white fountain,» makes a thematic appearance here, blurred as it were by the lady’s grotesque pronunciation.
Line 802: mountain
The passage 797 (second part of line)-809, on the poet’s sixty-fifth card, was composed between the sunset of July 18 and the dawn of July 19. That morning I had prayed in two different churches (on either side, as it were, of my Zemblan denomination, not represented in New Wye) and had strolled home in an elevated state of mind. There was no cloud in the wistful sky, and the very earth seemed to be sighing after our Lord Jesus Christ. On such sunny, sad mornings I always feel in my bones that there is a chance yet of my not being excluded from Heaven, and that salvation may be granted to me despite the frozen mud and horror in my heart. As I was ascending with bowed head the gravel path to my poor rented house, I heard with absolute distinction, as if he were standing at my shoulder and speaking loudly, as to a slightly deaf man, Shade’s voice say: «Come tonight, Charlie.» I looked around me in awe and wonder: I was quite alone. I at once telephoned. The Shades were out, said the cheeky ancillula, an obnoxious little fan who came to cook for them on Sundays and no doubt dreamt of getting the old poet to cuddle her some wifeless day. I retelephoned two hours later; got, as usual, Sybil; insisted on talking to my friend (my «messages» were never transmitted), obtained him, and asked him as calmly as possible what he had been doing around noon when I had heard him like a big bird in my garden. He could not quite remember, said wait a minute, he had been playing golf with Paul (whoever that was), or at least watching Paul play with another colleague. I cried that I must see him in the evening and all at once, with no reason at all, burst into tears, flooding the telephone and gasping for breath, a paroxysm which had not happened to me since Bob left me on March 30. There was a flurry of confabulation between the Shades, and then John said: «Charles, listen. Let’s go for a good ramble tonight, I’ll meet you at eight.» It was my second good ramble since July 6 (that unsatisfactory nature talk); the third one, on July 21, was to be exceedingly brief.
Where was I? Yes, trudging along again as in the old days with John, in the woods of Arcady, under a salmon sky.
«Well,» I said gaily, «what were you writing about last night, John? Your study window was simply blazing.»
«Mountains,» he answered.
The Bera Range, an erection of veined stone and shaggy firs, rose before me in all its power and pride. The splendid news made my heart pound, and I felt that I could now, in my turn, afford to be generous. I begged my friend not to impart to me anything more if he did not wish it. He said yes, he did not, and began bewailing the difficulties of his self-imposed task. He calculated that during the last twenty-four hours his brain had put in, roughly, a thousand minutes of work, and had produced fifty lines (say, 797-847) or one syllable every two minutes. He had finished his Third, penultimate, Canto, and had started on Canto Four, his last (see Foreword, see Foreword, at once), and would I mind very much if we started to go home -though it was only around nine — so that he could plunge back into his chaos and drag out of it, with all its wet stars, his cosmos?
How could I say no? That mountain air had gone to my head: he was reassembling my Zembla!
Line 803: a misprint
Translators of Shade’s poem are bound to have trouble with the transformation, at one stroke, of «mountain» into «fountain»: it cannot be rendered in French or German, or Russian, or Zemblan; so the translator will have to put in it into one of those footnotes that are the rogue’s galleries of words. However! There exists to my knowledge one absolutely extraordinary, unbelievably elegant case, where not only two, but three words are involved. The story itself is trivial enough (and probably apocryphal). A newspaper account of a Russian tsar’s coronation had, instead of korona (crown), the misprint vorona (crow), and when next day this was apologetically «corrected,» it got misprinted a second time as korova (cow). The artistic correlation between the crown-crow-cow series and the Russian korona-vorona-korova series is something that would have, I am sure, enraptured my poet. I have seen nothing like it on lexical playfields and the odds against the double coincidence defy computation.
Line 810: a web of sense
One of the five cabins of which this motor court consists is occupied by the owner, a blear-eyed, seventy-year-old man whose twisted limp reminds me of Shade. He runs a small gas station nearby, sells worms to fishermen, and usually does not bother me, but the other day he suggested I «grab any old book» from the shelf in his room. Not wishing to offend him, I cocked my head at them, to one side, and then to the other, but they were all dog-eared paperback mystery stories and did not rate more than a sigh and a smile. He said wait a minute-and took from a bedside recess a battered clothbound treasure. «A great book by a great guy,» the Letters of Franklin Lane. «Used to see a lot of him in Rainier Park when I was a young ranger up there. You take it for a couple of days. You won’t regret it!»
I did not. Here is a passage that curiously echoes Shade’s tone at the end of Canto Three. It comes from a manuscript fragment written by Lane on May 17, 1921, on the eve of his death, after
