Before the family dinner in "Ardis the Second" Demon Veen (in VN's novel Ada, 1969, Van's and Ada's father) offers his arm kalachikom (in the form of a Russian crescent loaf) to Marina (Van's, Ada's and Lucette's mother):
It was now Marina’s turn to make her entrée, which she did in excellent chiaroscuro circumstances, wearing a spangled dress, her face in the soft focus sought by ripe stars, holding out both arms and followed by Jones, who carried two flambeaux and kept trying to keep within the limits of decorum the odd little go-away kicks he was aiming backwards at a brown flurry in the shadows.
‘Marina!’ cried Demon with perfunctory enthusiasm, and patted her hand as he joined her on a settee.
Puffing rhythmically, Jones set one of his beautiful dragon-entwined flambeaux on the low-boy with the gleaming drinks and was about to bring over its fellow to the spot where Demon and Marina were winding up affable preliminaries but was quickly motioned by Marina to a pedestal near the striped fish. Puffing, he drew the curtains, for nothing but picturesque ruins remained of the day. Jones was new, very efficient, solemn and slow, and one had to get used gradually to his ways and wheeze. Years later he rendered me a service that I will never forget.
‘She’s a jeune fille fatale, a pale, heart-breaking beauty,’ Demon confided to his former mistress without bothering to discover whether the subject of his praise could hear him (she did) from the other end of the room where she was helping Van to corner the dog — and showing much too much leg in the process. Our old friend, being quite as excited as the rest of the reunited family, had scampered in after Marina with an old miniver-furred slipper in his merry mouth. The slipper belonged to Blanche, who had been told to whisk Dack to her room but, as usual, had not incarcerated him properly. Both children experienced a chill of déjà-vu (a twofold déjà-vu, in fact, when contemplated in artistic retrospect).
‘Pozhalsta bez glupostey (please, no silly things), especially devant les gens,’ said deeply flattered Marina (sounding the final ‘s’ as her granddams had done); and when the slow fish-mouthed footman had gone carrying away, supine, high-chested Dack and his poor plaything, she continued: ‘Really, in comparison to the local girls, to Grace Erminin, for example, or Cordula de Prey, Ada is a Turgenevian maiden or even a Jane Austen miss.’
‘I’m Fanny Price, actually,’ commented Ada.
‘In the staircase scene,’ added Van.
‘Let’s not bother about their private jokes,’ said Marina to Demon. ‘I never can understand their games and little secrets. Mlle Larivière, however, has written a wonderful screenplay about mysterious children doing strange things in old parks — but don’t let her start talking of her literary successes tonight, that would be fatal.’
‘I hope your husband won’t be too late,’ said Demon. ‘He is not at his best after eight p.m., summertime, you know. By the way, how’s Lucette?’
At this moment both battants of the door were flung open by Bouteillan in the grand manner, and Demon offered kalachikom (in the form of a Russian crescent loaf) his arm to Marina. Van, who in his father’s presence was prone to lapse into a rather dismal sort of playfulness, proposed taking Ada in, but she slapped his wrist away with a sisterly sans-gêne, of which Fanny Price might not have approved. (1.38)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): devant les gens: in front of the servants.
Fanny Price: the heroine of Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park.
Kalachikom is Instrumental Case of kalachik, diminutive of kalach (Russian crescent loaf). In his humorous poem Istoriya Gosudarstva Rossiyskogo ot Gostomysla do Timasheva (“The History of the Russian State from Gostomysl to Timashev,” 1868) A. K. Tolstoy (1817-1875) calls the tsar Ivan the Terrible (1530-1584), a grandson of Ivan III, "Kalach na tsarstve tyortyi / I mnogikh zhyon suprug (Old stager on the throne and of many wives the spouse):"
Настал Иван Четвертый,
Он Третьему был внук;
Калач на царстве тертый
И многих жен супруг.
In Tolstoy's poem the Empress Catherine II, in reply to Voltaire and Diderot who wrote her that she should give freedom to her subjects, uses the phrase “vous me comblez” (you overwhelm me with kindness):
«Madame, при вас на диво
Порядок расцветёт, —
Писали ей учтиво
Вольтер и Дидерот, —
Лишь надобно народу,
Которому вы мать,
Скорее дать свободу,
Скорей свободу дать».
«Messieurs, — им возразила
Она, — vous me comblez», —
И тотчас прикрепила
Украинцев к земле.
At the family dinner in "Ardis the Second" Demon tells Marina "Vous me comblez:"
‘Vous me comblez,’ said Demon in reference to the burgundy, ‘though’ pravda, my maternal grandfather would have left the table rather than see me drinking red wine instead of champagne with gelinotte. Superb, my dear (blowing a kiss through the vista of flame and silver).’ (1.38)
Darkbloom ('Notes to Ada'): vous me comblez: you overwhelm me with kindness.
pravda: Russ., it’s true.
gelinotte: hazel-hen.
On the other hand, kalachikom brings to mind Kalach-on-Don, an old Cossack town in the Province of Volgograd (formerly Tsaritsyn and Stalingrad). In March 1869 Demon Veen had a sword duel with Baron d'Onsky, Marina's lover whose name seems to hint at Onegin's donskoy zherebets (Don stallion) in Pushkin's Eugene Onegin (Two: V: 4) and at Dmitri Donskoy, a Moscow Prince who defeated the Tartars led by Khan Mamay in the battle of Kulikovo (1380). Describing the family dinner in "Ardis the Second," Van mentions a scratch that Demon received in his sword duel with d'Onsky:
It was a black hot humid night in mid-July, 1888, at Ardis, in Ladore county, let us not forget, let us never forget, with a family of four seated around an oval dinner table, bright with flowers and crystal — not a scene in a play, as might have seemed — nay, must have seemed — to a spectator (with a camera or a program) placed in the velvet pit of the garden. Sixteen years had elapsed from the end of Marina’s three-year affair with Demon. Intermissions of various length — a break of two months in the spring of 1870, another, of almost four, in the middle of 1871 — had at the time only increased the tenderness and the torture. Her singularly coarsened features, her attire, that sequin-spangled dress, the glittering net over her strawberry-blond dyed hair, her red sunburnt chest and melodramatic make-up, with too much ochre and maroon in it, did not even vaguely remind the man, who had loved her more keenly than any other woman in his philanderings, of the dash, the glamour, the lyricism of Marina Durmanov’s beauty. It aggrieved him — that complete collapse of the past, the dispersal of its itinerant court and music-makers; the logical impossibility to relate the dubious reality of the present to the unquestionable one of remembrance. Even these hors-d’oeuvres on the zakusochnïy stol of Ardis Manor and its painted dining room did not link up with their petits soupers, although, God knows, the triple staple to start with was always much the same — pickled young boletes in their tight-fitting glossy fawn helmets, the gray beads of fresh caviar, the goose liver paste, pique-aced with Perigord truffles.
Demon popped into his mouth a last morsel of black bread with elastic samlet, gulped down a last pony of vodka and took his place at the table with Marina facing him across its oblong length, beyond the great bronze bowl with carved-looking Calville apples and elongated Persty grapes. The alcohol his vigorous system had already imbibed was instrumental, as usual, in reopening what he gallicistically called condemned doors, and now as he gaped involuntarily as all men do while spreading a napkin, he considered Marina’s pretentious ciel-étoilé hairdress and tried to realize (in the rare full sense of the word), tried to possess the reality of a fact by forcing it into the sensuous center, that here was a woman whom he had intolerably loved, who had loved him hysterically and skittishly, who insisted they make love on rugs and cushions laid on the floor (‘as respectable people do in the Tigris-Euphrates valley’), who would woosh down fluffy slopes on a bobsleigh a fortnight after parturition, or arrive by the Orient Express with five trunks, Dack’s grandsire, and a maid, to Dr Stella Ospenko’s ospedale where he was recovering from a scratch received in a sword duel (and still visible as a white weal under his eighth rib after a lapse of nearly seventeen years). How strange that when one met after a long separation a chum or fat aunt whom one had been fond of as a child the unimpaired human warmth of the friendship was rediscovered at once, but with an old mistress this never happened — the human part of one’s affection seemed to be swept away with the dust of the inhuman passion, in a wholesale operation of demolishment. He looked at her and acknowledged the perfection of the potage, but she, this rather thick-set woman, goodhearted, no doubt, but restive and sour-faced, glazed over, nose, forehead and all, with a sort of brownish oil that she considered to be more ‘juvenizing’ than powder, was more of a stranger to him than Bouteillan who had once carried her in his arms, in a feigned faint, out of a Ladore villa and into a cab, after a final, quite final row, on the eve of her wedding.
Marina, essentially a dummy in human disguise, experienced no such qualms, lacking as she did that third sight (individual, magically detailed imagination) which many otherwise ordinary and conformant people may also possess, but without which memory (even that of a profound ‘thinker’ or technician of genius) is, let us face it, a stereotype or a tear-sheet. We do not wish to be too hard on Marina; after all, her blood throbs in our wrists and temples, and many of our megrims are hers, not his. Yet we cannot condone the grossness of her soul. The man sitting at the head of the table and joined to her by a pair of cheerful youngsters, the ‘juvenile’ (in movie parlance) on her right, the ‘ingénue’ on her left, differed in no way from the same Demon in much the same black jacket (minus perhaps the carnation he had evidently purloined from a vase Blanche had been told to bring from the gallery) who sat next to her at the Praslin’s last Christmas. The dizzy chasm he felt every time he met her, that awful ‘wonder of life’ with its extravagant jumble of geological faults, could not be bridged by what she accepted as a dotted line of humdrum encounters: ‘poor old’ Demon (all her pillow mates being retired with that title) appeared before her like a harmless ghost, in the foyers of theaters ‘between mirror and fan,’ or in the drawing rooms of common friends, or once in Lincoln Park, indicating an indigo-buttocked ape with his cane and not saluting her, according to the rules of the beau monde, because he was with a courtesan. Somewhere, further back, much further back, safely transformed by her screen-corrupted mind into a stale melodrama was her three-year-long period of hectically spaced love-meetings with Demon, A Torrid Affair (the title of her only cinema hit), passion in palaces, the palms and larches, his Utter Devotion, his impossible temper, separations, reconciliations, Blue Trains, tears, treachery, terror, an insane sister’s threats, helpless, no doubt, but leaving their tiger-marks on the drapery of dreams, especially when dampness and dark affect one with fever. And the shadow of retribution on the backwall (with ridiculous legal innuendos). All this was mere scenery, easily packed, labeled ‘Hell’ and freighted away; and only very infrequently some reminder would come — say, in the trickwork close-up of two left hands belonging to different sexes — doing what? Marina could no longer recall (though only four years had elapsed!) — playing à quatre mains? — no, neither took piano lessons — casting bunny-shadows on a wall? — closer, warmer, but still wrong; measuring something? But what? Climbing a tree? The polished trunk of a tree? But where, when? Someday, she mused, one’s past must be put in order. Retouched, retaken. Certain ‘wipes’ and ‘inserts’ will have to be made in the picture; certain telltale abrasions in the emulsion will have to be corrected; ‘dissolves’ in the sequence discreetly combined with the trimming out of unwanted, embarrassing ‘footage,’ and definite guarantees obtained; yes, someday — before death with its clap-stick closes the scene. (1.38)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): zakusochnïy etc.: Russ., table with hors-d’oeuvres.
petits soupers: intimate suppers.
Persty: Evidently Pushkin’s vinograd:
as elongated and transparent
as are the fingers of a girl.
(devï molodoy, jeune fille)
ciel-étoilé: starry sky.
Van mentions Demon's and Marina's petits soupers. In the Foreword to their French translation (1863) of Pushkin's Eugene Onegin Ivan Tourgueniev (Turgenev, the author of Fathers and Sons, 1862) and Louis Viardot mention la grande Catherine et les petits soupers de l’Ermitage:
Ce n’est pas à nous qu’il appartient de décider si Pouchkine imitant Byron est supérieur à Pouchkine imitant Shakspeare. Mais nous pouvons constater qu’en Russie le roman-poëme appelé Ievguéni (Eugène) Onéguine passe généralement pour le chef-d’œuvre de son auteur.
Ce roman-poëme fut composé à différentes époques et publié en divers fragments. Ainsi le premier chapitre parut en 1823 et le dernier en 1831. Né au mois de mai 1799, Alexandre Pouchkine avait écrit, en 1820, une Ode à la Liberté. L’empereur Alexandre Ier vit un crime d’État dans cette poésie de collège. Il en condamna le jeune auteur à être enfermé le reste de sa vie, comme un moine prévaricateur, dans le couvent disciplinaire de Solovetsk, situé sur un îlot de la mer Blanche, au delà d’Archangel. L’historien Karamsine, à qui Pouchkine dédia plus tard son drame de Boris Godounoff, prit pitié du jeune poète et le sauva : il obtint que sa réclusion perpétuelle fût commuée en exil. Pouchkine fut d’abord envoyé à Kichenef, en Bessarabie, puis à Odessa, puis à son village de Mikhaïlovskoïé, dans le gouvernement de Pskof, où il resta jusqu’à l’amnistie accordée par l’empereur Nicolas, en 1826, à propos de son couronnement.
Le poëme d’Onéguine se ressent de la diversité des lieux, des époques et des situations où furent composées les différentes parties de l’œuvre. Lorsque Pouchkine en écrit le premier chapitre, presque au sortir des bancs de l’école, il est encore imbu des poésies légères françaises du dix-huitième siècle, très à la mode en Russie depuis la grande Catherine et les petits soupers de l’Ermitage ; mais lorsque, plus tard et confiné dans son village, il étudie avec passion les Allemands et les Anglais, Goethe, Schiller, Shakspeare, Walter Scott et Byron, son poème prend un nouveau caractère, acquiert un nouveau souffle, en même temps que Pouchkine, prenant lui-même de la maturité, acquiert de la force et du goût. (Note des traducteurs.)
According to Marina, Ada is a Turgenevian maiden or even a Jane Austen miss.