Describing his life with Ada in his old age, Van Veen (the narrator and main character in VN’s novel Ada, 1969) mentions his old valet, Stepan Nootkin:
I, Van Veen, salute you, life, Ada Veen, Dr Lagosse, Stepan Nootkin, Violet Knox, Ronald Oranger. Today is my ninety-seventh birthday, and I hear from my wonderful new Everyrest chair a spade scrape and footsteps in the snow-sparkling garden, and my old Russian valet, who is deafer than he thinks, pullout and push in nose-ringed drawers in the dressing room. This Part Five is not meant as an epilogue; it is the true introduction of my ninety-seven percent true, and three percent likely, Ada or Ardor, a family chronicle. (5.1)
In Gogol's play Zhenit'ba (“The Marriage,” 1835) Stepan is Podkolyosin's valet. Nootka Island is an island adjacent to Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada. On the other hand, the surname of old Van's old Russian valet brings to mind the words of Famusov at the end of his famous monologue in Griboedov's play Gore ot uma (“Woe from Wit,” 1824):
Vy, nyneshnie – nu-tka!
You, the present-day men, come on! (Act Two, scene 2)
Stepan is "deafer than he thinks." The characters in “Woe from Wit” include Prince Tugoukhovski, his wife and their six daughters. A comedy name, Tugoukhovski comes from the phrase tugoy na ukho (hard of hearing). Old Prince Tugoukhovski is deaf.
At the end of his last monologue Chatski (the main character in “Woe from Wits”) mentions ugolok (diminutive of ugol, corner):
Бегу, не оглянусь, пойду искать по свету,
Где оскорблённому есть чувству уголок! -
Карету мне, карету!
I run away, without looking back. I shall go looking for a place in the world
where there is a corner for the insulted feeling!
A carriage for me, a carriage!
As she speaks to Van, Marina (Van's, Ada's and Lucette's mother) quotes the words of Chatski who uses the phrase v ugolke (in a corner) as he speaks to Sophie (Famusov’s daughter):
'A propos de coins: in Griboedov's Gore ot uma, "How stupid to be so clever," a play in verse, written, I think, in Pushkin's time, the hero reminds Sophie of their childhood games, and says:
How oft we sat together in a corner
And what harm might there be in that?
but in Russian it is a little ambiguous, have another spot, Van?' (he shook his head, simultaneously lifting his hand, like his father), 'because, you see, - no, there is none left anyway - the second line, i kazhetsya chto v etom, can be also construed as "And in that one, meseems," pointing with his finger at a corner of the room. Imagine — when I was rehearsing that scene with Kachalov at the Seagull Theater, in Yukonsk, Stanislavski, Konstantin Sergeevich, actually wanted him to make that cosy little gesture (uyutnen’kiy zhest).' (1.37)
Ugolkom (Instr. of ugolok) is the last word in Dmitriev’s fable Repeynik i fialka (“The Burdock and The Violet,” 1824) quoted by Hodasevich in his essay Dmitriev (1937) as a good sample of Dmitriev's poetry:
РЕПЕЙНИК И ФИАЛКА
Между репейником и розовым кустом
Фиялочка себя от зависти скрывала;
Безвестною была, но горести не знала:
Тот счастлив, кто своим доволен уголком.
Between a burdock and a rose bush
the little violet hid herself from envy;
she was obscure, but knew no grief:
happy is he who is pleased with his corner.
Dmitriev’s Fiyalochka (the little violet) brings to mind Fialochka, as Ada calls Violet Knox, old Van’s typist who marries Ronald Oranger (old Van’s secretary) after Van’s and Ada’s death:
Violet Knox [now Mrs Ronald Oranger. Ed.], born in 1940, came to live with us in 1957. She was (and still is — ten years later) an enchanting English blonde with doll eyes, a velvet carnation and a tweed-cupped little rump […..]; but such designs, alas, could no longer flesh my fancy. She has been responsible for typing out this memoir — the solace of what are, no doubt, my last ten years of existence. A good daughter, an even better sister, and half-sister, she had supported for ten years her mother’s children from two marriages, besides laying aside [something]. I paid her [generously] per month, well realizing the need to ensure unembarrassed silence on the part of a puzzled and dutiful maiden. Ada called her ‘Fialochka’ and allowed herself the luxury of admiring ‘little Violet’ ‘s cameo neck, pink nostrils, and fair pony-tail. Sometimes, at dinner, lingering over the liqueurs, my Ada would consider my typist (a great lover of Koo-Ahn-Trow) with a dreamy gaze, and then, quick-quick, peck at her flushed cheek. The situation might have been considerably more complicated had it arisen twenty years earlier. (5.4)
The situation is much more complicated than Van suspects, because Ronald Oranger and Violet Knox seem to be Ada’s grandchildren. The characters in “Woe from Wit” include grafinya babushka (Countess, the Grandmother) and grafinya vnuchka (Countess, the Granddaughter). Putting down next week’s plan, Famusov mentions vnuchata (the grandchildren) that the late Kuzma Petrovich married off:
Покойник был почтенный камергер,
С ключом, и сыну ключ умел доставить;
Богат, и на богатой был женат;
Переженил детей, внучат;
Скончался; все о нем прискорбно поминают.
Кузьма Петрович! Мир ему! -
Что за тузы в Москве живут и умирают! -
Пиши: в четверг, одно уж к одному,
А может в пятницу, а может и в субботу,
Я должен у вдовы, у докторши, крестить.
Она не родила, но по расчёту
По моему: должна родить...
The one who'll leave blessed memory behind,
A noble chamberlain the late man was,
He had the key and let his son have one.
He took a wealthy woman, being a wealthy man
And married off his children and grandchildren,
People are mourning now that he has passed away
Kuzma Petrovich! May he rest with peace!
There are bigwigs in Moscow, I should say!
Write down: Thursday, on top of this,
Or perhaps on Friday, or on Saturday,
I must attend a christening day.
The widow hasn't given birth as yet
Though she may, any day, by my reckoning. (Act Two, scene 1)
At the family dinner in “Ardis the Second” Demon Veen (Van’s and Ada’s father) quotes Famusov’s words po razschyotu po moemu (by my reckoning):
‘By the way, Demon,’ interrupted Marina, ‘where and how can I obtain the kind of old roomy limousine with an old professional chauffeur that Praskovia, for instance, has had for years?’
‘Impossible, my dear, they are all in heaven or on Terra. But what would Ada like, what would my silent love like for her birthday? It’s next Saturday, po razschyotu po moemu (by my reckoning), isn’t it? Une rivière de diamants?’
‘Protestuyu!’ cried Marina. ‘Yes, I’m speaking seriozno. I object to your giving her kvaka sesva (quoi que ce soit), Dan and I will take care of all that.’
‘Besides you’ll forget,’ said Ada laughing, and very deftly showed the tip of her tongue to Van who had been on the lookout for her conditional reaction to ‘diamonds.’ (1.38)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): po razschyotu po moemu: an allusion to Famusov (in Griboedov’s Gore ot uma), calculating the pregnancy of a lady friend.
protestuyu: Russ., I protest.
seriozno: Russ., seriously.
quoi que ce soit: whatever it might be.
Kvaka sesva brings to mind Sekvana (Sequana, the Latin name of the Seine, in Russian spelling), as in his epistle to Vasiliy Pushkin, V. L. Pushkinu na prebyvanie v Kostrome (“To V. L. Pushkin on his Stay in Kostroma,” 1805), Khvostov calls the Seine (a river that flows through Paris):
Секваны, Темзы удаленный,
Средь Норда муз не отчужденный,
На Волге любишь с ними быть,
Где хитрыми они руками
Военны лавры с их цветами
В один венок могли вместить.
In his epigram Khvostova vnuk, o drug moy dorogoy… (“A grandson of Khvostov, oh my dear friend…”) written at the end of the 1920s Hodasevich says that his young friend ploughs poetry, kak mukha na rogakh (like a fly on its two forelegs):
Хвостова внук, о друг мой дорогой,
Как муха на рогах, поэзию ты пашешь:
Ты в вечности уже стоишь одной ногой, —
Тремя другими — в воздухе ты машешь.
Mukha na rogakh brings to mind Ada's play on Serromyia (the famous fly):
He heard Ada Vinelander’s voice calling for her Glass bed slippers (which, as in Cordulenka’s princessdom too, he found hard to distinguish from dance footwear), and a minute later, without the least interruption in the established tension, Van found himself, in a drunken dream, making violent love to Rose — no, to Ada, but in the rosacean fashion, on a kind of lowboy. She complained he hurt her ‘like a Tiger Turk.’ He went to bed and was about to doze off for good when she left his side. Where was she going? Pet wanted to see the album.
‘I’ll be back in a rubby,’ she said (tribadic schoolgirl slang), ‘so keep awake. From now on by the way, it’s going to be Chère-amie-fait-morata’ — (play on the generic and specific names of the famous fly) — ‘until further notice.’
‘But no sapphic vorschmacks,’ mumbled Van into his pillow. (2.8)
In his obituary essay O Khodaseviche (“On Hodasevich,” 1939) VN says that samye purs sanglots (the most purs sanglots) require a perfect knowledge of prosody, language, verbal equipoise:
Говорить о "мастерстве" Ходасевича бессмысленно и даже кощунственно по отношению к поэзии вообще, к его стихам в резкой частности; понятие "мастерство", само собой рожая свои кавычки, обращаясь в придаток, в тень, и требуя логической компенсации в виде любой положительной величины, легко доводит нас до того особого задушевного отношения к поэзии, при котором от неё самой, в конце концов, остается лишь мокрое от слёз место. И не потому это грешно, что самые purs sanglots всё же нуждаются в совершенном знании правил стихосложения, языка, равновесия слов; и смешно это не потому, что поэт, намекающий в стихах неряшливых на ничтожество искусства перед человеческим страданием, занимается жеманным притворством, вроде того, как если бы гробовых дел мастер сетовал на скоротечность земной жизни; размолвка в сознании между выделкой и вещью потому так смешна и грязна, что она подрывает самую сущность того, что, как его ни зови -- "искусство", "поэзия", "прекрасное",-- в действительности неотделимо от всех своих таинственно необходимых свойств.
To speak of his masterstvo, Meisterschaft, «mastery», i.e. «technique», would be meaningless and even blasphemous in relation to poetry in general, and to his own verse in a sharply specific sense, since the notion of «mastery», which automatically supplies its own quotation marks, turns thereby into an appendage, a shadow demanding logical compensation in the guise of any positive quantity, and this easily brings us to that peculiar, soulful attitude toward poetry in result of which nothing remains of squashed art but a damp spot or tear stain. This is condemnable not because even the most purs sanglots require a perfect knowledge of prosody, language, verbal equipoise; and this is also absurd not because the poetaster intimating in slatternly verse that art dwindles to nought in the face of human suffering is indulging in coy deceit (comparable, say, to an undertaker's murmuring against human life because of its brevity); no: the split perceived by the brain between the thing and its fashioning is condemnable and absurd because it vitiates the essence of what actually (whatever you call the thing — «art», «poetry», «beauty») is inseparable from all its mysteriously indispensable properties.
According to Van, the purest sanglot in Ada is in its last chapter:
Actually the question of mortal precedence has now hardly any importance. I mean, the hero and heroine should get so close to each other by the time the horror begins, so organically close, that they overlap, intergrade, interache, and even if Vaniada’s end is described in the epilogue we, writers and readers, should be unable to make out (myopic, myopic) who exactly survives, Dava or Vada, Anda or Vanda.
I had a schoolmate called Vanda. And I knew a girl called Adora, little thing in my last floramor. What makes me see that bit as the purest sanglot in the book? What is the worst part of dying? (5.6)
In his poem La nuit de mai (“The May Night,” 1835) translated into Russian by VN as Mayskaya noch’ (1927) Alfred de Musset mentions purs sanglots:
Les plus désespérés sont les chants les plus beaux,
Et j'en sais d'immortels qui sont de purs sanglots.
Musset and Coppée are the favorite poets of Mlle Larivière (Lucette's governess):
‘By chance, this very morning,’ said Ada, not deigning to enlighten her mother, ‘our learned governess, who was also yours, Van, and who —’
(First time she pronounced it — at that botanical lesson!)
‘— is pretty hard on English-speaking transmongrelizers — monkeys called "ursine howlers" — though I suspect her reasons are more chauvinistic than artistic and moral — drew my attention — my wavering attention — to some really gorgeous bloomers, as you call them, Van, in a Mr Fowlie’s soi-disant literal version — called "sensitive" in a recent Elsian rave — sensitive! — of Mémoire, a poem by Rimbaud (which she fortunately — and farsightedly — made me learn by heart, though I suspect she prefers Musset and Coppée)’ —
‘…les robes vertes et déteintes des fillettes…’ quoted Van triumphantly.
‘Egg-zactly’ (mimicking Dan). ‘Well, Larivière allows me to read him only in the Feuilletin anthology, the same you have apparently, but I shall obtain his oeuvres complètes very soon, oh very soon, much sooner than anybody thinks. Incidentally, she will come down after tucking in Lucette, our darling copperhead who by now should be in her green nightgown —’
‘Angel moy,’ pleaded Marina, ‘I’m sure Van cannot be interested in Lucette’s nightdress!’
‘— the nuance of willows, and counting the little sheep on her ciel de lit which Fowlie turns into "the sky’s bed" instead of "bed ceiler." But, to go back to our poor flower. The forged louis d’or in that collection of fouled French is the transformation of souci d’eau (our marsh marigold) into the asinine "care of the water" — although he had at his disposal dozens of synonyms, such as mollyblob, marybud, maybubble, and many other nick-names associated with fertility feasts, whatever those are.’
‘On the other hand,’ said Van, ‘one can well imagine a similarly bilingual Miss Rivers checking a French version of, say, Marvell’s Garden —’
‘Oh,’ cried Ada, ‘I can recite "Le jardin" in my own transversion — let me see —
En vain on s’amuse à gagner
L’Oka, la Baie du Palmier...’
‘…to win the Palm, the Oke, or Bayes!’ shouted Van.
‘You know, children,’ interrupted Marina resolutely with calming gestures of both hands, ‘when I was your age, Ada, and my brother was your age, Van, we talked about croquet, and ponies, and puppies, and the last fête-d’enfants, and the next picnic, and — oh, millions of nice normal things, but never, never of old French botanists and God knows what!’
‘But you just said you collected flowers?’ said Ada.
‘Oh, just one season, somewhere in Switzerland. I don’t remember when. It does not matter now.’
The reference was to Ivan Durmanov: he had died of lung cancer years ago in a sanatorium (not far from Ex, somewhere in Switzerland, where Van was born eight years later). Marina often mentioned Ivan who had been a famous violinist at eighteen, but without any special show of emotion, so that Ada now noted with surprise that her mother’s heavy make-up had started to thaw under a sudden flood of tears (maybe some allergy to flat dry old flowers, an attack of hay fever, or gentianitis, as a slightly later diagnosis might have shown retrospectively). She blew her nose, with the sound of an elephant, as she said herself — and here Mlle Larivière came down for coffee and recollections of Van as a bambin angélique who adored à neuf ans — the precious dear! — Gilberte Swann et la Lesbie de Catulle (and who had learned, all by himself, to release the adoration as soon as the kerosene lamp had left the mobile bedroom in his black nurse’s fist). (1.10)
On the morning after the Night of the Burning Barn (when Van and Ada make love for the first time) Ada shows to Van a draft of her translation of a poem by Coppée:
After she too had finished breakfasting, he waylaid her, gorged with sweet butter, on the landing. They had one moment to plan things, it was all, historically speaking, at the dawn of the novel which was still in the hands of parsonage ladies and French academicians, so such moments were precious. She stood scratching one raised knee. They agreed to go for a walk before lunch and find a secluded place. She had to finish a translation for Mlle Larivière. She showed him her draft. François Coppée? Yes.
Their fall is gentle. The woodchopper
Can tell, before they reach the mud,
The oak tree by its leaf of copper,
The maple by its leaf of blood.
‘Leur chute est lente,’ said Van, ‘on peut les suivre du regard en reconnaissant — that paraphrastic touch of "chopper" and "mud" is, of course, pure Lowden (minor poet and translator, 1815–1895). Betraying the first half of the stanza to save the second is rather like that Russian nobleman who chucked his coachman to the wolves, and then fell out of his sleigh.’
‘I think you are very cruel and stupid,’ said Ada. ‘This is not meant to be a work of art or a brilliant parody. It is the ransom exacted by a demented governess from a poor overworked schoolgirl. Wait for me in the Baguenaudier Bower,’ she added. ‘I’ll be down in exactly sixty-three minutes.’ (1.20)
In her old age Ada amuses herself by translating (for the Oranger editions en regard) Griboedov into French and English, Baudelaire into English and Russian, and John Shade into Russian and French. (5.4)