Describing the torments of poor mad Aqua (the twin sister of Van’s, Ada’s and Lucette’s mother Marina), Van Veen (the narrator and main character in VN’s novel Ada, 1969) mentions the guide who goes on demonstrating as he did this very morning in Florence a silly pillar commemorating, he said, the ‘elmo’ that broke into leaf when they carried stone-heavy-dead St Zeus by it through the gradual, gradual shade:
She developed a morbid sensitivity to the language of tap water — which echoes sometimes (much as the bloodstream does predormitarily) a fragment of human speech lingering in one’s ears while one washes one’s hands after cocktails with strangers. Upon first noticing this immediate, sustained, and in her case rather eager and mocking but really quite harmless replay of this or that recent discourse, she felt tickled at the thought that she, poor Aqua, had accidentally hit upon such a simple method of recording and transmitting speech, while technologists (the so-called Eggheads) all over the world were trying to make publicly utile and commercially rewarding the extremely elaborate and still very expensive, hydrodynamic telephones and other miserable gadgets that were to replace those that had gone k chertyam sobach’im (Russian ‘to the devil’) with the banning of an unmentionable ‘lammer.’ Soon, however, the rhythmically perfect, but verbally rather blurred volubility of faucets began to acquire too much pertinent sense. The purity of the running water’s enunciation grew in proportion to the nuisance it made of itself. It spoke soon after she had listened, or been exposed, to somebody talking — not necessarily to her — forcibly and expressively, a person with a rapid characteristic voice, and very individual or very foreign phrasal intonations, some compulsive narrator’s patter at a horrible party, or a liquid soliloquy in a tedious play, or Van’s lovely voice, or a bit of poetry heard at a lecture, my lad, my pretty, my love, take pity, but especially the more fluid and flou Italian verse, for instance that ditty recited between knee-knocking and palpebra-lifting, by a half-Russian, half-dotty old doctor, doc, toc, ditty, dotty, ballatetta, deboletta... tu, voce sbigottita... spigotty e diavoletta... de lo cor dolente... con ballatetta va... va... della strutta, destruttamente... mente... mente... stop that record, or the guide will go on demonstrating as he did this very morning in Florence a silly pillar commemorating, he said, the ‘elmo’ that broke into leaf when they carried stone-heavy-dead St Zeus by it through the gradual, gradual shade; or the Arlington harridan talking incessantly to her silent husband as the vineyards sped by, and even in the tunnel (they can’t do this to you, you tell them, Jack Black, you just tell them...). Bathwater (or shower) was too much of a Caliban to speak distinctly — or perhaps was too brutally anxious to emit the hot torrent and get rid of the infernal ardor — to bother about small talk; but the burbly flowlets grew more and more ambitious and odious, and when at her first ‘home’ she heard one of the most hateful of the visiting doctors (the Cavalcanti quoter) garrulously pour hateful instructions in Russian-lapped German into her hateful bidet, she decided to stop turning on tap water altogether. (1.3)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): lammer: amber (Fr: l’ambre), allusion to electricity.
my lad, my pretty, etc: paraphrase of a verse in Housman.
ballatetta: fragmentation and distortion of a passage in a ‘little ballad’ by the Italian poet Guido Cavalcanti (1255–1300). The relevant lines are: ‘you frightened and weak little voice that comes weeping from my woeful heart, go with my soul and that ditty, telling of a destroyed mind.’
Elmo is Italian for “helmet” and brings to mind the Helmeted Angel of the Yukonsk Ikon mentioned by Van when he describes his journey with Lucette (Van’s and Ada’s half-sister) on Admiral Tobakoff:
To most of the Tobakoff’s first-class passengers the afternoon of June 4, 1901, in the Atlantic, on the meridian of Iceland and the latitude of Ardis, seemed little conducive to open air frolics: the fervor of its cobalt sky kept being cut by glacial gusts, and the wash of an old-fashioned swimming pool rhythmically flushed the green tiles, but Lucette was a hardy girl used to bracing winds no less than to the detestable sun. Spring in Fialta and a torrid May on Minataor, the famous artificial island, had given a nectarine hue to her limbs, which looked lacquered with it when wet, but re-evolved their natural bloom as the breeze dried her skin. With glowing cheekbones and that glint of copper showing from under her tight rubber cap on nape and forehead, she evoked the Helmeted Angel of the Yukonsk Ikon whose magic effect was said to change anemic blond maidens into konskie deti, freckled red-haired lads, children of the Sun Horse. (3.5)
In his final theological work, Ikonostas (“Iconostasis,” 1922), Pavel Florenski (1882-1937) says that there are features of Zeus in Christ Pantocrator:
Русская иконопись XIV-XV веков есть достигнутое совершенство изобразительности, равного которому или даже подобного не знает история всемирного искусства и с которым в известном смысле можно сопоставлять только греческую скульптуру - тоже воплощение духовных образов и тоже, после светлого подъема, разложенную рационализмом и чувственностью. И вот, на этой вершине своей, иконопись, чуждая и тени аллегоризма, открывает духу светлые свои видения первозданной чистоты в формах столь непосредственно воспринимаемых, что в них сознаются каноны воистину всечеловеческие, и, будучи откровениями жизни во Христе более, чем что-либо другое, будучи чистейшим явлением собственно церковного творчества, это формы оказываются заветнейшими исконными формами всего человечества. Мы узнаем в них по частям и разрозненно открытое древними культурами - черты Зевса во Христе Вседержителе, Афины и Изиды в Богоматери и т. д., так что "оправдана мудрость чадами ея". Да, духовные видения, эти чада подготовлявшейся всею мировою историею древней мудрости, своей существенной истиной показали, что права была мудрость в своих предчувствиях и намеках истины. Можно сказать, чем онтологичнее видение, тем общечеловечнее форма, которою оно выразится, подобно тому как священные слова о самом таинственном - самые простые: отец и сын, рождение, согнивающее и прорастающее зерно, жених и невеста, хлеб и вино, дуновение ветра, солнце с его светом и т. д. Каноническая форма - это форма наибольшей естественности, то, проще чего не придумаешь, тогда как отступления от форм канонических стеснительны и искусственны: вот бы возопили вольные художники, если бы любые изобразительные формы любого из них были признаны нормою!
Khristos Vsederzhitel’ (Christ Pantocrator) reminds one of “another long-lashed Khristosik,” as G. A. Vronsky (the movie man) called all pretty starlets:
At one time Aqua believed that a stillborn male infant half a year old, a surprised little fetus, a fish of rubber that she had produced in her bath, in a lieu de naissance plainly marked X in her dreams, after skiing at full pulver into a larch stump, had somehow been saved and brought to her at the Nusshaus, with her sister’s compliments, wrapped up in blood-soaked cotton wool, but perfectly alive and healthy, to be registered as her son Ivan Veen. At other moments she felt convinced that the child was her sister’s, born out of wedlock, during an exhausting, yet highly romantic blizzard, in a mountain refuge on Sex Rouge, where a Dr Alpiner, general practitioner and gentian-lover, sat providentially waiting near a rude red stove for his boots to dry. Some confusion ensued less than two years later (September, 1871 — her proud brain still retained dozens of dates) when upon escaping from her next refuge and somehow reaching her husband’s unforgettable country house (imitate a foreigner: ‘Signor Konduktor, ay vant go Lago di Luga, hier geld’) she took advantage of his being massaged in the solarium, tiptoed into their former bedroom — and experienced a delicious shock: her talc powder in a half-full glass container marked colorfully Quelques Fleurs still stood on her bedside table; her favorite flame-colored nightgown lay rumpled on the bedrug; to her it meant that only a brief black nightmare had obliterated the radiant fact of her having slept with her husband all along — ever since Shakespeare’s birthday on a green rainy day, but for most other people, alas, it meant that Marina (after G.A. Vronsky, the movie man, had left Marina for another long-lashed Khristosik as he called all pretty starlets) had conceived, c’est bien le cas de le dire, the brilliant idea of having Demon divorce mad Aqua and marry Marina who thought (happily and correctly) she was pregnant again. Marina had spent a rukuliruyushchiy month with him at Kitezh but when she smugly divulged her intentions (just before Aqua’s arrival) he threw her out of the house. Still later, on the last short lap of a useless existence, Aqua scrapped all those ambiguous recollections and found herself reading and rereading busily, blissfully, her son’s letters in a luxurious ‘sanastoria’ at Centaur, Arizona. He invariably wrote in French calling her petite maman and describing the amusing school he would be living at after his thirteenth birthday. She heard his voice through the nightly tinnitus of her new, planful, last, last insomnias and it consoled her. He called her usually mummy, or mama, accenting the last syllable in English, the first, in Russian; somebody had said that triplets and heraldic dracunculi often occurred in trilingual families; but there was absolutely no doubt whatsoever now (except, perhaps, in hateful long-dead Marina’s hell-dwelling mind) that Van was her, her, Aqua’s, beloved son. (1.3)
Khristosik: little Christ (Russ.).
rukuliruyushchiy: Russ., from Fr. roucoulant, cooing.
This time Marina was pregnant with Ada. Stone-heavy-dead St Zeus in Aqua’s delirium seems to foreshadow the Stone Cuckold’s revenge mentioned by Van when he describes Don Juan’s Last Fling, the movie (in which Ada played the gitanilla) that Van and Lucette watch in the Tobakoff cinema hall:
The gitanilla bends her head over the live table of Leporello’s servile back to trace on a scrap of parchment a rough map of the way to the castle. Her neck shows white through her long black hair separated by the motion of her shoulder. It is no longer another man’s Dolores, but a little girl twisting an aquarelle brush in the paint of Van’s blood, and Donna Anna’s castle is now a bog flower.
The Don rides past three windmills, whirling black against an ominous sunset, and saves her from the miller who accuses her of stealing a fistful of flour and tears her thin dress. Wheezy but still game, Juan carries her across a brook (her bare toe acrobatically tickling his face) and sets her down, top up, on the turf of an olive grove. Now they stand facing each other. She fingers voluptuously the jeweled pommel of his sword, she rubs her firm girl belly against his embroidered tights, and all at once the grimace of a premature spasm writhes across the poor Don’s expressive face. He angrily disentangles himself and staggers back to his steed.
Van, however, did not understand until much later (when he saw — had to see; and then see again and again — the entire film, with its melancholy and grotesque ending in Donna Anna’s castle) that what seemed an incidental embrace constituted the Stone Cuckold’s revenge. In fact, being upset beyond measure, he decided to go even before the olive-grove sequence dissolved. Just then three old ladies with stony faces showed their disapproval of the picture by rising from beyond Lucette (who was slim enough to remain seated) and brushing past Van (who stood up) in three jerky shuffles. Simultaneously he noticed two people, the long-lost Robinsons, who apparently had been separated from Lucette by those three women, and were now moving over to her. Beaming and melting in smiles of benevolence and self-effacement, they sidled up and plumped down next to Lucette, who turned to them with her last, last, last free gift of staunch courtesy that was stronger than failure and death. They were craning already across her, with radiant wrinkles and twittery fingers toward Van when he pounced upon their intrusion to murmur a humorous bad-sailor excuse and leave the cinema hall to its dark lurching. (3.5)
After the movie, Lucette, spurned by Van, commits suicide by jumping into the Atlantic. Poor mad Aqua committed suicide by taking poison. In his memoir essay O svyashchennike Pavle Florenskom ("On the Priest Pavel Florenski") included his book Vospominaniya o Rossii (“The Reminiscences of Russia,” 1959) Leonid Sabaneyev says that three pupils of Florenski (who perished in the Solovki labor camp) committed suicide:
Очень черный и очень худой, он всегда смотрел почему-то вниз и слегка вбок, глаз своих не любил показывать. Он никогда не улыбался. Странное дело — у него было много учеников, по-видимому, он их обучал не только обычным для духовных наук классическим богословским предметам, но и давал им эзотерические знания и привычки. Трое из его учеников покончили жизнь самоубийством, — из него исходили мощные флюиды, и я сам это чувствовал, чувствовал и то, что не все флюиды были благостные, были и очень демонические.
Florenski's demonicheskie flyuidy (demonic fluids) bring to mind Demonia (aka Antiterra, Earth's twin planet on which Ada is set). Despite his surname (typical for Russian clergy), Florenski (whose mother was Armenian and who was born in Armenia) might be a Moldavian, or a Greek, or even an Armenian:
Флоренский был человеком необычайным даже по своей наружности. Хотя его фамилия несомненно свидетельствует, что он сам происходил из духовного звания, — его тип был не русский: он мог быть молдаванином, или греком, или даже армянином. По-видимому, он был полным аскетом, и несомненно, что он был очень хорошо знаком со стажем так называемого «умного делания», — по моему впечатлению, в нем гностика было больше, чем православного или католического понимания. (Sabaneyev)
Describing his first night on Admiral Tobakoff, Van mentions his recent visit to Armenia:
At five p.m., June 3, his ship had sailed from Le Havre-de-Grâce; on the evening of the same day Van embarked at Old Hantsport. He had spent most of the afternoon playing court tennis with Delaurier, the famous Negro coach, and felt very dull and drowsy as he watched the low sun’s ardency break into green-golden eye-spots a few sea-serpent yards to starboard, on the far-side slope of the bow wave. Presently he decided to turn in, walked down to the A deck, devoured some of the still-life fruit prepared for him in his sitting room, attempted to read in bed the proofs of an essay he was contributing to a festschrift on the occasion of Professor Counterstone’s eightieth birthday, gave it up, and fell asleep. A tempest went into convulsions around midnight, but despite the lunging and creaking (Tobakoff was an embittered old vessel) Van managed to sleep soundly, the only reaction on the part of his dormant mind being the dream image of an aquatic peacock, slowly sinking before somersaulting like a diving grebe, near the shore of the lake bearing his name in the ancient kingdom of Arrowroot. Upon reviewing that bright dream he traced its source to his recent visit to Armenia where he had gone fowling with Armborough and that gentleman’s extremely compliant and accomplished niece. He wanted to make a note of it — and was amused to find that all three pencils had not only left his bed table but had neatly aligned themselves head to tail along the bottom of the outer door of the adjacent room, having covered quite a stretch of blue carpeting in the course of their stopped escape. (3.5)
At the beginning of "Iconostasis" Florenski discusses dreams:
Сон — вот первая и простейшая, т. е. в смысле нашей полной привычки к нему, ступень жизни в невидимом. Пусть эта ступень есть низшая, по крайней мере чаще всего бывает низшей; но и сон, даже в диком своем состоянии, невоспитанный сон, — восторгает душу в невидимое и дает даже самым нечутким из нас предощущение, что есть и иное, кроме того, что мы склонны считать единственно жизнью. И мы знаем: на пороге сна и бодрствования, при прохождении промежуточной между ними области, этой границы их соприкосновения, душа наша обступается сновидениями.
At the end of his memoir essay on Florenski Sabaneyev mentions Florenski's prediction made at Skryabin's funeral in 1915 and apofeoz Stalina (Stalin's apotheosis) in 1947 (the year when VN's novel Bend Sinister came out):
Помню его у гроба Скрябина, которым он очень интересовался именно как человеком гностического склада ума. Но Скрябин не имел никакой ни философской, ни богословской культуры — он был просто мечтатель, музыкант, и многое в нем было от прирожденного или благоприобретенного «психоза». Флоренский был очень умен и обладал мощным духом, психоза в нем не было, но было «касание тайн». Стоя у гроба Скрябина, он мне сказал своим тихим голосом, смотря по своему обыкновению в землю и вбок: «Он (Скрябин) не свершил то, что хотел свершить. Но я вижу, что через тридцать два года, возможно, произойдет то, о чем он думал».
О чем думал Скрябин?.. Он думал о конце мира. который должен был произойти от его «Мистерии». Я на всякий случай запомнил дату, назначенную Флоренским. Тридцать два года — тогда был 1915 год, значит, то, что думал Скрябин, должно было произойти в 1947 году. В 1947 году был апофеоз Сталина, я уже больше чем двадцать лет как покинул Россию.
Однако вскоре я узнал, что пророчество Флоренского имело некоторое основание: в 1937 году он сам умер в Соловецком бывшем монастыре, обращенном в каторжную тюрьму, куда его заключил «отец народов». Видимо, флюиды все-таки дали ему извещение, хотя не совсем точное. Но с другой стороны, скрябинская «Мистерия» ведь долженствовала быть концом всего — «общей смертью»; наверное, Флоренский почувствовал в этот момент свою собственную смерть.
The Night of the Burning Barn (when Van and Ada make love for the first time) is apofeoz (apotheosis) of "Ardis the First:"
'Fine,’ said Van, ‘that’s certainly fascinating; but I was thinking of the first time you might have suspected I was also a sick pig or horse. I am recalling,’ he continued, ‘the round table in the round rosy glow and you kneeling next to me on a chair. I was perched on the chair’s swelling arm and you were building a house of cards, and your every movement was magnified, of course, as in a trance, dream-slow but also tremendously vigilant, and I positively reveled in the girl odor of your bare arm and in that of your hair which now is murdered by some popular perfume. I date the event around June 10 — a rainy evening less than a week after my first arrival at Ardis.’
‘I remember the cards,’ she said, ‘and the light and the noise of the rain, and your blue cashmere pullover — but nothing else, nothing odd or improper, that came later. Besides, only in French love stories les messieurs hument young ladies.’
‘Well, I did while you went on with your delicate work. Tactile magic. Infinite patience. Fingertips stalking gravity. Badly bitten nails, my sweet. Forgive these notes, I cannot really express the discomfort of bulky, sticky desire. You see I was hoping that when your castle toppled you would make a Russian splash gesture of surrender and sit down on my hand.’
‘It was not a castle. It was a Pompeian Villa with mosaics and paintings inside, because I used only court cards from Grandpa’s old gambling packs. Did I sit down on your hot hard hand?’
‘On my open palm, darling. A pucker of paradise. You remained still for a moment, fitting my cup. Then you rearranged your limbs and reknelt.’
‘Quick, quick, quick, collecting the flat shining cards again to build again, again slowly? We were abominably depraved, weren’t we?’
‘All bright kids are depraved. I see you do recollect —’
‘Not that particular occasion, but the apple tree, and when you kissed my neck, et tout le reste. And then — zdravstvuyte: apofeoz, the Night of the Burning Barn!’ (1.18)
One of the seconds at Demon's sword duel with Baron d'Onsky (Skonky) is Colonel St Alin, a scoundrel:
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)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): Aardvark: apparently, a university town in New England.
Gamaliel: a much more fortunate statesman than our W.G. Harding.
Demon's adversary, Baron d'Onsky seems to be a cross between Dmitri Donskoy, the Moscow Prince who defeated Khan Mamay in the battle of Kulikovo (1380), and Onegin's donskoy zherebets (Don stallion) in Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin (Two: V: 1-8):
Сначала все к нему езжали;
Но так как с заднего крыльца
Обыкновенно подавали
Ему донского жеребца,
Лишь только вдоль большой дороги
Заслышат их домашни дроги, —
Поступком оскорбясь таким,
Все дружбу прекратили с ним.
At first they all would call on him,
but since to the back porch
habitually a Don stallion
for him was brought
as soon as one made out along the highway
the sound of their domestic runabouts —
outraged by such behavior,
they all ceased to be friends with him.
At the beginning of EO (One: II: 3) Pushkin mentions Zeves (Zeus) and his lofty will. Pushkin is the author of Kamennyi gost' ("The Stone Guest," 1830), a little tragedy known on Demonia as "The Marmoreal Guest:"
Two other phenomena that she had observed even earlier proved ridiculously misleading. She must have been about nine when that elderly gentleman, an eminent painter whom she could not and would not name, came several times to dinner at Ardis Hall. Her drawing teacher, Miss Wintergreen, respected him greatly, though actually her natures mortes were considered (in 1888 and again 1958) incomparably superior to the works of the celebrated old rascal who drew his diminutive nudes invariably from behind — fig-picking, peach-buttocked nymphets straining upward, or else rock-climbing girl scouts in bursting shorts —
‘I know exactly,’ interrupted Van angrily, ‘whom you mean, and would like to place on record that even if his delicious talent is in disfavor today, Paul J. Gigment had every right to paint schoolgirls and poolgirls from any side he pleased. Proceed.’
Every time (said unruffled Ada) Pig Pigment came, she cowered when hearing him trudge and snort and pant upstairs, ever nearer like the Marmoreal Guest, that immemorial ghost, seeking her, crying for her in a thin, querulous voice not in keeping with marble.
‘Poor old chap,’ murmured Van. (1.18)