In VN’s novel Bend Sinister (1947) Miss Bachofen (a girl who comes with Hustav to arrest Ember) mentions a story about the two sailors and the barbok [a kind of pie with a hole in the middle for melted butter]:
“It has just occurred to me,” remarked Hustav to his fair companion, as they moved through the flat in Krug’s wake, “that the Colonel had one schnapps too many when we left him, so that I doubt whether your little sister will be quite the same by the time we get back.”
“I thought that story he told about the two sailors and the barbok [a kind of pie with a hole in the middle for melted butter] most entertaining,” said the lady. “You must tell it to Mr. Ember; he is a writer and might put it into his next book.”
“Well, for that matter, your own pretty mouth——” began Hustav—but they had reached the bedroom door and the lady modestly remained behind while Hustav, again thrusting a fumbling hand into his trouser pocket, jerkily went in after Krug. (Chapter 7)
The barbok brings to mind baraniy bok (side of mutton) praised by Sobakevich in Gogol’s Myortvye dushi (“Dead Souls,” 1842):
— Что ж, душа моя, — сказал Собакевич, — если б я сам это делал, но я тебе прямо в глаза скажу, что я гадостей не стану есть. Мне лягушку хоть сахаром облепи, не возьму ее в рот, и устрицы тоже не возьму: я знаю, на что устрица похожа. Возьмите барана, — продолжал он, обращаясь к Чичикову, — это бараний бок с кашей! Это не те фрикасе, что делаются на барских кухнях из баранины, какая суток по четыре на рынке валяется! Это все выдумали доктора немцы да французы, я бы их перевешал за это! Выдумали диету, лечить голодом! Что у них немецкая жидкостная натура, так они воображают, что и с русским желудком сладят! Нет, это все не то, это всё выдумки, это всё… — Здесь Собакевич даже сердито покачал головою. — Толкуют: просвещенье, просвещенье, а это просвещенье — фук! Сказал бы и другое слово, да вот только что за столом неприлично. У меня не так. У меня когда свинина — всю свинью давай на стол, баранина — всего барана тащи, гусь — всего гуся! Лучше я съем двух блюд, да съем в меру, как душа требует. — Собакевич подтвердил это делом: он опрокинул половину бараньего бока к себе на тарелку, съел все, обгрыз, обсосал до последней косточки.
“And why not?” said Sobakevich. “I tell you straight that I would not eat such nastiness, even had I made it myself. Sugar a frog as much as you like, but never shall it pass MY lips. Nor would I swallow an oyster, for I know only too well what an oyster may resemble. But have some mutton, friend Chichikov. It is shoulder of mutton, and very different stuff from the mutton which they cook in noble kitchens—mutton which has been kicking about the market-place four days or more. All that sort of cookery has been invented by French and German doctors, and I should like to hang them for having done so. They go and prescribe diets and a hunger cure as though what suits their flaccid German systems will agree with a Russian stomach! Such devices are no good at all.” Sobakevich shook his head wrathfully. “Fellows like those are for ever talking of civilisation. As if THAT sort of thing was civilisation! Phew!” (Perhaps the speaker’s concluding exclamation would have been even stronger had he not been seated at table.) “For myself, I will have none of it. When I eat pork at a meal, give me the WHOLE pig; when mutton, the WHOLE sheep; when goose, the WHOLE of the bird. Two dishes are better than a thousand, provided that one can eat of them as much as one wants.” And he proceeded to put precept into practice by taking half the shoulder of mutton on to his plate, and then devouring it down to the last morsel of gristle and bone. (Chapter Five)
Describing Sobakevich’s drawing-room, Gogol mentions the pictures on the walls:
Вошед в гостиную, Собакевич показал на кресла, сказавши опять: “Прошу!” Садясь, Чичиков взглянул на стены и на висевшие на них картины. На картинах всё были молодцы, всё греческие полководцы, гравированные во весь рост: Маврокордато в красных панталонах и мундире, с очками на носу, Миаули, Канари. Все эти герои были с такими толстыми ляжками и неслыханными усами, что дрожь проходила по телу. Между крепкими греками, неизвестно каким образом и для чего, поместился Багратион, тощий, худенький, с маленькими знаменами и пушками внизу и в самых узеньких рамках. Потом опять следовала героиня греческая Бобелина, которой одна нога казалась больше всего туловища тех щёголей, которые наполняют нынешние гостиные.
At length they reached the drawing-room, where Sobakevich pointed to an armchair, and invited his guest to be seated. Chichikov gazed with interest at the walls and the pictures. In every such picture there were portrayed either young men or Greek generals of the type of Mavrogordato (clad in a red uniform and breaches), Kanaris, and others; and all these heroes were depicted with a solidity of thigh and a wealth of moustache which made the beholder simply shudder with awe. Among them there were placed also, according to some unknown system, and for some unknown reason, firstly, Bagration - tall and thin, and with a cluster of small flags and cannon beneath him, and the whole set in the narrowest of frames - and, secondly, the Greek heroine, Bobelina, whose legs looked larger than do the whole bodies of the drawing-room dandies of the present day. (ibid.)
Gogol is the author of Portret (“The Portrait,” 1835). In VN’s story Poseshchenie Muzeya (“A Visit to the Museum,” 1938) the portrait of a Russian Nobleman bears a likeness to Offenbach:
Сразу заприметив мужской портрет между двумя гнусными пейзажами (с коровами и настроением), я подошел ближе и был несколько потрясен, найдя то самое, существование чего дотоле казалось мне попутной выдумкой блуждающего рассудка. Весьма дурно написанный маслом мужчина в сюртуке, с бакенбардами, в крупном пенсне на шнурке, смахивал на Оффенбаха, но, несмотря на подлую условность работы, можно было, пожалуй, разглядеть в его чертах как бы горизонт сходства с моим приятелем. В уголке по черному фону была кармином выведена подпись "Леруа",-- такая же бездарная, как само произведение.
At once my eye was caught by the portrait of a man between two abominable landscapes (with cattle and "atmosphere"). I moved closer and, to my considerable amazement, found the very object whose existence had hitherto seemed to me but the figment of an unstable mind. The man, depicted in wretched oils, wore a frock coat, whiskers, and a large pince-nez on a cord; he bore a likeness to Offenbach, but, in spite of the work's vile conventionality, I had the feeling one could make out in his features the horizon of a resemblance, as it were, to my friend. In one corner, meticulously traced in carmine against a black background, was the signature Leroy in a hand as commonplace as the work itself.
The name Sobakevich comes from sobaka (dog). The keeper of the Montisert museum, M. Godard resembles a Russian wolfhound:
Едва не попав под бешеные шины красного автокара, набитого поющими молодыми людьми, я пересек асфальтовый большак и через минуту звонил у калитки мосье Годара. Он оказался худеньким пожилым человеком в высоком воротничке, в пластроне, с жемчужиной в узле галстука, лицом очень похожим на белую борзую,-- мало того, он совсем по-собачьи облизнулся, наклеивая марку на конверт, когда я вошел в его небольшую, но богато обставленную комнату, с малахитовой чернильницей на письменном столе и странно знакомой китайской вазой на камине. Две фехтовальные шпаги были скрещены над зеркалом, в котором отражался его узкий, седой затылок, и несколько фотографий военного корабля приятно прерывали голубую флору обоев.
Barely escaping the onrushing tires of a furious red bus packed with singing youths, I crossed the asphalt thoroughfare and a minute later was ringing at the garden gate of M. Godard. He-turned out to be a thin, middle-aged gentleman in high collar and dickey, with a pearl in the knot of his tie, and a face very much resembling a Russian wolfhound; as if that were not enough, he was licking his chops in a most doglike manner, while sticking a stamp on an envelope, when I entered his small but lavishly furnished room with its malachite inkstand on the desk and a strangely familiar Chinese vase on the mantel. A pair of fencing foils hung crossed over the mirror, which reflected the narrow gray back of his head. Here and there photographs of a warship pleasantly broke up the blue flora of the wallpaper.
The author of the portrait of a Russian Nobleman, Gustave Leroy brings to mind the watchmaker Pierre Leroy mentioned by Pushkin in his story Pikovaya dama (The Queen of Spades, 1833):
На стене висели два портрета, писанные в Париже Mme Leburn. Один из них изображал мужчину лет сорока, румяного и полного, в светло-зеленом мундире и со звездою; другой — молодую красавицу с орлиным носом, с зачесанными висками и с розою в пудреных волосах. По всем углам торчали фарфоровые пастушки, столовые часы работы славного Leroy, коробочки, рулетки, веера и разные дамские игрушки, изобретенные в конце минувшего столетия вместе с Монгольфьеровым шаром и Месмеровым магнетизмом. Германн пошёл за ширмы. За ними стояла маленькая железная кровать; справа находилась дверь, ведущая в кабинет; слева, другая — в коридор. Германн её отворил, увидел узкую, витую лестницу, которая вела в комнату бедной воспитанницы... Но он воротился и вошёл в тёмный кабинет.
Two portraits, painted in Paris by Mme. Lebrun, hang on the wall. One of them showed a man about forty years old, red-faced and portly, wearing a light green coat with a star; the other a beautiful young woman with an aquiline nose, with her hair combed back over her temples, and with a rose in her powdered locks. Every nook and corner was crowded with china shepherdesses, table clocks made by the famous Leroy, little boxes, bandalores, fans, and diverse other ladies’ toys invented at the end of the last century, along with Montgolfier’s balloon and Mesmer’s magnetism. Hermann stepped behind the screen. At the back of it stood a little iron bedstead; on the right was the door which led to the cabinet; on the left--the other which led to the corridor. He opened the latter, and saw the little winding staircase which led to the room of the poor companion... But he retraced his steps and entered the dark cabinet. (chapter III)
Farforovye pastushki (china shepherdesses) in the old Countess's bedroom bring to mind a little porcelain owl stolen by Miss Bachofen:
“These odds and ends,” said Krug, touching a shelf near which he was passing, “have no special value, but he treasures them, and if you have slipped a little porcelain owl—which I do not see—into your bag——”
“Professor, we are not thieves,” she said very quietly, and he must have had a heart of stone who would not have felt ashamed of his evil thought as she stood there, a narrow-hipped blonde with a pair of symmetrical breasts moistly heaving among the frills of her white silk blouse.
He reached the telephone and dialled Hedron’s number. Hedron was not at home. He talked to Hedron’s sister. Then he discovered that he had been sitting on Hustav’s hat. The girl came towards him again and opened her white bag to show him she had not purloined anything of real or sentimental value.
“And you may search me, too,” she said defiantly, unbuttoning her jacket. “Provided you do not tickle me,” added the doubly innocent, perspiring German girl.
He went back to the bedroom. Near the window Hustav was turning the pages of an encyclopaedia in search of exciting words beginning with M and V. Ember stood half-dressed, a yellow tie in his hand. (Chapter 7)
In "Invitation to a Museum" the narrator mentions dve sovy (a pair of owls):
Все было как полагается: серый цвет, сон вещества, обеспредметившаяся предметность; шкап со стертыми монетами, лежащими на бархатных скатиках, а наверху шкапа -- две совы,-- одну звали в буквальном переводе "Великий князь", другую "Князь средний"; покоились заслуженные минералы в открытых гробах из пыльного картона; фотография удивленного господина с эспаньолкой высилась над собранием странных черных шариков различной величины, занимавших почетное место под наклонной витриной: они чрезвычайно напоминали подмороженный навоз, и я над ними невольно задумался, ибо никак не мог разгадать их природу, состав и назначение.
Everything was as it should be: gray tints, the sleep of substance, matter dematerialized. There was the usual case of old, worn coins resting in the inclined velvet of their compartments. There was, on top of the case, a pair of owls, Eagle Owl and Long-eared, with their French names reading "Grand Duke" and "Middle Duke" if translated. Venerable minerals lay in their open graves of dusty papier mache; a photograph of an astonished gentleman with a pointed beard dominated an assortment of strange black lumps of various sizes. They bore a great resemblance to frozen frass, and I paused involuntarily over them, for I was quite at a loss to guess their nature, composition, and function.
Exciting words beginning with M and V seem to hint at the 'Muscovite Venus' (la Vénus muscovite), as Tomski’s eighty-year-old grandmother (the old Countess) was known in Paris sixty years ago:
Надобно знать, что бабушка моя, лет шестьдесят тому назад, ездила в Париж и была там в большой моде. Народ бегал за нею, чтоб увидеть la Vénus moscovite; Ришелье за нею волочился, и бабушка уверяет, что он чуть было не застрелился от её жестокости.
About sixty years ago, my grandmother went to Paris, where she created quite a sensation. People used to run after her to catch a glimpse of the 'Muscovite Venus.' Richelieu courted her, and my grandmother maintains that he almost blew out his brains in consequence of her cruelty. (chapter I)
A character in “The Queen of Spades,” Tomski brings to mind Tom, the Dryers’s dog in VN’s novel Korol’, dama, valet (“King, Queen, Knave,” 1928). In the language spoken in Padukgrad barbara (pl. barbarn) means "woman, wife:"
“Eez eet zee verity,” said Beuret, suddenly shifting to English, which he knew Krug understood, and speaking it like a Frenchman in an English book, “eez eet zee verity zat, as I have been informed by zee reliably sources, zee disposed chef of the state has been captured together with a couple of other blokes (when the author gets bored by the process—or forgets) somewhere in the hills—and shot? But no, I ziss cannot credit—eet eez too orrible” (when the author remembers again).
“Probably a slight exaggeration,” observed Dr. Alexander in the vernacular. “Various kinds of ugly rumours are apt to spread nowadays, and although of course domusta barbarn kapusta [the ugliest wives are the truest], still I do not think that in this particular case,” he trailed off with a pleasant laugh and there was another silence. (Chapter 3)
barbara + Nabokov + bal = barbok + baraban + oval
bal - ball, dance
baraban - drum
In "Dead Souls" Chichikov promises to Alkid (Manilov's son) that he will bring him baraban (a drum):
"Farewell, dearest children," Chichikov went on as he caught sight of Alkid and Themistocleus, who were playing with a wooden hussar which lacked both a nose and one arm. "Farewell, dearest pets. Pardon me for having brought you no presents, but, to tell you the truth, I was not, until my visit, aware of your existence. However, now that I shall be coming again, I will not fail to bring you gifts. Themistocleus, to you I will bring a sword. You would like that, would you not?"
"I should," replied Themistocleus.
"And to you, Alkid, I will bring a drum. That would suit you, would it not?" And he bowed in Alkid's direction.
"Zeth--a drum," lisped the boy, hanging his head. (Chapter II)
As to barbok, it also brings to mind Barboshin, the private detective (and one of the two incarnations of the devil) in VN's play Sobytie ("The Event," 1938). The main character in "The Event" is the portrait painter Troshcheykin (who is mortally afraid of the killer Barbashin). In VN's play Izobretenie Val'sa ("The Waltz Invention," 1938) the action seems to take place in a dream that Troshcheykin's wife Lyubov (who is still in love with Barbashin) dreams in the sleep of death after committing suicide on her dead son's fifth birthday (two days after her mother's fiftieth birthday). Discussing Hamlet, Ember mentions an actor who played Metternich in The World Waltzes and who is cast as Polonius:
Here Ember suddenly raises his voice to a petulant scream of distress. He says that instead of this authentic Ophelia the impossible Gloria Bellhouse, hopelessly plump, with a mouth like the ace of hearts, has been selected for the part. He is especially incensed at the greenhouse carnations and lilies that the management gives her to play with in the 'mad' scene. She and the producer, like Goethe, imagine Ophelia in the guise of a canned peach: 'her whole being floats in sweet ripe passion,' says Johann Wolfgang, Ger. poet, nov., dram. & phil. Oh, horrible.
'Or her father... We all know him and love him, don't we? and it would be so simple to have him right: Polonius-Pantolonius, a pottering dotard in a padded robe, shuffling about in carpet slippers and following the sagging spectacles at the end of his nose, as he waddles from room to room, vaguely androgynous, combining the pa and the ma, a hermaphrodite with the comfortable pelvis of a eunuch — instead of which they have a stiff tall man who played Metternich in The World Waltzes and insists on remaining a wise and wily statesman for the rest of his days. Oh, most horrible.'
But there is worse to come. Ember asks his friend to hand him a certain book - no, the red one. Sorry, the other red one. (Chapter 7)
In the last stanza of his poem Evropa ("Europe," 1914) Mandelshtam mentions Metternich:
Европа цезарей! С тех пор, как в Бонапарта
Гусиное перо направил Меттерних, —
Впервые за сто лет и на глазах моих
Меняется твоя таинственная карта!
Europe of Caesars! since Metternich took aim
Pointing his goose-quill pen at Bonaparte -
Your mysterious map is changing before my eyes
After a century, for the first time.
Miss Bachofen seems to blend Bach with Beethoven and Offenbach. Oda Betkhovenu ("Ode to Beethoven," 1914) is a poem by Mandelshtam. Beethoven was deaf. According to Krug, he happens to be partly deaf:
He turned to go but she [Mariette] called him back:
“Your pen’s on the sideboard.”
Moaning, he came back with his goblet and took the pen.
“When I’m alone,” she said, “I sit and do like this, like a cricket. Listen, please.”
“Listen to what?”
“Don’t you hear?”
She sat with parted lips, slightly moving her tightly crossed thighs, producing a tiny sound, soft, labiate, with an alternate crepitation as if she were rubbing the palms of her hands which, however, lay idle.
“Chirruping like a poor cricket,” she said.
“I happen to be partly deaf,” remarked Krug and trudged back to his room. (Chapter 16)