Describing his life with Cordula de Prey in Cordula’s Manhattan flat, Van Veen (the narrator and main character in VN’s novel Ada, 1969) compares his work on his first novel Letters from Terra to pregnancy and childbearing:
Van spent a medicinal month in Cordula’s Manhattan flat on Alexis Avenue. She dutifully visited her mother at their Malbrook castle two or three times a week, unescorted by Van either there or to the numerous social ‘flits’ she attended in town, being a frivolous fun-loving little thing; but some parties she canceled, and resolutely avoided seeing her latest lover (the fashionable psychotechnician Dr F.S. Fraser, a cousin of the late P. de P.’s fortunate fellow soldier). Several times Van talked on the dorophone with his father (who pursued an extensive study of Mexican spas and spices) and did several errands for him in town. He often took Cordula to French restaurants, English movies, and Varangian tragedies, all of which was most satisfying, for she relished every morsel, every sip, every jest, every sob, and he found ravishing the velvety rose of her cheeks, and the azure-pure iris of her festively painted eyes to which indigo-black thick lashes, lengthening and upcurving at the outer canthus, added what fashion called the ‘harlequin slant.’
One Sunday, while Cordula was still lolling in her perfumed bath (a lovely, oddly unfamiliar sight, which he delighted in twice a day), Van ‘in the nude’ (as his new sweetheart drolly genteelized ‘naked’), attempted for the first time after a month’s abstinence to walk on his hands. He felt strong, and fit, and blithely turned over to the ‘first position’ in the middle of the sun-drenched terrace. Next moment he was sprawling on his back. He tried again and lost his balance at once. He had the terrifying, albeit illusionary, feeling that his left arm was now shorter than his right, and Van wondered wrily if he ever would be able to dance on his hands again. King Wing had warned him that two or three months without practice might result in an irretrievable loss of the rare art. On the same day (the two nasty little incidents thus remained linked up in his mind forever) Van happened to answer the ‘phone — a deep hollow voice which he thought was a man’s wanted Cordula, but the caller turned out to be an old schoolmate, and Cordula feigned limpid delight, while making big eyes at Van over the receiver, and invented a number of unconvincing engagements.
‘It’s a gruesome girl!’ she cried after the melodious adieux. ‘Her name is Vanda Broom, and I learned only recently what I never suspected at school — she’s a regular tribadka — poor Grace Erminin tells me Vanda used to make constant passes at her and at — at another girl. There’s her picture here,’ continued Cordula with a quick change of tone, producing a daintily bound and prettily printed graduation album of Spring, 1887, which Van had seen at Ardis, but in which he had not noticed the somber beetle-browed unhappy face of that particular girl, and now it did not matter any more, and Cordula quickly popped the book back into a drawer; but he remembered very well that among the various more or less coy contributions it contained a clever pastiche by Ada Veen mimicking Tolstoy’s paragraph rhythm and chapter closings; he saw clearly in mind her prim photo under which she had added one of her characteristic jingles:
In the old manor, I’ve parodied
Every veranda and room,
And jacarandas at Arrowhead
In supernatural bloom.
It did not matter, it did not matter. Destroy and forget! But a butterfly in the Park, an orchid in a shop window, would revive everything with a dazzling inward shock of despair.
His main industry consisted of research at the great granite-pillared Public Library, that admirable and formidable palace a few blocks from Cordula’s cosy flat. One is irresistibly tempted to compare the strange longings and nauseous qualms that enter into the complicated ecstasies accompanying the making of a young writer’s first book with childbearing. Van had only reached the bridal stage; then, to develop the metaphor, would come the sleeping car of messy defloration; then the first balcony of honeymoon breakfasts, with the first wasp. In no sense could Cordula be compared to a writer’s muse but the evening stroll back to her apartment was pleasantly saturated with the afterglow and afterthought of the accomplished task and the expectation of her caresses; he especially looked forward to those nights when they had an elaborate repast sent up from ‘Monaco,’ a good restaurant in the entresol of the tall building crowned by her penthouse and its spacious terrace. The sweet banality of their little ménage sustained him much more securely than the company of his constantly agitated and fiery father did at their rare meetings in town or was to do during a fortnight in Paris before the next term at Chose. Except gossip — gossamer gossip — Cordula had no conversation and that also helped. She had instinctively realized very soon that she should never mention Ada or Ardis. He, on his part, accepted the evident fact that she did not really love him. Her small, clear, soft, well-padded and rounded body was delicious to stroke, and her frank amazement at the variety and vigor of his love-making anointed what still remained of poor Van’s crude virile pride. She would doze off between two kisses. When he could not sleep, as now often happened, he retired to the sitting room and sat there annotating his authors or else he would walk up and down the open terrace, under a haze of stars, in severely restricted meditation, till the first tramcar jangled and screeched in the dawning abyss of the city.
When in early September Van Veen left Manhattan for Lute, he was pregnant. (1.43)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): the last paragraph of Part One imitates, in significant brevity of intonation (as if spoken by an outside voice), a famous Tolstoyan ending, with Van in the role of Kitty Lyovin.
Kitty Lyovin (born Shcherbatski) is Konstantin Lyovin’s wife in Tolstoy’s Anna Karenin (1875-77). In Anna’s dream Korney (Karenin’s valet) tells Anna that she will die in childbirth:
Он опомнился и поднял голову.
― Что за вздор! Что за бессмысленный вздор ты говоришь!
― Нет, это правда.
― Что, что правда?
― Что я умру. Я видела сон.
― Сон? ― повторил Вронский и мгновенно вспомнил своего мужика во сне.
― Да, сон, ― сказала она. ― Давно уж я видела этот сон. Я видела, что я вбежала в свою спальню, что мне нужно там взять что-то, узнать что-то; ты знаешь, как это бывает во сне, ― говорила она, с ужасом широко открывая глаза, ― и в спальне, в углу стоит что-то.
― Ах, какой вздор! Как можно верить...
Но она не позволила себя перебить. То, что она говорила, было слишком важно для нее.
― И это что-то повернулось, и я вижу, что это мужик с взъерошенною бородой, маленький и страшный. Я хотела бежать, но он нагнулся над мешком и руками что-то копошится там...
Она представила, как он копошился в мешке. Ужас был на ее лице. И Вронский, вспоминая свой сон, чувствовал такой же ужас, наполнявший его душу.
― Он копошится и приговаривает по-французски скоро-скоро и, знаешь, грассирует: «Il faut le battre le fer, le broyer, le pétrir...» И я от страха захотела проснуться, проснулась... но я проснулась во сне. И стала спрашивать себя, что это значит. И Корней мне говорит: «родами, родами умрёте, родами, матушка»... И я проснулась...
― Какой вздор, какой вздор! ― говорил Вронский, но он сам чувствовал, что не было никакой убедительности в его голосе.
He had recovered himself, and lifted his head.
“How absurd! What absurd nonsense you are talking!"
“No, it’s the truth.”
"What, what's the truth?"
"That I shall die. I have had a dream.”
“A dream?” repeated Vronski, and instantly he recalled the peasant of his dream.
“Yes, a dream,” she said. “It’s a long while since I dreamed it. I dreamed that I ran into my bedroom, that I had to get something there, to find out something; you know how it is in dreams,” she said, her eyes wide with horror; “and in the bedroom, in the corner, stood something.”
“Oh, what nonsense! How can you believe . . .”
But she would not let him interrupt her. What she was saying was too important to her.
“And the something turned round, and I saw it was a peasant with a disheveled beard, small, and dreadful-looking. I wanted to run away, but he bent down over a sack, and was fumbling there with his hands . . .”
She showed how he had moved his hands. There was terror in her face. And Vronski, remembering his dream, felt the same terror filling his soul.
“He was fumbling and kept talking quickly, quickly in French, you know: Il faut le battre, le fer, le broyer, le petrir . . . And in my horror I tried to wake up, and woke up . . . but woke up in another dream. And I began asking myself what it meant. And Korney said to me: ‘In childbirth you’ll die, ma’am, you’ll die . . .’ And I woke up.”
“What nonsense, what nonsense!” said Vronski; but he felt himself that there was no conviction in his voice. (Part IV, chapter 3)
In his Lectures on Russian Literature VN says: [It is not in childbirth she will die. She will die in soul birth, though, in faith birth.]
"But all at once she stopped. The expression of her face changed instantly. Horror and excitement were suddenly replaced by a look of soft, solemn, blissful attention. He could not understand the meaning of the change. She was listening to the stirring of the new life within her."
[Notice how the idea of death is associated with the idea of childbirth. We should connect it with that of the flickering light symbolizing Kitty's baby and with the light Anna will see just before she dies. Death is soul birth for Tolstoy.]
Leaving Ardis forever, Van recalls Anna’s death under the wheels of a train:
‘The express does not stop at Torfyanka, does it, Trofim?’
‘I’ll take you five versts across the bog,’ said Trofim, ‘the nearest is Volosyanka.’
His vulgar Russian word for Maidenhair; a whistle stop; train probably crowded.
Maidenhair. Idiot! Percy boy might have been buried by now! Maidenhair. Thus named because of the huge spreading Chinese tree at the end of the platform. Once, vaguely, confused with the Venus’-hair fern. She walked to the end of the platform in Tolstoy’s novel. First exponent of the inner monologue, later exploited by the French and the Irish. N’est vert, n’est vert, n’est vert. L’arbre aux quarante écus d’or, at least in the fall. Never, never shall I hear again her ‘botanical’ voice fall at biloba, ‘sorry, my Latin is showing.’ Ginkgo, gingko, ink, inkog. Known also as Salisbury’s adiantofolia, Ada’s infolio, poor Salisburia: sunk; poor Stream of Consciousness, marée noire by now. Who wants Ardis Hall!
‘Barin, a barin,’ said Trofim, turning his blond-bearded face to his passenger.
‘Da?’
‘Dazhe skvoz’ kozhanïy fartuk ne stal-bï ya trogat’ etu frantsuzskuyu devku.’
Barin: master. Dázhe skvoz’ kózhanïy fártuk: even through a leathern apron. Ne stal-bï ya trógat’: I would not think of touching. Étu: this (that). Frantsúzskuyu: French (adj., accus.). Dévku: wench. Úzhas, otcháyanie: horror, despair. Zhálost’: pity, Kóncheno, zagázheno, rastérzano: finished, fouled, torn to shreds. (1.41)
On the next day Van fights a pistol duel with Captain Tapper, of Wild Violet Lodge. On the night before the duel Van dreams of Bouteillan (the French butler at Ardis) who explains to Van that the ‘dor’ in the name of an adored river (Ladore) equals the corruption of hydro in ‘dorophone:’
Van was roused by the night porter who put a cup of coffee with a local ‘eggbun’ on his bedside table, and expertly palmed the expected chervonetz. He resembled somewhat Bouteillan as the latter had been ten years ago and as he had appeared in a dream, which Van now retrostructed as far as it would go: in it Demon’s former valet explained to Van that the ‘dor’ in the name of an adored river equaled the corruption of hydro in ‘dorophone.’ Van often had word dreams. (1.42)
Captain Tapper is a member of the Do-Re-La country club. The name of Van’s adversary seems to hint not only at Chekhov’s story Tapyor (“The Ballroom Pianist,” 1885), but also at a trapper (a peasant who had participated in a bear hunt) in Vronski’s dream:
Now let us compare Anna's dream and Vronski's dream. They are essentially the same of course and both are founded in the long run on those initial railway impressions a year and a half before—on the railway guard crushed by a train. But in Vronski's case the initial tattered wretch is replaced, or let us say acted, by a peasant, a trapper, who had participated in a bear hunt. In Anna's dream there are added impressions from her railway journey to Petersburg— the conductor, the stove-tender. In both dreams the hideous little peasant has a disheveled beard, and a groping, fumbling manner—remnants of the "muffled-up" idea. In both dreams he stoops over something and mutters something in French—the French patter they both used in speaking of everyday things in what Tolstoy considered a sham world; but Vronski does not catch the sense of those words; Anna does, and what these French words contain is the idea of iron, of something battered and crushed—and this something is she (Lectures on Russian Literature).
According to Ada, Vanda Broom (Ada’s lesbian schoolmate at Brownhill whose name is secretly present in Ada’s jingles) was shot dead by the girlfriend of a girlfriend on a starry night, in Ragusa of all places:
Would she like to stay in this apartment till Spring Term (he thought in terms of Terms now) and then accompany him to Kingston, or would she prefer to go abroad for a couple of months — anywhere, Patagonia, Angola, Gululu in the New Zealand mountains? Stay in this apartment? So, she liked it? Except some of Cordula’s stuff which should be ejected — as, for example, that conspicuous Brown Hill Alma Mater of Almehs left open on poor Vanda’s portrait. She had been shot dead by the girlfriend of a girlfriend on a starry night, in Ragusa of all places. It was, Van said, sad. Little Lucette no doubt had told him about a later escapade? Punning in an Ophelian frenzy on the feminine glans? Raving about the delectations of clitorism? ‘N’exagérons pas, tu sais,’ said Ada, patting the air down with both palms. ‘Lucette affirmed,’ he said, ‘that she (Ada) imitated mountain lions.’
He was omniscient. Better say, omni-incest.
‘That’s right,’ said the other total-recaller.
And, by the way, Grace — yes, Grace — was Vanda’s real favorite, pas petite moi and my little crest. She (Ada) had, hadn’t she, a way of always smoothing out the folds of the past — making the flutist practically impotent (except with his wife) and allowing the gentleman farmer only one embrace, with a premature eyakulyatsiya, one of those hideous Russian loanwords? Yes, wasn’t it hideous, but she’d love to play Scrabble again when they’d settled down for good. But where, how? Wouldn’t Mr and Mrs Ivan Veen do quite nicely anywhere? What about the ‘single’ in each passport? They’d go to the nearest Consulate and with roars of indignation and/or a fabulous bribe have it corrected to married, for ever and ever. (2.6)
Grace Erminin (Vanda’s real favorite) marries a Wellington. Erminia was the nickname of Pushkin’s friend Eliza Khitrovo (Kutuzov’s daughter). In his diary, the entry of March 17, 1865, Leo Tolstoy (who was working on War and Peace) says that he is reading Mémoires du maréchal Marmont, duc de Ragusé (Paris, 1856-57):
Был в Туле. На похоронах у Серёжи. Даже для печали человек должен иметь проложенные рельсы, по которым идти,— вой, панихида и т.д. Вчера увидел в снегу на непродавленном следе человека продавленный след собаки. Зачем у ней точка опоры мала? Чтоб она съела зайцев не всех, а ровно сколько нужно. Это премудрость бога; но это не премудрость, не ум. Это инстинкт божества. Этот инстинкт есть в нас. А ум наш есть способность отклоняться от инстинкта и соображать эти отклонения. С страшной ясностью, силой и наслаждением пришли мне эти мысли. Нынче был у Пашковых. Дети больны, и Соня тоже. Дня четыре не писал. Нынче писал. Раз рассердился на немца и долго не мог простить. Читаю Mémoire Ragus’a. Очень мне полезно.
It seems that the girlfriend of a girlfriend who shot poor Vanda dead was Ada herself. In the epilogue of Van’s family chronicle Ada remembers that she had a schoolmate called Vanda:
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)
Describing Villa Venus (Eric Veen’s floramors), Van says that Eric derived his project from reading too many erotic works found in a furnished house his grandfather had bought near Vence from Count Tolstoy, a Russian or Pole:
After being removed from Note to a small private school in Vaud Canton and then spending a consumptive summer in the Maritime Alps, he was sent to Ex-en-Valais, whose crystal air was supposed at the time to strengthen young lungs; instead of which its worst hurricane hurled a roof tile at him, fatally fracturing his skull, Among the boy’s belongings David van Veen found a number of poems and the draft of an essay entitled ‘Villa Venus: an Organized Dream.’
To put it bluntly, the boy had sought to solace his first sexual torments by imagining and detailing a project (derived from reading too many erotic works found in a furnished house his grandfather had bought near Vence from Count Tolstoy, a Russian or Pole): namely, a chain of palatial brothels that his inheritance would allow him to establish all over ‘both hemispheres of our callipygian globe.’ The little chap saw it as a kind of fashionable club, with branches, or, in his poetical phrase, ‘Floramors,’ in the vicinity of cities and spas. Membership was to be restricted to noblemen, ‘handsome and healthy,’ with an age limit of fifty (which must be praised as very broadminded on the poor kid’s part), paying a yearly fee of 3650 guineas not counting the cost of bouquets, jewels and other gallant donations. Resident female physicians, good-looking and young (‘of the American secretarial or dentist-assistant type’), would be there to check the intimate physical condition of ‘the caresser and the caressed’ (another felicitous formula) as well as their own if ‘the need arose,’ One clause in the Rules of the Club seemed to indicate that Eric, though frenziedly heterosexual, had enjoyed some tender ersatz fumblings with schoolmates at Note (a notorious preparatory school in that respect): at least two of the maximum number of fifty inmates in the major floramors might be pretty boys, wearing frontlets and short smocks, not older than fourteen if fair, and not more than twelve if dark. However, in order to exclude a regular flow of ‘inveterate pederasts,’ boy love could be dabbled in by the jaded guest only between two sequences of three girls each, all possessed in the course of the same week — a somewhat comical, but not unshrewd, stipulation. (2.3)
While the maiden name of the twin sisters Aqua and Marina (Van's, Ada's and Lucette's mother), Durmanov, brings to mind Tolstoy's article Pochemu lyudi odurmanivayutsya ("Why Do Men Stupefy Themselves," 1890), the name Van Veen seems to blend Otto van Veen (the author of the Emblem books and Rubens' teacher, 1556-1629) with Ivan Golovin, the main character of Tolstoy's story Smert' Ivana Ilyicha ("The Death of Ivan Ilyich," 1886). The surname Golovin comes from golova (head), the surname Karenin derives from karenon (the Greek word for "head" used by Homer).