Before the family dinner in “Ardis the Second” Demon Veen (in VN’s novel Ada, 1969, Van’s and Ada’s father) mentions his aunt Kitty who married the Banker Bolenski after divorcing that dreadful old wencher Lyovka Tolstoy, the writer:
‘I don’t know if you know,’ said Van, resuming his perch on the fat arm of his father’s chair. ‘Uncle Dan will be here with the lawyer and Lucette only after dinner.’
‘Capital,’ said Demon.
‘Marina and Ada should be down in a minute — ce sera un dîner à quatre.’
‘Capital,’ he repeated. ‘You look splendid, my dear, dear fellow — and I don’t have to exaggerate compliments as some do in regard to an aging man with shoe-shined hair. Your dinner jacket is very nice — or, rather it’s very nice recognizing one’s old tailor in one’s son’s clothes — like catching oneself repeating an ancestral mannerism — for example, this (wagging his left forefinger three times at the height of his temple), which my mother did in casual, pacific denial; that gene missed you, but I’ve seen it in my hairdresser’s looking-glass when refusing to have him put Crêmlin on my bald spot; and you know who had it too — my aunt Kitty, who married the Banker Bolenski after divorcing that dreadful old wencher Lyovka Tolstoy, the writer.’
Demon preferred Walter Scott to Dickens, and did not think highly of Russian novelists. As usual, Van considered it fit to make a corrective comment:
‘A fantastically artistic writer, Dad.’ (1.38)
In his lecture on Tolstoy’s Anna Karenin VN mentions Stiva Oblonski’s and Anna’s gestures:
1) Epithets. Among these to be noted and admired are the "limply plopping" and "scabrous" as applied so magnificently to the slippery insides and rough outsides of the choice oysters Oblonski enjoys during his restaurant meal with Lyovin. Mrs. Garnett omitted to translate these beautiful shlyupayushchie and shershavye; we must restore them. Adjectives used in the scene of the ball to express Kitty's adolescent loveliness and Anna's dangerous charm should also be collected by the reader. Of special interest is the fantastic compound adjective, literally meaning "gauzily-ribbonly-lacily-iridescent" (tyulevo-lento-kruzhevno-tsvetnoy), used to describe the feminine throng at the ball. The old Prince Shcherbatski calls a flabby type of elderly clubman, shlyupik, pulpy thing, a child's word for a hardboiled egg that has become quite pulpy and spongy from too much rolling in a Russian Easter game where eggs are rolled and knocked at each other.
2) Gestures. Oblonski, while his upper lip is being shaved, answering his valet's question (Is Anna coming with her husband or alone) by lifting one finger; or Anna, in her talk with Dolly, illustrating Steve's spells of moral oblivion by making a charming blurred gesture of obliteration before her brow.
*VN interlines but deletes a remark to the class, "You remember what we called the 'sifting agent.' "The reference is to his Dickens lecture the preceding semester where he analyzed the structural function of characters whom he called "perries," used chiefly to bring characters together or to provide information by conversing with them.
In Tolstoy's Anna Karenin (1877) Kitty Shcherbatski marries Konstantin Lyovin. Anna's maiden name is Oblonski (Stiva Oblonski is her brother). Tolstoy's daughter Maria Lvovna (1871-1906) married N. L. Obolenski.
In his memoirs Ocherki bylogo ("Sketches of the Past," 1949) S. L. Tolstoy mentions "the medical certificate" (skorbnyi list) of his mother Sofia Andreevna:
Больная страдает манией блохино-банковской... Хорошо тоже действуют в этом случае в умеренном приёме воды Кузькиной матери.
The patient suffers the Blokhin-Bank mania... A moderate dose of the waters of Kuzma's mother can be also helpful in her case. (chapter "Mail Box")
“Prince” Blokhin was a quiet lunatic who sometimes visited Yasnaya Polyana (Tolstoy’s family estate in the Province of Tula).
A gene that missed Van was inherited by Ada:
Soon after that, as so often occurs with games, and toys, and vacational friendships, that seem to promise an eternal future of fun, Flavita followed the bronze and blood-red trees into the autumn mists; then the black box was mislaid, was forgotten — and accidentally rediscovered (among boxes of table silver) four years later, shortly before Lucette’s visit to town where she spent a few days with her father in mid-July, 1888. It so happened that this was to be the last game of Flavita that the three young Veens were ever to play together. Either because it happened to end in a memorable record for Ada, or because Van took some notes in the hope — not quite unfulfilled — of ‘catching sight of the lining of time’ (which, as he was later to write, is ‘the best informal definition of portents and prophecies’), but the last round of that particular game remained vividly clear in his mind.
‘Je ne peux rien faire,’ wailed Lucette, ‘mais rien — with my idiotic Buchstaben, REMNILK, LINKREM...’
‘Look,’ whispered Van, ‘c’est tout simple, shift those two syllables and you get a fortress in ancient Muscovy.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Ada, wagging her finger at the height of her temple in a way she had. ‘Oh, no. That pretty word does not exist in Russian. A Frenchman invented it. There is no second syllable.’
‘Ruth for a little child?’ interposed Van.
‘Ruthless!’ cried Ada.
‘Well,’ said Van, ‘you can always make a little cream, KREM or KREME — or even better — there’s KREMLI, which means Yukon prisons. Go through her ORHIDEYA.’
‘Through her silly orchid,’ said Lucette.
‘And now,’ said Ada, ‘Adochka is going to do something even sillier.’ And taking advantage of a cheap letter recklessly sown sometime before in the seventh compartment of the uppermost fertile row, Ada, with a deep sigh of pleasure, composed: the adjective TORFYaNUYu which went through a brown square at F and through two red squares (37 x 9 = 333 points) and got a bonus of 50 (for placing all seven blocks at one stroke) which made 383 in all, the highest score ever obtained for one word by a Russian scrambler. ‘There!’ she said, ‘Ouf! Pas facile.’ And brushing away with the rosy knuckles of her white hand the black-bronze hair from her temple, she recounted her monstrous points in a smug, melodious tone of voice like a princess narrating the poison-cup killing of a superfluous lover, while Lucette fixed Van with a mute, fuming appeal against life’s injustice — and then looking again at the board emitted a sudden howl of hope:
‘It’s a place name! One can’t use it! It’s the name of the first little station after Ladore Bridge!’
‘That’s right, pet,’ sang out Ada. ‘Oh, pet, you are so right! Yes, Torfyanaya, or as Blanche says, La Tourbière, is, indeed, the pretty but rather damp village where our Cendrillon’s family lives. But, mon petit, in our mother’s tongue — que dis-je, in the tongue of a maternal grandmother we all share — a rich beautiful tongue which my pet should not neglect for the sake of a Canadian brand of French — this quite ordinary adjective means "peaty," feminine gender, accusative case. Yes, that one coup has earned me nearly 400. Too bad — ne dotyanula (didn’t quite make it).’
‘Ne dotyanula!’ Lucette complained to Van, her nostrils flaring, her shoulders shaking with indignation. (1.36)
Zhesty (gestures) and the Kremlin are mentioned by Tolstoy in Voyna i mir ("War and Peace," 1869):
На другой день приехал государь. Несколько человек дворовых Ростовых отпросились пойти поглядеть царя. В это утро Петя долго одевался, причесывался и устроивал воротнички так, как у больших. Он хмурился перед зеркалом, делал жесты, пожимал плечами и, наконец, никому не сказавши, надел фуражку и вышел из дома с заднего крыльца, стараясь не быть замеченным. Петя решился идти прямо к тому месту, где был государь, и прямо объяснить какому-нибудь камергеру (Пете казалось, что государя всегда окружают камергеры), что он, граф Ростов, несмотря на свою молодость, желает служить отечеству, что молодость не может быть препятствием для преданности и что он готов… Петя, в то время как он собирался, приготовил много прекрасных слов, которые он скажет камергеру.
Петя рассчитывал на успех своего представления государю именно потому, что он ребенок (Петя думал даже, как все удивятся его молодости), а вместе с тем в устройстве своих воротничков, в прическе и в степенной медлительной походке он хотел представить из себя старого человека. Но чем дальше он шел, чем больше он развлекался все прибывающим и прибывающим у Кремля народом, тем больше он забывал соблюдение степенности и медлительности, свойственных взрослым людям. Подходя к Кремлю, он уже стал заботиться о том, чтобы его не затолкали, и решительно, с угрожающим видом выставил по бокам локти. Но в Троицких воротах, несмотря на всю его решительность, люди, которые, вероятно, не знали, с какой патриотической целью он шел в Кремль, так прижали его к стене, что он должен был покориться и остановиться, пока в ворота с гудящим под сводами звуком проезжали экипажи. Около Пети стояла баба с лакеем, два купца и отставной солдат. Постояв несколько времени в воротах, Петя, не дождавшись того, чтобы все экипажи проехали, прежде других хотел тронуться дальше и начал решительно работать локтями; но баба, стоявшая против него, на которую он первую направил свои локти, сердито крикнула на него:
— Что, барчук, толкаешься, видишь — все стоят. Что ж лезть-то!
— Так и все полезут, — сказал лакей и, тоже начав работать локтями, затискал Петю в вонючий угол ворот.
Петя отер руками пот, покрывавший его лицо, и поправил размочившиеся от пота воротнички, которые он так хорошо, как у больших, устроил дома.
Петя чувствовал, что он имеет непрезентабельный вид, и боялся, что ежели таким он представится камергерам, то его не допустят до государя. Но оправиться и перейти в другое место не было никакой возможности от тесноты. Один из проезжавших генералов был знакомый Ростовых. Петя хотел просить его помощи, но счел, что это было бы противно мужеству. Когда все экипажи проехали, толпа хлынула и вынесла и Петю на площадь, которая была вся занята народом. Не только по площади, но на откосах, на крышах, везде был народ. Только что Петя очутился на площади, он явственно услыхал наполнявшие весь Кремль звуки колоколов и радостного народного говора.
Next day the Emperor arrived in Moscow, and several of the Rostovs' domestic serfs begged permission to go to have a look at him. That morning Petya was a long time dressing and arranging his hair and collar to look like a grown-up man. He frowned before his looking glass, gesticulated, shrugged his shoulders, and finally, without saying a word to anyone, took his cap and left the house by the back door, trying to avoid notice. Petya decided to go straight to where the Emperor was and to explain frankly to some gentleman-in-waiting (he imagined the Emperor to be always surrounded by gentlemen-in-waiting) that he, Count Rostov, in spite of his youth wished to serve his country; that youth could be no hindrance to loyalty, and that he was ready to... While dressing, Petya had prepared many fine things he meant to say to the gentleman-in-waiting.
It was on the very fact of being so young that Petya counted for success in reaching the Emperor- he even thought how surprised everyone would be at his youthfulness- and yet in the arrangement of his collar and hair and by his sedate deliberate walk he wished to appear a grown-up man. But the farther he went and the more his attention was diverted by the ever-increasing crowds moving toward the Kremlin, the less he remembered to walk with the sedateness and deliberation of a man. As he approached the Kremlin he even began to avoid being crushed and resolutely stuck out his elbows in a menacing way. But within the Trinity Gateway he was so pressed to the wall by people who probably were unaware of the patriotic intentions with which he had come that in spite of all his determination he had to give in, and stop while carriages passed in, rumbling beneath the archway. Beside Petya stood a peasant woman, a footman, two tradesmen, and a discharged soldier. After standing some time in the gateway, Petya tried to move forward in front of the others without waiting for all the carriages to pass, and he began resolutely working his way with his elbows, but the woman just in front of him, who was the first against whom he directed his efforts, angrily shouted at him:
"What are you shoving for, young lordling? Don't you see we're all standing still? Then why push?"
"Anybody can shove," said the footman, and also began working his elbows to such effect that he pushed Petya into a very filthy corner of the gateway.
Petya wiped his perspiring face with his hands and pulled up the damp collar which he had arranged so well at home to seem like a man's.
He felt that he no longer looked presentable, and feared that if he were now to approach the gentlemen-in-waiting in that plight he would not be admitted to the Emperor. But it was impossible to smarten oneself up or move to another place, because of the crowd. One of the generals who drove past was an acquaintance of the Rostovs', and Petya thought of asking his help, but came to the conclusion that that would not be a manly thing to do. When the carriages had all passed in, the crowd, carrying Petya with it, streamed forward into the Kremlin Square which was already full of people. There were people not only in the square, but everywhere - on the slopes and on the roofs. As soon as Petya found himself in the square he clearly heard the sound of bells and the joyous voices of the crowd that filled the whole Kremlin. (Part 9, Chapter XXI)
This precedes a famous scene when Alexander I throws down biscuits from the balcony of the Kremlin palace (Tolstoy's invention, according to Prince Peter Vyazemski). When Van meets Blanche (the French handmaid at Ardis) on his first morning at Ardis, she throws the bits of baby-toed biscuit to a sparrow:
The front door proved to be bolted and chained. He tried the glassed and grilled side door of a blue-garlanded gallery; it, too, did not yield. Being still unaware that under the stairs an in conspicuous recess concealed an assortment of spare keys (some very old and anonymous, hanging from brass hooks) and communicated though a toolroom with a secluded part of the garden, Van wandered through several reception rooms in search of an obliging window. In a corner room he found, standing at a tall window, a young chambermaid whom he had glimpsed (and promised himself to investigate) on the preceding evening. She wore what his father termed with a semi-assumed leer ‘soubret black and frissonet frill’; a tortoiseshell comb in her chestnut hair caught the amber light; the French window was open, and she was holding one hand, starred with a tiny aquamarine, rather high on the jamb as she looked at a sparrow that was hopping up the paved path toward the bit of baby-toed biscuit she had thrown to him. Her cameo profile, her cute pink nostril, her long, French, lily-white neck, the outline, both full and frail, of her figure (male lust does not go very far for descriptive felicities!), and especially the savage sense of opportune license moved Van so robustly that he could not resist clasping the wrist of her raised tight-sleeved arm. Freeing it, and confirming by the coolness of her demeanor that she had sensed his approach, the girl turned her attractive, though almost eyebrowless, face toward him and asked him if he would like a cup of tea before breakfast. No. What was her name? Blanche — but Mlle Larivière called her ‘Cendrillon’ because her stockings got so easily laddered, see, and because she broke and mislaid things, and confused flowers. His loose attire revealed his desire; this could not escape a girl’s notice, even if color-blind, and as he drew up still closer, while looking over her head for a suitable couch to take shape in some part of this magical manor — where any place, as in Casanova’s remembrances could be dream-changed into a sequestered seraglio nook — she wiggled out of his reach completely and delivered a little soliloquy in her soft Ladoran French:
‘Monsieur a quinze ans, je crois, et moi, je sais, j’en ai dixneuf. Monsieur is a nobleman; I am a poor peat-digger’s daughter. Monsieur a tâté, sans doute, des filles de la ville; quant à moi, je suis vierge, ou peu s’en faut. De plus, were I to fall in love with you — I mean really in love — and I might, alas, if you possessed me rien qu’une petite fois — it would be, for me, only grief, and infernal fire, and despair, and even death, Monsieur. Finalement, I might add that I have the whites and must see le Docteur Chronique, I mean Crolique, on my next day off. Now we have to separate, the sparrow has disappeared, I see, and Monsieur Bouteillan has entered the next room, and can perceive us clearly in that mirror above the sofa behind that silk screen.’
‘Forgive me, girl,’ murmured Van, whom her strange, tragic tone had singularly put off, as if he were taking part in a play in which he was the principal actor, but of which he could only recall that one scene.
The butler’s hand in the mirror took down a decanter from nowhere and was withdrawn. Van, reknotting the cord of his robe, passed through the French window into the green reality of the garden. (1.7)