For the flight to France Demon Veen (Van’s and Ada’s father in VN’s novel Ada, 1969) wears a scarlet-silk-lined black cape:
At the Goodson Airport, in one of the gilt-framed mirrors of its old-fashioned waiting room, Van glimpsed the silk hat of his father who sat awaiting him in an armchair of imitation marblewood, behind a newspaper that said in reversed characters: ‘Crimea Capitulates.’ At the same moment a raincoated man with a pleasant, somewhat porcine, pink face accosted Van. He represented a famous international agency, known as the VPL, which handled Very Private Letters. After a first flash of surprise, Van reflected that Ada Veen, a recent mistress of his, could not have chosen a smarter (in all senses of the word) way of conveying to him a message whose fantastically priced, and prized, process of transmission insured an absoluteness of secrecy which neither torture nor mesmerism had been able to break down in the evil days of 1859. It was rumored that even Gamaliel on his (no longer frequent, alas) trips to Paris, and King Victor during his still fairly regular visits to Cuba or Hecuba, and, of course, robust Lord Goal, Viceroy of France, when enjoying his randonnies all over Canady, preferred the phenomenally discreet, and in fact rather creepy, infallibility of the VPL organization to such official facilities as sexually starved potentates have at their disposal for deceiving their wives. The present messenger called himself James Jones, a formula whose complete lack of connotation made an ideal pseudonym despite its happening to be his real name. A flurry and flapping had started in the mirror but Van declined to act hastily. In order to gain time (for, on being shown Ada’s crest on a separate card, he felt he had to decide whether or not to accept her letter), he closely examined the badge resembling an ace of hearts which J.J. displayed with pardonable pride. He requested Van to open the letter, satisfy himself of its authenticity, and sign the card that then went back into some secret pit or pouch within the young detective’s attire or anatomy. Cries of welcome and impatience from Van’s father (wearing for the flight to France a scarlet-silk-lined black cape) finally caused Van to interrupt his colloquy with James and pocket the letter (which he read a few minutes later in the lavatory before boarding the airliner).
‘Stocks,’ said Demon, ‘are on the zoom. Our territorial triumphs, et cetera. An American governor, my friend Bessborodko, is to be installed in Bessarabia, and a British one, Armborough, will rule Armenia. I saw you enlaced with your little Countess near the parking lot. If you marry her I will disinherit you. They’re quite a notch below our set.’
‘In a couple of years,’ said Van, ‘I’ll slide into my own little millions’ (meaning the fortune Aqua had left him). ‘But you needn’t worry, sir, we have interrupted our affair for the time being — till the next time I return to live in her girlinière’ (Canady slang).
Demon, flaunting his flair, desired to be told if Van or his poule had got into trouble with the police (nodding toward Jim or John who having some other delivery to make sat glancing through Crime Copulate Bessarmenia).
‘Poule,’ replied Van with the evasive taciturnity of the Roman rabbi shielding Barabbas.
‘Why gray?’ asked Demon, alluding to Van’s overcoat. ‘Why that military cut? It’s too late to enlist.’
‘I couldn’t — my draft board would turn me down anyway.’
‘How’s the wound?’
‘Komsi-komsa. It now appears that the Kalugano surgeon messed up his job. The rip seam has grown red and raw, without any reason, and there’s a lump in my armpit. I’m in for another spell of surgery — this time in London, where butchers carve so much better. Where’s the mestechko here? Oh, I see it. Cute (a gentian painted on one door, a lady fern on the other: have to go to the herbarium).’ (2.1)
In his memoir essay Mladenchestvo (“Infancy”) Hodasevich describes his daily walks with nurse and mentions women in heavy top coats who asked his nurse if she heard about mestechko (a job):
К няне моей то и дело подходили какие-то женщины в толстых "дипломатах" и непременно - с толстым клетчатым или серым платком на руке. Подсаживаясь, они каким-то льстивым и таинственным голосом говорили:
- Миленькая, не слыхали ли местечка?
Это "местечко" казалось мне чем-то таинственным, чем-то вроде сердечка: оно где-то бьётся часто и мелко, как часики, иногда его, вероятно, можно расслышать, но как и где, и почему именно няня могла его слышать, и зачем оно нужно всем этим женщинам?
Van and Ada discover that they are brother and sister thanks to Marina’s old herbarium that they found in the attic of Ardis Hall (1.1). In his essay on Bryusov (in “The Silhouettes of Russian Writers”) Ayhenvald points out that to live flowers Bryusov prefers a herbarium:
И, однако, при этом зове к иссушению жизни, при этом предпочтении гербария цветам, Брюсов думает, что
Быть может, все в жизни — лишь средство
Для ярко-певучих стихов.
Но ведь родник певучести — непосредственность, и если нет последней, то не будет и первой; жизнь не претворится в стихи.
In his memoir essay Moskovskiy literaturno-khudozhestvennyi kruzhok (“The Moscow Circle of Art and Literature”) Hodasevich describes Bryusov’s lecture on Fet and mentions the psychiatrist Bazhenov who thirteen years later, during World War I, wore a general’s military overcoat with a red lining:
"Лицо -- зеркало души". Это, конечно, верно. Но так называемая наружность, всё то, что в человеческом облике подвержено обработке при помощи парикмахера и портного, мало сказать: обманчиво. Оно лживо. В Брюсове были замечательны только огненные глаза да голос -- "орлиный клекот", которым выбрасывал он резкие, отрывистые слова. Весь же он, некрасивый, угловатый, в плохоньком сюртучке и в дешевом галстуке, был просто невзрачен по сравнению с олимпийцами, величаво и неблагосклонно ему внимавшими. Оно и понятно: литературная комиссия состояла из видных адвокатов, врачей, журналистов, сиявших достатком, сытостью, либерализмом. В ней председательствовал председатель правления -- психиатр Баженов, толстый, лысый, румяный, курносый, похожий на чайник с отбитым носиком, знаток вин, "знаток женского сердца", в разговоре умевший французить, причмокивать губами и артистически растягивать слова, "русский парижанин", автор сочинения о Бодлере -- с точки зрения психиатрии. Лет тринадцать спустя, во время великой войны, чайник забурлил патриотизмом; очутившись во главе какой-то санитарной организации и будучи в чине действительного статского советника, Баженов облёкся в шинель на красной подкладке и в военный генеральский мундир с золотыми бахромчатыми эполетами; кто-то его назвал зауряд-фельдмаршалом. Но тогда, в 1902 г., он с явным неодобрением слушал речь непризнанного декадентского поэта, автора "бледных ног", восторженно говорившего о поэзии Фета, который, как всем известно, был крепостник, да к тому же и камергер. Неодобрение разделялось и остальными членами комиссии, и подавляющим большинством публики. Когда начались прения, поднялся некто, имевший столь поэтическую наружность, что ее хватило бы на Шекспира, Данте, Гёте и Пушкина вместе. То был Любошиц, фельетонист из "Новостей дня". Рядом с ним Брюсов имел вид угнетающе-прозаический. Любошиц объявил напрямик, что поэзия Фета похожа на кокотку, скрывающую грязное бельё под нарядным платьем. Этот образ имел успех потрясающий. Зал разразился бурей аплодисментов. Правда, говоря о Фете, Любошиц приписал ему чьи-то чужие стихи. Правда, бурно, выскочивший на эстраду юный декадентский поэт Борис Койранский тут же и обнаружил это невежество, но его уже не хотели слушать. Ответное слово Брюсова потонуло в общественном негодовании.
Bazhenov is the author of a book on Baudelaire – from the point of view of psychiatry. In his poem Tout entière (“All Together”) and in his sonnet La Destruction (“Destruction”) Baudelaire mentions le Démon. The poems in Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal (“The Flowers of Evil”) include Duellum (“The Duel”), a sonnet:
Deux guerriers ont couru l'un sur l'autre, leurs armes
Ont éclaboussé l'air de lueurs et de sang.
Ces jeux, ces cliquetis du fer sont les vacarmes
D'une jeunesse en proie à l'amour vagissant.
Les glaives sont brisés! comme notre jeunesse,
Ma chère! Mais les dents, les ongles acérés,
Vengent bientôt l'épée et la dague traîtresse.
— Ô fureur des coeurs mûrs par l'amour ulcérés!
Dans le ravin hanté des chats-pards et des onces
Nos héros, s'étreignant méchamment, ont roulé,
Et leur peau fleurira l'aridité des ronces.
— Ce gouffre, c'est l'enfer, de nos amis peuplé!
Roulons-y sans remords, amazone inhumaine,
Afin d'éterniser l'ardeur de notre haine!
Two warriors rushed upon each other; their arms
Spattered the air with sparks and blood.
This fencing, this clashing of steel, are the uproar
Of youth when it becomes a prey to puling love.
The blades are broken! like our youth
My darling! But the teeth, the steely fingernails,
Soon avenge the sword and the treacherous dagger.
— O Fury of mature hearts embittered by love!
In the ravine haunted by lynxes and panthers,
Our heroes viciously clasping each other, rolled,
And their skin will put blooms on the barren brambles.
This abyss, it is hell, thronged with our friends!
Let us roll there without remorse, cruel amazon,
So the ardor of our hatred will be immortalized!
Describing Demon’s sword duel with Baron d’Onsky, Van mentions an amusing Douglas d’Artagnan arrangement:
Upon being questioned in Demon’s dungeon, Marina, laughing trillingly, wove a picturesque tissue of lies; then broke down, and confessed. She swore that all was over; that the Baron, a physical wreck and a spiritual Samurai, had gone to Japan forever. From a more reliable source Demon learned that the Samurai’s real destination was smart little Vatican, a Roman spa, whence he was to return to Aardvark, Massa, in a week or so. Since prudent Veen preferred killing his man in Europe (decrepit but indestructible Gamaliel was said to be doing his best to forbid duels in the Western Hemisphere — a canard or an idealistic President’s instant-coffee caprice, for nothing was to come of it after all), Demon rented the fastest petroloplane available, overtook the Baron (looking very fit) in Nice, saw him enter Gunter’s Bookshop, went in after him, and in the presence of the imperturbable and rather bored English shopkeeper, back-slapped the astonished Baron across the face with a lavender glove. The challenge was accepted; two native seconds were chosen; the Baron plumped for swords; and after a certain amount of good blood (Polish and Irish — a kind of American ‘Gory Mary’ in barroom parlance) had bespattered two hairy torsoes, the whitewashed terrace, the flight of steps leading backward to the walled garden in an amusing Douglas d’Artagnan arrangement, the apron of a quite accidental milkmaid, and the shirtsleeves of both seconds, charming Monsieur de Pastrouil and Colonel St Alin, a scoundrel, the latter gentlemen separated the panting combatants, and Skonky died, not ‘of his wounds’ (as it was viciously rumored) but of a gangrenous afterthought on the part of the least of them, possibly self-inflicted, a sting in the groin, which caused circulatory trouble, notwithstanding quite a few surgical interventions during two or three years of protracted stays at the Aardvark Hospital in Boston — a city where, incidentally, he married in 1869 our friend the Bohemian lady, now keeper of Glass Biota at the local museum. (1.2)
In their novel Zolotoy telyonok (“The Golden Calf,” 1931) Ilf and Petrov mention the fat samovar face of Douglas Fairbanks (a Hollywood actor who played d’Artagnan in a film version of “The Three Musketeers”):
Зато в здании типографии комиссия застала работу в полном разгаре. Сияли лиловые лампы, и плоские печатные машины озабоченно хлопали крыльями. Три из них выпекали ущелье в одну краску, а из четвертой, многокрасочной, словно карты из рукава шулера, в ылетали открытки с портретами Дугласа Фербенкса в черной полумаске на толстой самоварной морде, очаровательной Лиа де Путти и славного малого с вытаращенными глаза ми, известного под именем Монти Бенкса.
In the print shop, however, the commission saw the work going full-speed ahead. Purple lights shone; flat printing presses busily flapped their wings. Three of them produced the gorge in black-and-white, while the fourth, a multi-color machine, spewed out postcards: portraits of Douglas Fairbanks with a black half-mask on his fat teapot face, the charming Lya de Putti, and a nice bulgy-eyed guy named Monty Banks. Portraits flew out of the machine like cards from a sharper's sleeve. (Chapter 5 “The Underground Kingdom”)
According to Hodasevich (see the quote above), fat, bald and snub-nosed Bazhenov resembled a teapot with the spout broken off. Hodasevich quotes the saying litso – zerkalo dushi (the face is a mirror of the soul). James Jones (a messenger who transmits to Van a letter from Ada) has a pleasant, somewhat porcine, pink face.
“An absoluteness of secrecy which neither torture nor mesmerism had been able to break down in the evil days of 1859” brings to mind E. A. Poe’s story Mesmeric Revelation (1844) that Baudelaire translated into French as Révélation magnétique. After the L disaster in the beau milieu of the 19th century electricity ("the unmentionable magnetic power") was banned on Demonia (aka Antiterra, Earth's twin planet on which Ada is set):
Revelation can be more perilous than Revolution. Sick minds identified the notion of a Terra planet with that of another world and this ‘Other World’ got confused not only with the ‘Next World’ but with the Real World in us and beyond us. Our enchanters, our demons, are noble iridescent creatures with translucent talons and mightily beating wings; but in the eighteen-sixties the New Believers urged one to imagine a sphere where our splendid friends had been utterly degraded, had become nothing but vicious monsters, disgusting devils, with the black scrota of carnivora and the fangs of serpents, revilers and tormentors of female souls; while on the opposite side of the cosmic lane a rainbow mist of angelic spirits, inhabitants of sweet Terra, restored all the stalest but still potent myths of old creeds, with rearrangement for melodeon of all the cacophonies of all the divinities and divines ever spawned in the marshes of this our sufficient world.
Sufficient for your purpose, Van, entendons-nous. (Note in the margin.)
Poor Aqua, whose fancies were apt to fall for all the fangles of cranks and Christians, envisaged vividly a minor hymnist’s paradise, a future America of alabaster buildings one hundred stories high, resembling a beautiful furniture store crammed with tall white-washed wardrobes and shorter fridges; she saw giant flying sharks with lateral eyes taking barely one night to carry pilgrims through black ether across an entire continent from dark to shining sea, before booming back to Seattle or Wark. She heard magic-music boxes talking and singing, drowning the terror of thought, uplifting the lift girl, riding down with the miner, praising beauty and godliness, the Virgin and Venus in the dwellings of the lonely and the poor. The unmentionable magnetic power denounced by evil lawmakers in this our shabby country — oh, everywhere, in Estoty and Canady, in ‘German’ Mark Kennensie, as well as in ‘Swedish’ Manitobogan, in the workshop of the red-shirted Yukonets as well as in the kitchen of the red-kerchiefed Lyaskanka, and in ‘French’ Estoty, from Bras d’Or to Ladore — and very soon throughout both our Americas, and all over the other stunned continents — was used on Terra as freely as water and air, as bibles and brooms. Two or three centuries earlier she might have been just another consumable witch. (1.3)
In 1905 Demon Veen perishes in a mysterious airplane disaster above the Pacific (3.7). In Alexandre Dumas's “The Three Musketeers” Milady de Winter persuades John Felton, a Puritan, to kill Duke of Buckingham. It seems that Ada managed to persuade the pilot to destroy his machine in midair. Ada calls Van's apologetic note to Lucette (Van's and Ada's half-sister) written after their debauch à trois in Van's Manhattan flat "pompous, puritanical rot:"
Van walked over to a monastic lectern that he had acquired for writing in the vertical position of vertebrate thought and wrote what follows:
Poor L.
We are sorry you left so soon. We are even sorrier to have inveigled our Esmeralda and mermaid in a naughty prank. That sort of game will never be played again with you, darling firebird. We apollo [apologize]. Remembrance, embers and membranes of beauty make artists and morons lose all self-control. Pilots of tremendous airships and even coarse, smelly coachmen are known to have been driven insane by a pair of green eyes and a copper curl. We wished to admire and amuse you, BOP (bird of paradise). We went too far. I, Van, went too far. We regret that shameful, though basically innocent scene. These are times of emotional stress and reconditioning. Destroy and forget.
Tenderly yours A & V.
(in alphabetic order).
‘I call this pompous, puritanical rot,’ said Ada upon scanning Van’s letter. ‘Why should we apollo for her having experienced a delicious spazmochka? I love her and would never allow you to harm her. It’s curious — you know, something in the tone of your note makes me really jealous for the first time in my fire [thus in the manuscript, for "life." Ed.] Van, Van, somewhere, some day, after a sunbath or dance, you will sleep with her, Van!’
‘Unless you run out of love potions. Do you allow me to send her these lines?’
‘I do, but want to add a few words.’
Her P.S. read:
The above declaration is Van’s composition which I sign reluctantly. It is pompous and puritanical. I adore you, mon petit, and would never allow him to hurt you, no matter how gently or madly. When you’re sick of Queen, why not fly over to Holland or Italy?
A.
‘Now let’s go out for a breath of crisp air,’ suggested Van. ‘I’ll order Pardus and Peg to be saddled.’ (2.8)
Spazmochka is a diminutive of spazm or spazma (spasm). In a letter of August 21, 1825, to Anna Kern Pushkin mentions the spasms that make Anna Kern so interesting and uses the phrase au beau milieu de ma verve (in the midst of my eloquence):
Vous êtes désolante; j’étais en train de vous écrire des folies, qui vous eussent fait mourir de rire, et voilà que votre lettre vient m’attrister au beau milieu de ma verve. Tâchez de vous défaire de ces spasmes qui vous rendent si intéressante, mais qui ne valent pas le diable, je vous en avertis. Pourquoi fait-il donс que je vous gronde? Si vous aviez le bras en écharpe, il ne fallait pas m’écrire. Quelle mauvaise tête!
The Antiterran L disaster seems to correspond to the mock execution of Dostoevski and the Petrashevskians on January 3, 1850 (NS), in our world. In his poem V sluchae esli b ona slomala nogu (“In Case of her Breaking her Leg”) Ignat Lebyadkin, a character in Dostoevski’s novel Besy (“The Possessed,” 1872), says:
Краса красот сломала член
и интересней вдвое стала,
и вдвое сделался влюблен
влюбленный уж немало.
With broken limb my beauteous queen
is twice as interesting as before,
and, deep in love as I have been,
today I love her even more. (Part Two, Chapter Two, II)
Lebyadkin imagines that he is one-armed and that he lost his arm in the Crimean War:
Любви пылающей граната
Лопнула в груди Игната.
И вновь заплакал горькой мукой
По Севастополю безрукий.
- Хоть в Севастополе не был и даже не безрукий, но каковы же рифмы! - лез он ко мне с своею пьяною рожей.
- Им некогда, некогда, они домой пойдут, - уговаривал Липутин, - они завтра Лизавете Николаевне перескажут.
- Лизавете!.. - завопил он опять; - стой-нейди! Варьянт:
И порхает звезда на коне
В хороводе других амазонок;
Улыбается с лошади мне
Ари-сто-кратический ребёнок.
"Звезде-амазонке".
'A bomb of love with stinging smart
Exploded in Ignaty's heart.
In anguish dire I weep again
The arm that at Sevastopol
I lost in bitter pain!'
Not that I ever was at Sevastopol, or ever lost my arm, but look at the rhymes!" He pushed up to me with his ugly, tipsy face.
"He is in a hurry, he is going home!" Liputin tried to persuade him. "He'll tell Lizaveta Nikolaevna to-morrow."
"Lizaveta!" he yelled again. "Stay, don't go! A variation:
'Among the Amazons a star,
Upon her steed she flashes by,
And smiles upon me from afar,
The child of aris-to-cra-cy!
To a Starry Amazon.” (Part One, Chapter Three, IX)
Van offers Ada a ride in the park. One of Ada’s lovers, Percy de Prey, goes to the Crimean War and perishes on the second day of the invasion. Percy’s death was witnessed by “Broken-Arm Bill” (as Van calls Bill Fraser, Percy’s comrade-in-arms):
(One wonders, one always wonders, what had been the executed individual’s brief, rapid series of impressions, as preserved somewhere, somehow, in some vast library of microfilmed last thoughts, between two moments: between, in the present case, our friend’s becoming aware of those nice, quasi-Red Indian little wrinkles beaming at him out of a serene sky not much different from Ladore’s, and then feeling the mouth of steel violently push through tender skin and exploding bone. One supposes it might have been a kind of suite for flute, a series of ‘movements’ such as, say: I’m alive — who’s that? — civilian — sympathy — thirsty — daughter with pitcher — that’s my damned gun — don’t… et cetera or rather no cetera… while Broken-Arm Bill prayed his Roman deity in a frenzy of fear for the Tartar to finish his job and go. But, of course, an invaluable detail in that strip of thought would have been — perhaps, next to the pitcher peri — a glint, a shadow, a stab of Ardis.) (1.42)
According to Ada, at Marina's funeral she met d'Onsky's son, a person with only one arm:
‘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.’ (3.8)
Demon finds out that Van and Ada are lovers and forces Van to give up Ada when he visits his son in Manhattan to tell him about Uncle Dan's death. Demon's fellow traveler in the lift is Valerio, a waiter at ‘Monaco’ (a restaurant in the entresol of the tall building crowned by Van's penthouse apartment):
With the simple and, combinationally speaking, neat, thought that, after all, there was but one sky (white, with minute multicolored optical sparks), Demon hastened to enter the lobby and catch the lift which a ginger-haired waiter had just entered, with breakfast for two on a wiggle-wheel table and the Manhattan Times among the shining, ever so slightly scratched, silver cupolas. Was his son still living up there, automatically asked Demon, placing a piece of nobler metal among the domes. Si, conceded the grinning imbecile, he had lived there with his lady all winter.
'Then we are fellow travelers,' said Demon inhaling not without gourmand anticipation the smell of Monaco's coffee, exaggerated by the shadows of tropical weeds waving in the breeze of his brain. (2.10)
Valerio is a ginger-haired elderly Roman, always ill-shaven and gloomy, but a dear old boy. In her memoir essay on Valeriy Bryusov, Geroy truda (“The Hero of Toil,” 1925), Marina Tsvetaev says that Bryusov was trizhdy rimlyanin (a triple Roman):
Три слова являют нам Брюсова: воля, вол, волк. Триединство не только звуковое - смысловое: и воля - Рим, и вол - Рим, и волк - Рим. Трижды римлянином был Валерий Брюсов: волей и волом - в поэзии, волком (homo homini lupus est) в жизни.
On the other hand, Valerik (1840) is a poem by Lermontov, the author of "The Demon" (1829-40).