When Ada refuses to leave her sick husband, Andrey Vinelander, Van Veen (the narrator and main character in VN’s novel Ada, 1969) calls her "Helen of Troy, Ada of Ardis:"
As had been peculiar to his nature even in the days of his youth, Van was apt to relieve a passion of anger and disappointment by means of bombastic and arcane utterances which hurt like a jagged fingernail caught in satin, the lining of Hell.
‘Castle True, Castle Bright!’ he now cried, ‘Helen of Troy, Ada of Ardis! You have betrayed the Tree and the Moth!’
‘Perestagne (stop, cesse)!’
‘Ardis the First, Ardis the Second, Tanned Man in a Hat, and now Mount Russet —’
‘Perestagne!’ repeated Ada (like a fool dealing with an epileptic).
‘Oh! Qui me rendra mon Hélène —’
‘Ach, perestagne!’
‘— et le phalène.’
‘Je t’emplie ("prie" and "supplie"), stop, Van. Tu sais que j’en vais mourir.’
‘But, but, but’ — (slapping every time his forehead) — ‘to be on the very brink of, of, of — and then have that idiot turn Keats!’
‘Bozhe moy, I must be going. Say something to me, my darling, my only one, something that might help!’
There was a narrow chasm of silence broken only by the rain drumming on the eaves.
‘Stay with me, girl,’ said Van, forgetting everything — pride, rage, the convention of everyday pity.
For an instant she seemed to waver — or at least to consider wavering; but a resonant voice reached them from the drive and there stood Dorothy, gray-caped and mannish-hatted, energetically beckoning with her unfurled umbrella.
‘I can’t, I can’t, I’ll write you,’ murmured my poor love in tears. (3.8)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): phalène: moth (see also p.111).
tu sais etc.: you know it will kill me.
Bozhe moy: Russ., oh, my God.
In his poem Leningrad (1924) VN says that Petrograd is worse than Petersburg but, since it has nothing in common with Troy, it is unclear why the city was renamed after Helen (Lena is a diminutive of Elena, the Russian name of Helen of Troy):
Великие, порою,
бывают перемены...
Но, пламенные мужи,
что значит этот сон?
Был Петроград — он хуже,
чем Петербург, — не скрою, —
но не походит он —
как ни верти — на Трою:
зачем же в честь Елены —
так ласково к тому же —
он вами окрещён?
In an omitted stanza of Eugene Onegin (Five: XXXVII: 13-14) Pushkin says that his Tanya (Tatiana Larin) is more endearing than Homer’s nasty Helen:
В пирах готов я непослушно
С твоим бороться божеством;
Ты победил меня в другом:
Твои свирепые герои,
Твои неправильные бои,
Твоя Киприда, твой Зевес,
Большой имеют перевес
Перед Онегиным Холодным;
Пред сонной скукою полей,
Перед Истоминой моей;
Пред нашим воспитаньем модным,
Но Таня (присягну) милей
Елены пакостной твоей.
In feasts I’m ready disobediently
with your divinity to grapple;
but magnanimously I do concede
that elsewhere you have vanquished me:
your savage heroes,
your irregular battles,
your Cypris, your Zeus,
have a great prevalence
over chilly Onegin;
over the drowsy dreariness of fields;
over my [Istomina];
o’er our fashionable education.
But Tanya, 'pon my word, is more endearing
than your nasty Helen.
Pushkin’s Onegin was born na bregakh Nevy (upon the Neva’s banks). Neva means in Finnish what veen means in Dutch: “peat bog.” In a letter of April 1, 1891, from Rome to Mme Kiselyov Chekhov says that two Dutch girls at the table d’hôte resemble Pushkin’s Tatiana and her sister Olga:
Я обедаю за table d’hôte’ом. Можете себе представить, против меня сидят две голландочки: одна похожа на пушкинскую Татьяну, а другая на сестру её Ольгу. Я смотрю на обеих в продолжение всего обеда и воображаю чистенький беленький домик с башенкой, отличное масло, превосходный голландский сыр, голландские сельди, благообразного пастора, степенного учителя... и хочется мне жениться на голландочке, и хочется, чтобы меня вместе с нею нарисовали на подносе около чистенького домика.
I am dining at the table d’hôte. Can you imagine just opposite me are sitting two Dutch girls: one of them is like Pushkin’s Tatiana, and the other like her sister Olga. I watch them all through dinner, and imagine a neat, clean little house with a turret, excellent butter, superb Dutch cheese, Dutch herrings, a benevolent-looking pastor, a sedate teacher, . . . and I feel I should like to marry a Dutch girl and be depicted with her on a tea-tray beside the little white house.
In his humorous story O zhenshchinakh (“On Women,” 1886) Chekhov says that the Trojan War began because of Belle Hélène:
Она порочна и безнравственна. От нее идет начало всех зол. В одной старинной книге сказано: «Mulier est malleus, per quem diabolus mollit et malleat universum mundum». Когда диаволу приходит охота учинить какую-нибудь пакость или каверзу, то он всегда норовит действовать через женщин. Вспомните, что из-за Бель Элен вспыхнула Троянская война, Мессалина совратила с пути истины не одного паиньку... Гоголь говорит, что чиновники берут взятки только потому, что на это толкают их жены. Это совершенно верно. Пропивают, в винт проигрывают и на Амалий тратят чиновники только жалованье... Имущества антрепренеров, казенных подрядчиков и секретарей теплых учреждений всегда записаны на имя жены. Распущена женщина донельзя. Каждая богатая барыня всегда окружена десятками молодых людей, жаждущих попасть к ней в альфонсы. Бедные молодые люди!
The eloquent misogynist in Chekhov’s story mentions the department watchman Dorofey:
Логика женщины вошла в поговорку. Когда какой-нибудь надворный советник Анафемский или департаментский сторож Дорофей заводят речь о Бисмарке или о пользе наук, то любо послушать их: приятно и умилительно; когда же чья-нибудь супруга, за неимением других тем, начинает говорить о детях или пьянстве мужа, то какой супруг воздержится, чтобы не воскликнуть: «Затарантила таранта! Ну, да и логика же, господи, прости ты меня грешного!» Изучать науки женщина неспособна. Это явствует уже из одного того, что для нее не заводят учебных заведений. Мужчины, даже идиот и кретин, могут не только изучать науки, но даже и занимать кафедры, но женщина — ничтожество ей имя! Она не сочиняет для продажи учебников, не читает рефератов и длинных академических речей, не ездит на казенный счет в ученые командировки и не утилизирует заграничных диссертаций. Ужасно неразвита! Творческих талантов у нее — ни капли. Не только великое и гениальное, но даже пошлое и шантажное пишется мужчинами, ей же дана от природы только способность заворачивать в творения мужчин пирожки и делать из них папильотки.
In the Kalugano hospital (where he recovers from a wound received in a pistol duel with Captain Tapper, of Wild Violet Lodge) Van meets Tatiana, a remarkably pretty and proud young nurse, and Dorofey, a beefy-handed male nurse:
For half a minute Van was sure that he still lay in the car, whereas actually he was in the general ward of Lakeview (Lakeview!) Hospital, between two series of variously bandaged, snoring, raving and moaning men. When he understood this, his first reaction was to demand indignantly that he be transferred to the best private palata in the place and that his suitcase and alpenstock be fetched from the Majestic. His next request was that he be told how seriously he was hurt and how long he was expected to remain incapacitated. His third action was to resume what constituted the sole reason of his having to visit Kalugano (visit Kalugano!). His new quarters, where heartbroken kings had tossed in transit, proved to be a replica in white of his hotel apartment — white furniture, white carpet, white sparver. Inset, so to speak, was Tatiana, a remarkably pretty and proud young nurse, with black hair and diaphanous skin (some of her attitudes and gestures, and that harmony between neck and eyes which is the special, scarcely yet investigated secret of feminine grace fantastically and agonizingly reminded him of Ada, and he sought escape from that image in a powerful response to the charms of Tatiana, a torturing angel in her own right. Enforced immobility forbade the chase and grab of common cartoons. He begged her to massage his legs but she tested him with one glance of her grave, dark eyes — and delegated the task to Dorofey, a beefy-handed male nurse, strong enough to lift him bodily out of bed. with the sick child clasping the massive nape. When Van managed once to twiddle her breasts, she warned him she would complain if he ever repeated what she dubbed more aptly than she thought ‘that soft dangle.’ An exhibition of his state with a humble appeal for a healing caress resulted in her drily remarking that distinguished gentlemen in public parks got quite lengthy prison terms for that sort of thing. However, much later, she wrote him a charming and melancholy letter in red ink on pink paper; but other emotions and events had intervened, and he never met her again). His suitcase promptly arrived from the hotel; the stick, however, could not be located (it must be climbing nowadays Wellington Mountain, or perhaps, helping a lady to go ‘brambling’ in Oregon); so the hospital supplied him with the Third Cane, a rather nice, knotty, cherry-dark thing with a crook and a solid black-rubber heel. Dr Fitzbishop congratulated him on having escaped with a superficial muscle wound, the bullet having lightly grooved or, if he might say so, grazed the greater serratus. Doc Fitz commented on Van’s wonderful recuperational power which was already in evidence, and promised to have him out of disinfectants and bandages in ten days or so if for the first three he remained as motionless as a felled tree-trunk. Did Van like music? Sportsmen usually did, didn’t they? Would he care to have a Sonorola by his bed? No, he disliked music, but did the doctor, being a concert-goer, know perhaps where a musician called Rack could be found? ‘Ward Five,’ answered the doctor promptly. Van misunderstood this as the title of some piece of music and repeated his question. Would he find Rack’s address at Harper’s music shop? Well, they used to rent a cottage way down Dorofey Road, near the forest, but now some other people had moved in. Ward Five was where hopeless cases were kept. The poor guy had always had a bad liver and a very indifferent heart, but on top of that a poison had seeped into his system; the local ‘lab’ could not identify it and they were now waiting for a report, on those curiously frog-green faeces, from the Luga people. If Rack had administered it to himself by his own hand, he kept ‘mum’; it was more likely the work of his wife who dabbled in Hindu-Andean voodoo stuff and had just had a complicated miscarriage in the maternity ward. Yes, triplets — how did he guess? Anyway, if Van was so eager to visit his old pal it would have to be as soon as he could be rolled to Ward Five in a wheelchair by Dorofey, so he’d better apply a bit of voodoo, ha-ha, on his own flesh and blood.
That day came soon enough. After a long journey down corridors where pretty little things tripped by, shaking thermometers, and first an ascent and then a descent in two different lifts, the second of which was very capacious with a metal-handled black lid propped against its wall and bits of holly or laurel here and there on the soap-smelling floor, Dorofey, like Onegin’s coachman, said priehali (‘we have arrived’) and gently propelled Van, past two screened beds, toward a third one near the window. There he left Van, while he seated himself at a small table in the door corner and leisurely unfolded the Russian-language newspaper Golos (Logos). (1.42)
In a canceled draft of EO (One: LII: 11) Ivan (apparently, Onegin’s coachman) says: Priekhali (Here we are)! Dorothy Vinelander (Ada’s sister-in-law) reads to her sick brother old issues of the Golos Feniksa (“The Phoenix Voice,” a Russian-language newspaper in Arizona):
Much to Van’s amusement (the tasteless display of which his mistress neither condoned nor condemned), Andrey was laid up with a cold for most of the week. Dorothy, a born nurser, considerably surpassed Ada (who, never being ill herself, could not stand the sight of an ailing stranger) in readiness of sickbed attendance, such as reading to the sweating and suffocating patient old issues of the Golos Feniksa; but on Friday the hotel doctor bundled him off to the nearby American Hospital, where even his sister was not allowed to Visit him ‘because of the constant necessity of routine tests’ — or rather because the poor fellow wished to confront disaster in manly solitude. (3.8)
The Duel (1891) and Ward Six (1892) are stories by Chekhov. The name of Van’s adversary brings to mind Chekhov’s story Tapyor (“The Ballroom Pianist,” 1885). Tapper is a member of the Do-Re-La Country Club, and Philip Rack (Lucette’s music teacher who dies in Ward Five of the Kalugano hospital) is a composer of genius (according to Greg Erminin, whose father preferred to pass for a Chekhovian colonel). In Chekhov’s one-act play Predlozhenie (“The Proposal,” 1888) Lomov and Natalia Stepanovna mention Goreloe boloto (the Burnt Marsh):
Наталья Степановна. Виновата, я вас перебью. Вы говорите «мои Воловьи Лужки»… Да разве они ваши?
Ломов. Мои-с…
Наталья Степановна. Ну, вот еще! Воловьи Лужки наши, а не ваши!
Ломов. Нет-с, мои, уважаемая Наталья Степановна.
Наталья Степановна. Это для меня новость. Откуда же они ваши?
Ломов. Как откуда? Я говорю про те Воловьи Лужки, что входят клином между вашим березняком и Горелым болотом.
Наталья Степановна. Ну, да, да… Они наши…
Ломов. Нет, вы ошибаетесь, уважаемая Наталья Степановна, — они мои.
Наталья Степановна. Опомнитесь, Иван Васильевич! Давно ли они стали вашими?
Ломов. Как давно? Насколько я себя помню, они всегда были нашими.
Наталья Степановна. Ну, это, положим, извините!
Ломов. Из бумаг это видно, уважаемая Наталья Степановна. Воловьи Лужки были когда-то спорными, это — правда; но теперь всем известно, что они мои. И спорить тут нечего. Изволите ли видеть, бабушка моей тетушки отдала эти Лужки в бессрочное и в безвозмездное пользование крестьянам дедушки вашего батюшки за то, что они жгли для неё кирпич. Крестьяне дедушки вашего батюшки пользовались безвозмездно Лужками лет сорок и привыкли считать их как бы своими, потом же, когда вышло положение…
Наталья Степановна. И совсем не так, как вы рассказываете! И мой дедушка, и прадедушка считали, что ихняя земля доходила до Горелого болота — значит, Воловьи Лужки были наши. Что ж тут спорить? — не понимаю. Даже досадно!
NATALYA STEPANOVNA: Excuse my interrupting you. You say, "my Oxen Meadows. ..." But are they yours?
LOMOV: Yes, mine.
NATALYA STEPANOVNA: What are you talking about? Oxen Meadows are ours, not yours!
LOMOV: No, mine, honoured Natalya Stepanovna.
NATALYA STEPANOVNA: Well, I never knew that before. How do you make that out?
LOMOV: How? I'm speaking of those Oxen Meadows which are wedged in between your birchwoods and the Burnt Marsh.
NATALYA STEPANOVNA: Yes, yes. ... They're ours.
LOMOV: No, you're mistaken, honoured Natalya Stepanovna, they're mine.
NATALYA STEPANOVNA: Just think, Ivan Vasilevich! How long have they been yours?
LOMOV: How long? As long as I can remember.
NATALYA STEPANOVNA: Really, you won't get me to believe that!
LOMOV: But you can see from the documents, honoured Natalya Stepanovna. Oxen Meadows, it's true, were once the subject of dispute, but now everybody knows that they are mine. There's nothing to argue about. You see, my aunt's grandmother gave the free use of these Meadows in perpetuity to the peasants of your father's grandfather, in return for which they were to make bricks for her. The peasants belonging to your father's grandfather had the free use of the Meadows for forty years, and had got into the habit of regarding them as their own, when it happened that ...
NATALYA STEPANOVNA: No, it isn't at all like that! Both my grandfather and great-grandfather reckoned that their land extended to Burnt Marsh--which means that Oxen Meadows were ours. I don't see what there is to argue about. It's simply silly!
Dorothy Vinelander (whose pet nightmare had to do with the eruption of a dream volcano) eventually marries a Mr Brod or Bred who travels in eucharistials and other sacramental objects throughout the Severnïya Territorii and who directs archeological reconstructions at Goreloe (the ‘Lyaskan Herculanum’):
So she did write as she had promised? Oh, yes, yes! In seventeen years he received from her around a hundred brief notes, each containing around one hundred words, making around thirty printed pages of insignificant stuff — mainly about her husband’s health and the local fauna. After helping her to nurse Andrey at Agavia Ranch through a couple of acrimonious years (she begrudged Ada every poor little hour devoted to collecting, mounting, and rearing!), and then taking exception to Ada’s choosing the famous and excellent Grotonovich Clinic (for her husband’s endless periods of treatment) instead of Princess Alashin’s select sanatorium, Dorothy Vinelander retired to a subarctic monastery town (Ilemna, now Novostabia) where eventually she married a Mr Brod or Bred, tender and passionate, dark and handsome, who traveled in eucharistials and other sacramental objects throughout the Severnïya Territorii and who subsequently was to direct, and still may be directing half a century later, archeological reconstructions at Goreloe (the ‘Lyaskan Herculanum’); what treasures he dug up in matrimony is another question. (3.8)
In a letter of April 7-19, 1887, to his sister Chekhov describes his visit to Taganrog and compares his home town to Herculaneum and Pompeii:
Я в Таганроге. Меня встричаить Егорушка, здоровеннейший парень, одетый франтом: шляпа, перчатки в 1 р. 50 к., тросточка и проч. Я его не узнаю, но он меня узнает. Нанимает извозчика и едем. Впечатления Геркуланума и Помпеи: людей нет, а вместо мумий — сонные дришпаки и головы дынькой. Все дома приплюснуты, давно не штукатурены, крыши не крашены, ставни затворены...
I arrive at Taganrog. . . . It gives one the impression of Herculaneum and Pompeii; there are no people, and instead of mummies there are sleepy drishpaks [uneducated young men in the jargon of Taganrog] and melon-shaped heads. All the houses look flattened out, and as though they had long needed replastering, the roofs want painting, the shutters are closed. . . .
Chekhov died in 1904. Ten years later, in 1914, St. Petersburg was renamed Petrograd, and another ten years later, in 1924, Petrograd was renamed Leningrad. In his essay O Chekhove ("On Chekhov," 1929) written for the twenty-fifth anniversary of the writer's death Hodasevich points out that Chekhov died just before the first seismic shock of the Russian Revolution:
- Лет через двести - триста всё само образуется, - утешал Чехов, и люди теснились к нему толпой. А земля под ними уже готова была колыхнуться. Как раз перед первым толчком Чехов умер.
In his poem Sorrentinskie fotografii ("The Sorrento Photographs," 1926) Hodasevich mentions Mount Vesuvius, the agaves (cf. Andrey's and Ada's Agavia Ranch) and the Bronze Horseman reflected in the Neva. On Demonia (aka Antiterra, Earth's twin planet on which Ada is set) Pushkin's poem Mednyi vsadnik ("The Bronze Horseman," 1833) is known as "The Headless Horseman:"
The year 1880 (Aqua was still alive — somehow, somewhere!) was to prove to be the most retentive and talented one in his long, too long, never too long life. He was ten. His father had lingered in the West where the many-colored mountains acted upon Van as they had on all young Russians of genius. He could solve an Euler-type problem or learn by heart Pushkin’s ‘Headless Horseman’ poem in less than twenty minutes. With white-bloused, enthusiastically sweating Andrey Andreevich, he lolled for hours in the violet shade of pink cliffs, studying major and minor Russian writers — and puzzling out the exaggerated but, on the whole, complimentary allusions to his father’s volitations and loves in another life in Lermontov’s diamond-faceted tetrameters. He struggled to keep back his tears, while AAA blew his fat red nose, when shown the peasant-bare footprint of Tolstoy preserved in the clay of a motor court in Utah where he had written the tale of Murat, the Navajo chieftain, a French general’s bastard, shot by Cora Day in his swimming pool. What a soprano Cora had been! Demon took Van to the world-famous Opera House in Telluride in West Colorado and there he enjoyed (and sometimes detested) the greatest international shows — English blank-verse plays, French tragedies in rhymed couplets, thunderous German musical dramas with giants and magicians and a defecating white horse. He passed through various little passions — parlor magic, chess, fluff-weight boxing matches at fairs, stunt-riding — and of course those unforgettable, much too early initiations when his lovely young English governess expertly petted him between milkshake and bed, she, petticoated, petititted, half-dressed for some party with her sister and Demon and Demon’s casino-touring companion, bodyguard and guardian angel, monitor and adviser, Mr Plunkett, a reformed card-sharper. (1.28)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): The Headless Horseman: Mayn Reid’s title is ascribed here to Pushkin, author of The Bronze Horseman.
Lermontov: author of The Demon.
Tolstoy etc.: Tolstoy’s hero, Haji Murad (a Caucasian chieftain), is blended here with General Murat, Napoleon’s brother-in-law, and with the French revolutionary leader Marat assassinated in his bath by Charlotte Corday.
Van's angelic Russian tutor, Andrey Andreevich Aksakov (AAA) is a namesake of Ada’s husband, Andrey Andreevich Vinelander, and of Andrey Andreich, Nadya Shumin’s fiancé in Chekhov’s last story Nevesta (“The Betrothed,” 1903). Ada’s husband bears a resemblance to Kosygin, the mayor of Yukonsk:
Finally Van reached Ada’s husband.
Van had murdered good Andrey Andreevich Vinelander so often, so thoroughly, at all the dark crossroads of the mind, that now the poor chap, dressed in a hideous, funereal, double-breasted suit, with those dough-soft features slapped together anyhow, and those sad-hound baggy eyes, and the dotted lines of sweat on his brow, presented all the depressing features of an unnecessary resurrection. Through a not-too-odd oversight (or rather ‘undersight’) Ada omitted to introduce the two men. Her husband enunciated his name, patronymic, and surname with the didactic intonations of a Russian educational-film narrator. ‘Obnimemsya, dorogoy’ (let us embrace, old boy), he added in a more vibrant voice but with his mournful expression unchanged (oddly remindful of that of Kosygin, the mayor of Yukonsk, receiving a girl scout’s bouquet or inspecting the damage caused by an earthquake). His breath carried the odor of what Van recognized with astonishment as a strong tranquilizer on a neocodein base, prescribed in the case of psychopathic pseudo bronchitis. As Andrey’s crumpled forlorn face came closer, one could distinguish various wartlets and lumps, none of them, however, placed in the one-sided jaunty position of his kid sister’s naric codicil. He kept his dun-colored hair as short as a soldier’s by means of his own clippers. He had the korrektnïy and neat appearance of the one-bath-per-week Estotian hobereau. (3.8)
Btw., Ilemna (renamed Novostabia) is both the Russian name of Iliamna (a volcano in southwest Alaska) and a historical settlement in central Russia, in the Province of Kaluga. The place name Ilemna comes from the old Russian word for "elm" and brings to mind Ada's words "No, it's an elm:"
Van, his eyes smiling, his angel-strong hands holding the child’s cold-carrot-soup legs just above the insteps, was ‘ploughing around’ with Lucette acting the sullow. Her bright hair hung over her face, her panties showed from under the hem of her skirt, yet she still urged the ploughboy on.
‘Budet, budet, that’ll do,’ said Marina to the plough team.
Van gently let her legs down and straightened her dress. She lay for a moment, panting.
‘I mean, I would love lending him to you for a ride any time. For any amount of time. Will you? Besides, I have another black.’
But she shook her head, she shook her bent head, while still twisting and twining her daisies.
‘Well,’ he said, getting up, ‘I must be going. Good-bye, everybody. Good-bye, Ada. I guess it’s your father under that oak, isn’t it?’
‘No, it’s an elm,’ said Ada.
Van looked across the lawn and said as if musing — perhaps with just a faint touch of boyish show-off:
‘I’d like to see that Two-Lice sheet too when Uncle is through with it. I was supposed to play for my school in yesterday’s cricket game. Veen sick, unable to bat, Riverlane humbled.’ (1.14)
Van's and Ada's Uncle Dan is Lucette's (not Ada's) father. Describing Lucette's visit to Kingston, Van quotes Ada's words:
‘I want to see you again soon,’ said Van, biting his thumb, brooding, cursing the pause, yearning for the contents of the blue envelope. ‘You must come and stay with me at a flat I now have on Alex Avenue. I have furnished the guest room with bergères and torchères and rocking chairs; it looks like your mother’s boudoir.’
Lucette curtseyed with the wicks of her sad mouth, à l’Américaine.
‘Will you come for a few days? I promise to behave properly. All right?’
‘My notion of propriety may not be the same as yours. And what about Cordula de Prey? She won’t mind?’
‘The apartment is mine,’ said Van, ‘and besides, Cordula is now Mrs Ivan G. Tobak. They are making follies in Florence. Here’s her last postcard. Portrait of Vladimir Christian of Denmark, who, she claims, is the dead spit of her Ivan Giovanovich. Have a look.’
‘Who cares for Sustermans,’ observed Lucette, with something of her uterine sister’s knight move of specious response, or a Latin footballer’s rovesciata.
No, it’s an elm. Half a millennium ago.
‘His ancestor,’ Van pattered on, ‘was the famous or fameux Russian admiral who had an épée duel with Jean Nicot and after whom the Tobago Islands, or the Tobakoff Islands, are named, I forget which, it was so long ago, half a millennium.’
‘I mentioned her only because an old sweetheart is easily annoyed by the wrong conclusions she jumps at like a cat not quite making a fence and then running off without trying again, and stopping to look back.’
‘Who told you about that lewd cordelude — I mean, interlude?’
‘Your father, mon cher — we saw a lot of him in the West. Ada supposed, at first, that Tapper was an invented name — that you fought your duel with another person — but that was before anybody heard of the other person’s death in Kalugano. Demon said you should have simply cudgeled him.’
‘I could not,’ said Van, ‘the rat was rotting away in a hospital bed.’
‘I meant the real Tapper,’ cried Lucette (who was making a complete mess of her visit), ‘not my poor, betrayed, poisoned, innocent teacher of music, whom not even Ada, unless she fibs, could cure of his impotence.’
‘Driblets,’ said Van.
‘Not necessarily his,’ said Lucette. ‘His wife’s lover played the triple viol. Look, I’ll borrow a book’ (scanning on the nearest bookshelf The Gitanilla, Clichy Clichés, Mertvago Forever, The Ugly New Englander) ‘and curl up, komondi, in the next room for a few minutes, while you — Oh, I adore The Slat Sign.’
‘There’s no hurry,’ said Van.
Pause (about fifteen minutes to go to the end of the act). (2.5)
The name of Cordula's first husband brings to mind Akh, otchego ya ne tabak! (Ah, why I am not tobacco!), the last line of Pushkin's poem Krasavitse, kotoraya nyukhala tabak ("To a Beauty who Sniffed Tobacco," 1814) and Chekhov's two monologue scenes O vrede tabaka ("On the Harm of Tobacco," 1886, 1903).