According to Ada, at Marina’s funeral Demon Veen (in VN’s novel Ada, 1969, Van’s and Ada’s father) and d’Onsky’s son, a person with only one arm, wept comme des fontaines:
‘My upper-lip space feels indecently naked.’ (He had shaved his mustache off with howls of pain in her presence). ‘And I cannot keep sucking in my belly all the time.’
‘Oh, I like you better with that nice overweight — there’s more of you. It’s the maternal gene, I suppose, because Demon grew leaner and leaner. He looked positively Quixotic when I saw him at Mother’s funeral. It was all very strange. He wore blue mourning. D’Onsky’s son, a person with only one arm, threw his remaining one around Demon and both wept comme des fontaines. Then a robed person who looked like an extra in a technicolor incarnation of Vishnu made an incomprehensible sermon. Then she went up in smoke. He said to me, sobbing: "I will not cheat the poor grubs!" Practically a couple of hours after he broke that promise we had sudden visitors at the ranch — an incredibly graceful moppet of eight, black-veiled, and a kind of duenna, also in black, with two bodyguards. The hag demanded certain fantastic sums — which Demon, she said, had not had time to pay, for "popping the hymen" — whereupon I had one of our strongest boys throw out vsyu (the entire) kompaniyu.’
‘Extraordinary,’ said Van, ‘they had been growing younger and younger — I mean the girls, not the strong silent boys. His old Rosalind had a ten-year-old niece, a primed chickabiddy. Soon he would have been poaching them from the hatching chamber.’
‘You never loved your father,’ said Ada sadly.
‘Oh, I did and do — tenderly, reverently, understandingly, because, after all, that minor poetry of the flesh is something not unfamiliar to me. But as far as we are concerned, I mean you and I, he was buried on the same day as our uncle Dan.’
‘I know, I know. It’s pitiful! And what use was it? Perhaps I oughtn’t to tell you, but his visits to Agavia kept getting rarer and shorter every year. Yes, it was pitiful to hear him and Andrey talking. I mean, Andrey n’a pas le verbe facile, though he greatly appreciated — without quite understanding it — Demon’s wild flow of fancy and fantastic fact, and would often exclaim, with his Russian "tssk-tssk" and a shake of the head — complimentary and all that — "what a balagur (wag) you are!" — And then, one day, Demon warned me that he would not come any more if he heard again poor Andrey’s poor joke (Nu i balagur-zhe vï, Dementiy Labirintovich) or what Dorothy, l’impayable ("priceless for impudence and absurdity") Dorothy, thought of my camping out in the mountains with only Mayo, a cowhand, to protect me from lions.’
‘Could one hear more about that?’ asked Van.
‘Well, nobody did. All this happened at a time when I was not on speaking terms with my husband and sister-in-law, and so could not control the situation. Anyhow, Demon did not come even when he was only two hundred miles away and simply mailed instead, from some gaming house, your lovely, lovely letter about Lucette and my picture.’
‘One would also like to know some details of the actual coverture — frequence of intercourse, pet names for secret warts, favorite smells —’
‘Platok momental’no (handkerchief quick)! Your right nostril is full of damp jade,’ said Ada, and then pointed to a lawnside circular sign, rimmed with red, saying: Chiens interdits and depicting an impossible black mongrel with a white ribbon around its neck: Why, she wondered, should the Swiss magistrates forbid one to cross highland terriers with poodles?
The last butterflies of 1905, indolent Peacocks and Red Admirables, one Queen of Spain and one Clouded Yellow, were making the most of the modest blossoms. A tram on their left passed close to the promenade, where they rested and cautiously kissed when the whine of wheels had subsided. The rails hit by the sun acquired a beautiful cobalt sheen — the reflection of noon in terms of bright metal.
‘Let’s have cheese and white wine under that pergola,’ suggested Van. ‘The Vinelanders will lunch à deux today.’ (3.8)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): comme etc.: shedding floods of tears.
N’a pas le verbe etc.: lacks the gift of the gab.
chiens etc.: dogs not allowed.
In Chekhov's play Dyadya Vanya ("Uncle Vanya," 1898) Voynitski tells Telegin: Zatkni fontan, Vaflya! ("Oh do dry up, Waffles!"; an allusion to Kozma Prutkov’s aphorism “If you have a fountain, shut it up!”):
Астров. Расскажи-ка что-нибудь, Иван Петрович.
Войницкий (вяло). Что тебе рассказать?
Астров. Нового нет ли чего?
Войницкий. Ничего. Все старо. Я тот же, что и был, пожалуй, стал хуже, так как обленился, ничего не делаю и только ворчу, как старый хрен. Моя старая галка, maman, все еще лепечет про женскую эмансипацию, одним глазом смотрит в могилу, а другим ищет в своих умных книжках зарю новой жизни.
Астров. А профессор?
Войницкий. А профессор по-прежнему от утра до глубокой ночи сидит у себя в кабинете и пишет. "Напрягши ум, наморщивши чело, всЈ оды пишем, пишем, и ни себе, ни им похвал не слышим" Бедная бумага! Он бы лучше свою автобиографию написал. Какой это превосходный сюжет! Отставной профессор, понимаешь ли, старый сухарь, ученая вобла... Подагра, ревматизм, мигрень, от ревности и зависти вспухла печенка... Живет эта вобла в имении своей первой жены, живет поневоле, потому что жить в городе ему не по карману. Вечно жалуется на свои несчастья, хотя в сущности сам необыкновенно счастлив. (Нервно.) Ты только подумай, какое счастье! Сын простого дьячка, бурсак, добился ученых степеней и кафедры, стал его превосходительством, зятем сенатора и прочее и прочее. Все это неважно, впрочем. Но ты возьми вот что. Человек ровно двадцать пять лет читает и пишет об искусстве, ровно ничего не понимая в искусстве. Двадцать пять лет он пережевывает чужие мысли о реализме, натурализме и всяком другом вздоре; двадцать пять лет читает и пишет о том, что умным давно уже известно, а для глупых неинтересно: значит, двадцать пять лет переливает из пустого в порожнее. И в то же время какое самомнение! Какие претензии! Он вышел в отставку, и его не знает ни одна живая душа, он совершенно неизвестен; значит, двадцать пять лет он занимал чужое место. А
посмотри: шагает, как полубог!
Астров. Ну, ты, кажется, завидуешь.
Войницкий. Да, завидую! А какой успех у женщин! Ни один Дон-Жуан не знал такого полного успеха! Его первая жена, моя сестра, прекрасное, кроткое создание, чистая, как вот это голубое небо, благородная, великодушная, имевшая поклонников больше, чем он учеников, - любила его так, как могут любить одни только чистые ангелы таких же чистых и прекрасных, как они сами. Моя мать, его теща, до сих пор обожает его и до сих пор он внушает ей священный ужас. Его вторая жена, красавица, умница - вы ее только что видели, - вышла за него, когда уже он был стар, отдала ему молодость, красоту, свободу, свой блеск. За что? Почему?
Астров. Она верна профессору?
Войницкий. К сожалению, да.
Астров. Почему же, к сожалению?
Войницкий. Потому что эта верность фальшива от начала до конца. В ней много риторики, но нет логики. Изменить старому мужу, которого терпеть не можешь, - это безнравственно; стараться же заглушить в себе бедную молодость и живое чувство - это не безнравственно.
Телегин (плачущим голосом). Ваня, я не люблю, когда ты это говоришь. Ну, вот, право... Кто изменяет жене или мужу, тот, значит, неверный человек, тот может изменить и отечеству!
Войницкий (с досадой). Заткни фонтан, Вафля!
Телегин. Позволь, Ваня. Жена моя бежала от меня на другой день после свадьбы с любимым человеком по причине моей непривлекательной наружности. После того я своего долга не нарушал. Я до сих пор ее люблю и верен ей, помогаю чем могу и отдал свое имущество на воспитание деточек, которых она прижила с любимым человеком. Счастья я лишился, но у меня осталась гордость. А она? Молодость уже прошла, красота под влиянием законов природы поблекла, любимый человек скончался... Что же у нее осталось?
ASTROV Tell us something then, Ivan Petrovich.
UNCLE VANYA (Lazily) What can I tell you?
ASTROV Hasn’t anything new happened?
UNCLE VANYA Nothing. It’s all the same old stuff. I’m just the same as I was, or perhaps I’ve got worse, since I’ve turned lazy, I do nothing, I only sit around grumbling like an old fogey. My old jackdaw, maman, still mumbles on about women’s emancipation. With one eye she’s staring in the grave, with the other she’s seeking the dawn of a new life somewhere in her academic journals.
ASTROV And the professor?
UNCLE VANYA Well the professor as before from morning till the depth of night sits in his study and writes. “With straining mind, with wrinkled brow, we write our odes, and never hear a word of praise for them or for our genius.” The poor paper! He’d do better to write his autobiography. What an excellent subject that would be! A retired professor, you understand, a dried out rusk, a learned old trout... Gout, rheumatism, migraine, from jealousy and envy his liver is inflamed... This old roach has come to live on the estate of his first wife, he lives here under protest, because he can’t afford any more to live in the capital. He moans continuously about his bad luck, although, in reality, he’s been unbelievably fortunate. (Excitedly.) You just think, incredible good fortune. The son of a simple deacon, a theology student, he reaches the highest academic levels, gets a university chair, becomes your excellency, then a senator and so on and so on. All of that is unimportant of course. But you just consider this. A man sits in his chair for a whole twenty five years reading and writing about art although he understands absolutely nothing about art. For twenty five years he chews over other people’s thoughts about realism, naturalism and all sorts of other nonsense; for twenty five years he reads and writes about things that intelligent people already know, and for thickos it’s of no interest; evidently then, for twenty five years he has been pouring water from one vessel into another and back again. And in all that time what an exalted ego! What pretentiousness! He retired and not one living soul was aware of him, he was entirely unknown: evidently, for twenty five years he had just occupied empty space. But just look at him – he parades around as if he were a demi-god!
ASTROV So it seems you are jealous of him.
UNCLE VANYA Yes, I am jealous! And look at his success with women! Not even Don Juan had such success. His first wife, my sister, a beautiful creature, pure like this sky above us, noble, high minded, having more admirers than he had pupils, - she loved him as only the purest angels can love those who are as beautiful and pure as themselves. My mother, his mother –in-law, still worships him, and he still inspires in her a sort of holy dread. His second wife, a great beauty and so intelligent – you have just seen her – married him when he was already old, she sacrificed to him her youth, her beauty, her freedom, her radiance. For what? Why did she do it?
ASTROV Is she faithful?
UNCLE VANYA Unfortunately, yes.
ASTROV Why unfortunately?
UNCLE VANYA Because that faithfulness is false from beginning to end. There’s a lot of posturing in it, but no reason. To betray an old husband whom you can’t endure – that is considered immoral; but to struggle to stifle in oneself one’s wretched youth and vital feelings – that is not thought to be immoral.
TELYEGIN (In a tearful voice.) Vanya, I don’t like it when you talk like that. Well, look, really... Anyone who betrays either a wife or husband, that person is untrustworthy and could easily betray their country!
UNCLE VANYA (irritated.) Oh do dry up Waffles!
TELYEGIN Permit me to speak,Vanya. My wife ran away from me on the day we were married, with her lover, and because of my unprepossessing appearance. But even so, I did not neglect my duty. I still love her and I am still faithful to her, I help her out as best I can, and I sold my estate to help with the education of the children she had with her lover. I deprived myself of happiness, but I am still left with my pride. And as for her? Her youth has already gone, her beauty under the influence of the laws of nature has faded, the man she loved has died... What is left to her? (Act One)
At the end of Chekhov’s play Sonya promises to Uncle Vanya that they will see vsyo nebo v almazakh (the whole sky swarming with diamonds). On Van’s first night in “Ardis the Second” Ada quotes Sonya’s words and calls Van “Uncle Van:”
They stayed on and on, quite unable to part, knowing any explanation would do if anybody wondered why their rooms had remained empty till dawn. The first ray of the morning dabbed a toolbox with fresh green paint, when, at last moved by hunger, they got up and quietly repaired to the pantry.
‘Chto, vïspalsya, Vahn (well, slept your fill, Van)? said Ada, beautifully mimicking her mother’s voice, and she continued in her mother’s English: ‘By your appetite, I judge. And, I think, it is only the first brekfest.’
‘Okh,’ grumbled Van, ‘my kneecaps! That bench was cruel. And I am hongry.’
They sat, facing each other, at a breakfast table, munching black bread with fresh butter, and Virginia ham, and slices of genuine Emmenthaler cheese — and here’s a pot of transparent honey: two cheerful cousins, ‘raiding the icebox’ as children in old fairy tales, and the thrushes were sweetly whistling in the bright-green garden as the dark-green shadows drew in their claws.
‘My teacher,’ she said, ‘at the Drama School thinks I’m better in farces than in tragedy. If they only knew!’
‘There is nothing to know,’ retorted Van. ‘Nothing, nothing has changed! But that’s the general impression, it was too dim down there for details, we’ll examine them tomorrow on our little island: "My sister, do you still recall..."’
‘Oh shut up!’ said Ada. ‘I’ve given up all that stuff — petits vers, vers de soie...’
‘Come, come,’ cried Van, ‘some of the rhymes were magnificent arcrobatics on the part of the child’s mind: "Oh! qui me rendra, ma Lucile, et le grand chêne and zee big hill." Little Lucile,’ he added in an effort to dissipate her frowns with a joke, ‘little Lucile has become so peachy that I think I’ll switch over to her if you keep losing your temper like that. I remember the first time you got cross with me was when I chucked a stone at a statue and frightened a finch. That’s memory!’
She was on bad terms with memory. She thought the servants would be up soon now, and then one could have something hot. That fridge was all fudge, really.
‘Why, suddenly sad?’
Yes, she was sad, she replied, she was in dreadful trouble, her quandary might drive her insane if she did not know that her heart was pure. She could explain it best by a parable. She was like the girl in a film he would see soon, who is in the triple throes of a tragedy which she must conceal lest she lose her only true love, the head of the arrow, the point of the pain. In secret, she is simultaneously struggling with three torments — trying to get rid of a dreary dragging affair with a married man, whom she pities; trying to nip in the bud — in the sticky red bud — a crazy adventure with an attractive young fool, whom she pities even more; and trying to keep intact the love of the only man who is all her life and who is above pity, above the poverty of her feminine pity, because as the script says, his ego is richer and prouder than anything those two poor worms could imagine.
What had she actually done with the poor worms, after Krolik’s untimely end?
‘Oh, set them free’ (big vague gesture), ‘turned them out, put them back onto suitable plants, buried them in the pupal state, told them to run along, while the birds were not looking — or alas, feigning not to be looking.
‘Well, to mop up that parable, because you have the knack of interrupting and diverting my thoughts, I’m in a sense also torn between three private tortures, the main torture being ambition, of course. I know I shall never be a biologist, my passion for creeping creatures is great, but not all-consuming. I know I shall always adore orchids and mushrooms and violets, and you will still see me going out alone, to wander alone in the woods and return alone with a little lone lily; but flowers, no matter how irresistible, must be given up, too, as soon as I have the strength. Remains the great ambition and the greatest terror: the dream of the bluest, remotest, hardest dramatic climbs — probably ending as one of a hundred old spider spinsters, teaching drama students, knowing, that, as you insist, sinister insister, we can’t marry, and having always before me the awful example of pathetic, second-rate, brave Marina.’
‘Well, that bit about spinsters is rot,’ said Van, ‘we’ll pull it off somehow, we’ll become more and more distant relations in artistically forged papers and finally dwindle to mere namesakes, or at the worst we shall live quietly, you as my housekeeper, I as your epileptic, and then, as in your Chekhov, "we shall see the whole sky swarm with diamonds."’
‘Did you find them all, Uncle Van?’ she inquired, sighing, laying her dolent head on his shoulder. She had told him everything.
‘More or less,’ he replied, not realizing she had. ‘Anyway, I made the best study of the dustiest floor ever accomplished by a romantic character. One bright little bugger rolled under the bed where there grows a virgin forest of fluff and fungi. I’ll have them reassembled in Ladore when I motor there one of these days. I have lots of things to buy — a gorgeous bathrobe in honor of your new swimming pool, a cream called Chrysanthemum, a brace of dueling pistols, a folding beach mattress, preferably black — to bring you out not on the beach but on that bench, and on our isle de Ladore.’
‘Except,’ she said, ‘that I do not approve of your making a laughingstock of yourself by looking for pistols in souvenir shops, especially when Ardis Hall is full of old shotguns and rifles, and revolvers, and bows and arrows — you remember, we had lots of practice with them when you and I were children.’
Oh, he did, he did. Children, yes. In point of fact, how puzzling to keep seeing that recent past in nursery terms. Because nothing had changed — you are with me, aren’t you? — nothing, not counting little improvements in the grounds and the governess. (1.31)
Darkbloom ('Notes to Ada'): Uncle Van: allusion to a line in Chekhov’s play Uncle Vanya: We shall see the sky swarming with diamonds.
At the beginning of Chekhov’s play Dr Astrov asks Uncle Vanya if he slept his fill:
Войницкий (выходит из дому, он выспался после завтрака и имеет помятый вид; садится на скамью, поправляет свой щегольский галстук).
Да...
Пауза.
Да...
Астров. Выспался? Войницкий. Да... Очень. (Зевает.) С тех пор, как здесь живет профессор со своею супругой, жизнь выбилась из колец... Сплю не вовремя, за завтраком и обедом ем разные кабули, пью вина... нездорово все это! Прежде минутны свободной не было, я и Соня работали - мое почтение, а теперь работает одна Соня, а я сплю, ем, пью... Нехорошо!
Марина (покачав головой). Порядки! Профессор встает в 12 часов, а самовар кипит с утра, все его дожидается. Без них обедали всегда в первом часу, как везде у людей, а при них в седьмом. Ночью профессор читает и пишет, и вдруг часу во втором звонок... Что такое, батюшка? Чаю! Буди для него народ, ставь самовар... Порядки!
UNCLE VANYA (He comes out of the house. He has had a long sleep after lunch and has a crumpled appearance. He sits on a bench and adjusts his fashionable tie.) Yes... (A pause.) Yes...
ASTROV Had a good sleep?
UNCLE VANYA Yes... Very much so. (He yawns.) Since the professor has been living here with his wife, life has just gone off the rails... I sleep at the wrong time, I eat all sorts of strange exotic foods for lunch and dinner, I drink wine... It’s all so unhealthy! We used never to have a free minute, Sonya and I worked all the time – and now, heavens above, only Sonya works, and I sleep, eat, drink... It’s so healthy!
Marina (shaking her head.) There’s no sense of order! The professor gets up at eleven, the samovar has been boiling since the morning, everything is kept for him. Before they came here we used to dine at one, as everyone does, but with them it’s at seven. At night the professor reads and writes and suddenly, at two in the morning, he rings the bell. What is it? Holy Fathers! Some tea. Wake up the maid for him, bring in the samovar... What’s it all coming to? (Act One)
A little later Dr Astrov says that he will stay until tomorrow and sleep his fill, quantum satis:
Астров (Елене Андреевне). Я ведь к вашему мужу. Вы писали, что он очень болен, ревматизм и еще что-то, а оказывается, он здоровехонек.
Елена Андреевна. Вчера вечером он хандрил, жаловался на боли в ногах, а сегодня ничего...
Астров. А я-то сломя голову скакал тридцать верст. Ну, да ничего, не впервой. Зато уж останусь у вас до завтра и, по крайней мере, высплюсь quantum satis.
Соня. И прекрасно. Это такая редкость, что вы у нас ночуете. Вы, небось, не обедали?
Астров. Нет-с, не обедал.
Соня. Так вот кстати и пообедаете. Мы теперь обедаем в седьмом часу. (Пьёт.) Холодный чай!
Телегин. В самоваре уже значительно понизилась температура.
Елена Андреевна. Ничего, Иван Иваныч, мы и холодный выпьем.
Телегин. Виноват-с... Не Иван Иваныч, а Илья Ильич-с... Илья Ильич Телегин, или, как некоторые зовут меня по причине моего рябого лица, Вафля. Я когда-то крестил Сонечку, и его превосходительство, ваш супруг, знает меня очень хорошо. Я теперь у вас живу-с, в этом имении-с... Если изволили заметить, я каждый день с вами обедаю.
Соня. Илья Ильич наш помощник, правая рука. (Нежно.) Давайте, крёстненький, я вам еще налью.
ASTROV (to Elena Andreyena.) I came to see your husband. You wrote that he was very ill, rheumatism and whatever, but it turns out he’s as sprightly as a chicken.
ELENA ANDREYEVNA Yesterday evening he was very low, he complained of pains in his legs, but today it’s all gone...
ASTROV And I of course came here breaking my neck a full fifteen miles. Ah well, it’s nothing, it’s not the first time. At least I can stay here until tomorrow and sleep my fill, quantum satis.
SONYA Oh excellent! It’s so rare that you spend the night with us. I don’t suppose you’ve eaten.
ASTROV No Miss, I haven’t eaten.
SONYA Well that fits in nicely, you can dine with us. We have dinner at seven now. (She drinks.) This tea is cold!
TELEGIN Yes, in the samovar the temperature has dropped significantly.
ELENA ANDREYEVNA It doesn’t matter, Ivan Ivanych, we’ll drink it cold.
TELEGIN I beg pardon ma’am, it’s not Ivan Ivanych, it’s Ilya Ilyich... Ilya Ilyich Telegin, or as some people call me because of my pock marked face, Waffle. I was Sonya’s godfather, and his excellency, your husband, knows me very well. I live now in this house ma’am... Perhaps you might notice that I dine with you each evening.
SONYA Ilya Ilyich – our indispensable assistant, our right hand man. (Tenderly.) Here, dear godfather, let me pour you some more tea. (ibid.)
At the end of his poem Vozmezdie ("Retribution," 1910-21) Alexander Blok mentions quantum satis Branda voli (quantum satis of strong-willed Brand):
Ты всё благословишь тогда,
Поняв, что жизнь - безмерно боле,
Чем quantum satis Бранда воли,
А мир - прекрасен, как всегда.
Then everything you'll highly bless
You'll see that life is much greater
Than quantum satis of strong-willed Brand
And the world is beautiful as always. (chapter III)
In Chapter Three of his poem Blok mentions Vrubel, the author of The Demon Seated and The Demon Downcast. Describing his meetings with Ada (now married to Andrey Vinelander) in the fall of 1905 (soon after Demon's death) in Mont Roux, Van mentions Vrubel's wonderful picture of Father:
Ardis, Manhattan, Mont Roux, our little rousse is dead. Vrubel’s wonderful picture of Father, those demented diamonds staring at me, painted into me. (3.8)
In Chekhov's play Nanny and Dr Astrov call Serebryakov (Elena Andreyevna’s husband) “Professor.” In a letter to Van Ada (now married to Andrey Vinelander) and her husband call Van “dear Professor:”
He greeted the dawn of a placid and prosperous century (more than half of which Ada and I have now seen) with the beginning of his second philosophic fable, a ‘denunciation of space’ (never to be completed, but forming in rear vision, a preface to his Texture of Time). Part of that treatise, a rather mannered affair, but nasty and sound, appeared in the first issue (January, 1904) of a now famous American monthly, The Artisan, and a comment on the excerpt is preserved in one of the tragically formal letters (all destroyed save this one) that his sister sent him by public post now and then. Somehow, after the interchange occasioned by Lucette’s death such nonclandestine correspondence had been established with the tacit sanction of Demon:
And o’er the summits of the Tacit
He, banned from Paradise, flew on:
Beneath him, like a brilliant’s facet,
Mount Peck with snows eternal shone.
It would seem indeed that continued ignorance of each other’s existence might have looked more suspicious than the following sort of note:
Agavia Ranch
February 5, 1905
I have just read Reflections in Sidra, by Ivan Veen, and I regard it as a grand piece, dear Professor. The ‘lost shafts of destiny’ and other poetical touches reminded me of the two or three times you had tea and muffins at our place in the country about twenty years ago. I was, you remember (presumptuous phrase!), a petite fille modèle practicing archery near a vase and a parapet and you were a shy schoolboy (with whom, as my mother guessed, I may have been a wee bit in love!), who dutifully picked up the arrows I lost in the lost shrubbery of the lost castle of poor Lucette’s and happy, happy Adette’s childhood, now a ‘Home for Blind Blacks’ — both my mother and L., I’m sure, would have backed Dasha’s advice to turn it over to her Sect. Dasha, my sister-in-law (you must meet her soon, yes, yes, yes, she’s dreamy and lovely, and lots more intelligent than I), who showed me your piece, asks me to add she hopes to ‘renew’ your acquaintance — maybe in Switzerland, at the Bellevue in Mont Roux, in October. I think you once met pretty Miss ‘Kim’ Blackrent, well, that’s exactly dear Dasha’s type. She is very good at perceiving and pursuing originality and all kinds of studies which I can’t even name! She finished Chose (where she read History — our Lucette used to call it ‘Sale Histoire,’ so sad and funny!). For her you’re le beau ténébreux, because once upon a time, once upon libellula wings, not long before my marriage, she attended — I mean at that time, I’m stuck in my ‘turnstyle’ — one of your public lectures on dreams, after which she went up to you with her latest little nightmare all typed out and neatly clipped together, and you scowled darkly and refused to take it. Well, she’s been after Uncle Dementiy to have him admonish le beau ténébreux to come to Mont Roux Bellevue Hotel, in October, around the seventeenth, I guess, and he only laughs and says it’s up to Dashenka and me to arrange matters.
So ‘congs’ again, dear Ivan! You are, we both think, a marvelous, inimitable artist who should also ‘only laugh,’ if cretinic critics, especially lower-upper-middle-class Englishmen, accuse his turnstyle of being ‘coy’ and ‘arch,’ much as an American farmer finds the parson ‘peculiar’ because he knows Greek.
P.S.
Dushevno klanyayus’ (‘am souledly bowing’, an incorrect and vulgar construction evoking the image of a ‘bowing soul’) nashemu zaochno dorogomu professoru (‘to our "unsight-unseen" dear professor’), o kotorom mnogo slïshal (about whom have heard much) ot dobrago Dementiya Dedalovicha i sestritsï (from good Demon and my sister).
S uvazheniem (with respect),
Andrey Vaynlender (3.7)
A month later Demon perishes in a mysterious airplane disaster above the Pacific:
Furnished Space, l’espace meublé (known to us only as furnished and full even if its contents be ‘absence of substance’ — which seats the mind, too), is mostly watery so far as this globe is concerned. In that form it destroyed Lucette. Another variety, more or less atmospheric, but no less gravitational and loathsome, destroyed Demon.
Idly, one March morning, 1905, on the terrace of Villa Armina, where he sat on a rug, surrounded by four or five lazy nudes, like a sultan, Van opened an American daily paper published in Nice. In the fourth or fifth worst airplane disaster of the young century, a gigantic flying machine had inexplicably disintegrated at fifteen thousand feet above the Pacific between Lisiansky and Laysanov Islands in the Gavaille region. A list of ‘leading figures’ dead in the explosion comprised the advertising manager of a department store, the acting foreman in the sheet-metal division of a facsimile corporation, a recording firm executive, the senior partner of a law firm, an architect with heavy aviation background (a first misprint here, impossible to straighten out), the vice president of an insurance corporation, another vice president, this time of a board of adjustment whatever that might be —
‘I’m hongree,’ said a maussade Lebanese beauty of fifteen sultry summers.
‘Use bell,’ said Van, continuing in a state of odd fascination to go through the compilation of labeled lives:
— the president of a wholesale liquor-distributing firm, the manager of a turbine equipment company, a pencil manufacturer, two professors of philosophy, two newspaper reporters (with nothing more to report), the assistant controller of a wholesome liquor distribution bank (misprinted and misplaced), the assistant controller of a trust company, a president, the secretary of a printing agency —
The names of those big shots, as well as those of some eighty other men, women, and silent children who perished in blue air, were being withheld until all relatives had been reached; but the tabulatory preview of commonplace abstractions had been thought to be too imposing not to be given at once as an appetizer; and only on the following morning did Van learn that a bank president lost in the closing garble was his father.
‘The lost shafts of every man’s destiny remain scattered all around him,’ etc. (Reflections in Sidra). (ibid.)
Van does not realize that his father died, because Ada (who could not pardon Demon his forcing Van to give her up) managed to persuade the pilot to destroy his machine in midair. Also, Ada would be afraid that Demon might tell Van that she and Andrey have a couple of children (who were born after Lucette’s suicide in June, 1901, and before Demon’s death in March, 1905).