When Van Veen (the narrator and main character in VN’s novel Ada, 1969) and Ada (now married to Andrey Vinelander) meet in Mont Roux in October 1905 (half a year after Demon Veen's death in a mysterious airplane disaster above the Pacific), Ada tells Van about the hag who visited her at the Agavia Ranch and demanded certain fantastic sums — which Demon had not had time to pay, for "popping the hymen:"
‘My upper-lip space feels indecently naked.’ (He had shaved his mustache off with howls of pain in her presence). ‘And I cannot keep sucking in my belly all the time.’
‘Oh, I like you better with that nice overweight — there’s more of you. It’s the maternal gene, I suppose, because Demon grew leaner and leaner. He looked positively Quixotic when I saw him at Mother’s funeral. It was all very strange. He wore blue mourning. D’Onsky’s son, a person with only one arm, threw his remaining one around Demon and both wept comme des fontaines. Then a robed person who looked like an extra in a technicolor incarnation of Vishnu made an incomprehensible sermon. Then she went up in smoke. He said to me, sobbing: "I will not cheat the poor grubs!" Practically a couple of hours after he broke that promise we had sudden visitors at the ranch — an incredibly graceful moppet of eight, black-veiled, and a kind of duenna, also in black, with two bodyguards. The hag demanded certain fantastic sums — which Demon, she said, had not had time to pay, for "popping the hymen" — whereupon I had one of our strongest boys throw out vsyu (the entire) kompaniyu.’
‘Extraordinary,’ said Van, ‘they had been growing younger and younger — I mean the girls, not the strong silent boys. His old Rosalind had a ten-year-old niece, a primed chickabiddy. Soon he would have been poaching them from the hatching chamber.’
‘You never loved your father,’ said Ada sadly.
‘Oh, I did and do — tenderly, reverently, understandingly, because, after all, that minor poetry of the flesh is something not unfamiliar to me. But as far as we are concerned, I mean you and I, he was buried on the same day as our uncle Dan.’
‘I know, I know. It’s pitiful! And what use was it? Perhaps I oughtn’t to tell you, but his visits to Agavia kept getting rarer and shorter every year. Yes, it was pitiful to hear him and Andrey talking. I mean, Andrey n’a pas le verbe facile, though he greatly appreciated — without quite understanding it — Demon’s wild flow of fancy and fantastic fact, and would often exclaim, with his Russian "tssk-tssk" and a shake of the head — complimentary and all that — "what a balagur (wag) you are!" — And then, one day, Demon warned me that he would not come any more if he heard again poor Andrey’s poor joke (Nu i balagur-zhe vï, Dementiy Labirintovich) or what Dorothy, l’impayable ("priceless for impudence and absurdity") Dorothy, thought of my camping out in the mountains with only Mayo, a cowhand, to protect me from lions.’
‘Could one hear more about that?’ asked Van.
‘Well, nobody did. All this happened at a time when I was not on speaking terms with my husband and sister-in-law, and so could not control the situation. Anyhow, Demon did not come even when he was only two hundred miles away and simply mailed instead, from some gaming house, your lovely, lovely letter about Lucette and my picture.’
‘One would also like to know some details of the actual coverture — frequence of intercourse, pet names for secret warts, favorite smells —’
‘Platok momental’no (handkerchief quick)! Your right nostril is full of damp jade,’ said Ada, and then pointed to a lawnside circular sign, rimmed with red, saying: Chiens interdits and depicting an impossible black mongrel with a white ribbon around its neck: Why, she wondered, should the Swiss magistrates forbid one to cross highland terriers with poodles? (3.8)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): comme etc.: shedding floods of tears.
N’a pas le verbe etc.: lacks the gift of the gab.
chiens etc.: dogs not allowed.
In a letter of February 20, 1826, from Mikhaylovskoe (Pushkin’s family estate in the Province of Pskov) to Baron Delvig in St. Petersburg Pushkin congratulates Delvig (Pushkin’s Lyceum friend who married Sofia Saltykov on October 30, 1825) with his wedding, exclaims "Io hymen Hymenaee io, / Io hymen Hymenaee!" and quotes the words of Paul the Apostle “it is better to marry than to burn with passion:”
Мой друг барон, я на тебя не дулся и долгое твое молчание великодушно извинял твоим Гименеем
Io hymen Hymenaee io,
Io hymen Hymenaee!
т. е. чёрт побери вашу свадьбу, свадьбу вашу чёрт побери. Когда друзья мои женятся, им смех, а мне горе; но так и быть: апостол Павел говорит в одном из своих посланий, что лучше взять себе жену, чем идти в геенну и во огнь вечный, — обнимаю и поздравляю тебя — рекомендуй меня баронессе Дельвиг.
In The First Epistle to the Corinthians (7:9) Apostle Paul says: "But if you cannot restrain your desires, go ahead and marry—it is better to marry than to burn with passion." Die Braut von Corinth ("The Bride of Corinth," 1798) is a ballad by J. W. von Goethe (a German poet and novelist, 1749-1832). It tells the tragic story of a young pagan man who arrives in Corinth to marry his betrothed, only to discover she has been forced into a convent and has returned from the grave as a vampire to consummate their love. In Goethe's tragedy Faust (1808-32) demon Mephistopheles first appears to Faust as a large black poodle. Ada wonders, why should the Swiss magistrates forbid one to cross highland terriers with poodles. The main character in Byron's narrative poem The Siege of Corinth (1816), Alp (a Venetian renegade fighting for the Ottomans) brings to mind Countess Alp (Dr Lapiner's wife who left her husband to live with amateur poet Norbert von Miller):
A longish pause not unlike a fellow actor’s dry-up, came in response to his well-rehearsed speech.
Finally, Demon: ‘The second fact may horrify you even more than the first. I know it caused me much deeper worry — moral of course, not monetary — than Ada’s case — of which eventually her mother informed Cousin Dan, so that, in a sense —’
Pause, with an underground trickle.
‘Some other time I’ll tell you about the Black Miller; not now; too trivial.’
Dr Lapiner’s wife, born Countess Alp, not only left him, in 1871, to live with Norbert von Miller, amateur poet, Russian translator at the Italian Consulate in Geneva, and professional smuggler of neonegrine — found only in the Valais — but had imparted to her lover the melodramatic details of the subterfuge which the kindhearted physician had considered would prove a boon to one lady and a blessing to the other. Versatile Norbert spoke English with an extravagant accent, hugely admired wealthy people and, when name-dropping, always qualified such a person as ‘enawmously rich’ with awed amorous gusto, throwing himself back in his chair and spreading tensely curved arms to enfold an invisible fortune. He had a round head as bare as a knee, a corpse’s button nose, and very white, very limp, very damp hands adorned with rutilant gems. His mistress soon left him. Dr Lapiner died in 1872. About the same time, the Baron married an innkeeper’s innocent daughter and began to blackmail Demon Veen; this went on for almost twenty years, when aging Miller was shot dead by an Italian policeman on a little-known border trail, which had seemed to get steeper and muddier every year. Out of sheer kindness, or habit, Demon bade his lawyer continue to send Miller’s widow — who mistook it naively for insurance money — the trimestrial sum which had been swelling with each pregnancy of the robust Swissess. Demon used to say that he would publish one day’ Black Miller’s’ quatrains which adorned his letters with the jingle of verselets on calendarial leaves:
My spouse is thicker, I am leaner.
Again it comes, a new bambino.
You must be good like I am good.
Her stove is big and wants more wood.
We may add, to complete this useful parenthesis, that in early February, 1893, not long after the poet’s death, two other less successful blackmailers were waiting in the wings: Kim who would have bothered Ada again had he not been carried out of his cottage with one eye hanging on a red thread and the other drowned in its blood; and the son of one of the former employees of the famous clandestine-message agency after it had been closed by the U.S. Government in 1928, when the past had ceased to matter, and nothing but the straw of a prison-cell could reward the optimism of second-generation rogues.) (2.11)
Goethe's ballad Die Braut von Corinth was translated into Russian (as Korinfskaya nevesta, 1868) by A. K. Tolstoy (1817-1875), a poet and writer who in 1863 married Sofia Miller (born Bakhmetev, 1827-1895). Pis'mo iz Korinfa ("A Letter from Corinth," 1854) is a poem by Kozma Prutkov (a fictional author invented by A. K. Tolstoy and his cousins, the brothers Alexey, Vladimir and Alexander Zhemchuzhnikov). Count A. K. Tolstoy is the author of the dramatic trilogy The Death of Ivan the Terrible (1866), Tsar Fyodor Ioannovich (1868) and Tsar Boris (1870). On Van's eighth birthday (January 1, 1878) Demon made himself up as Boris Godunov in an amateur parody:
Van, whose finger had been gliding endlessly to and fro along the mute but soothingly smooth edge of the mahogany desk, now heard with horror the sob that shook Demon’s entire frame, and then saw a deluge of tears flowing down those hollow tanned cheeks. In an amateur parody, at Van’s birthday party fifteen years ago, his father had made himself up as Boris Godunov and shed strange, frightening, jet-black tears before rolling down the steps of a burlesque throne in death’s total surrender to gravity. Did those dark streaks, in the present show, come from his blackening his orbits, eyelashes, eyelids, eyebrows? The funest gamester... the pale fatal girl, in another well-known melodrama.... In this one. Van gave him a clean handkerchief to replace the soiled rag. His own marble calm did not surprise Van. The ridicule of a good cry with Father adequately clogged the usual ducts of emotion. (ibid.)
In his conversation with Ada in Mont Roux Van calls Demon's ten-year-old mistress "a primed chickabiddy" and says that soon Demon would have been poaching the girls from the hatching chamber. Chyornaya kuritsa, ili Podzemnye zhiteli ("The Little Black Hen, or the Underground People," 1829) is a fairy tale by Antoniy Pogorelski (the penname of Alexey Perovski, 1787-1836) written for ten-year-old Alyosha Tolstoy (Perovski's nephew). In a letter of August 17, 1825, from Mikhaylovskoe to Zhukovski in St. Petersburg Pushkin says that he hopes to finish his tragedy Boris Godunov by the winter and mentions Perovski who is just back from a trip to Italy ("Lucky Man! he saw both Rome and Mount Vesuvius"):
Отче, в руце твои предаю дух мой. Мне право совестно, что жилы мои так всех вас беспокоят — операция аневризма ничего не значит, и, ей-богу, первый псковской коновал с ними бы мог управиться. Во Псков поеду не прежде как в глубокую осень, оттуда буду тебе писать, светлая душа. — На днях виделся я у Пещурова с каким-то доктором-аматёром: он пуще успокоил меня — только здесь мне кюхельбекерно; согласен, что жизнь моя сбивалась иногда на эпиграмму, но вообще она была элегией в роде Коншина. Кстати об элегиях, трагедия моя идёт, и думаю к зиме её кончить; вследствие чего, читаю только Карамзина да летописи. Что за чудо эти 2 последние тома Карамзина! какая жизнь! c’est palpitant comme la gazette d’hier, писал я Раевскому. Одна просьба, моя прелесть: нельзя ли мне доставить или жизнь Железного колпака, или житие какого-нибудь юродивого. Я напрасно искал Василия Блаженного в Четьих Минеях — а мне бы очень нужно.
Обнимаю тебя от души. Вижу по газетам, что Перовский у вас. Счастливец! он видел и Рим и Везувий.
The eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 AD destroyed Pompeii, Herculaneum and Stabiae. Fourteen-year-old Van calls twelve-year-old Ada (who mentioned the Stabian flower girl) "Pompeianella:"
The two kids’ best find, however, came from another carton in a lower layer of the past. This was a small green album with neatly glued flowers that Marina had picked or otherwise obtained at Ex, a mountain resort, not far from Brig, Switzerland, where she had sojourned before her marriage, mostly in a rented chalet. The first twenty pages were adorned with a number of little plants collected at random, in August, 1869, on the grassy slopes above the chalet, or in the park of the Hotel Florey, or in the garden of the sanatorium neat: it (‘my nusshaus,’ as poor Aqua dubbed it, or ‘the Home,’ as Marina more demurely identified it in her locality notes). Those introductory pages did not present much botanical or psychological interest; and the fifty last pages or so remained blank; but the middle part, with a conspicuous decrease in number of specimens, proved to be a regular little melodrama acted out by the ghosts of dead flowers. The specimens were on one side of the folio, with Marina Dourmanoff (sic)’s notes en regard.
Ancolie Bleue des Alpes, Ex en Valais, i.IX.69. From Englishman in hotel. ‘Alpine Columbine, color of your eyes.’
Epervière auricule. 25.X.69, Ex, ex Dr Lapiner’s walled alpine garden.
Golden [ginkgo] leaf: fallen out of a book’ The Truth about Terra’ which Aqua gave me before going back to her Home. 14.XII.69.
Artificial edelweiss brought by my new nurse with a note from Aqua saying it came from a ‘mizernoe and bizarre’ Christmas Tree at the Home. 25.XII.69.
Petal of orchid, one of 99 orchids, if you please, mailed to me yesterday, Special Delivery, c’est bien le cas de le dire, from Villa Armina, Alpes Maritimes. Have laid aside ten for Aqua to be taken to her at her Home. Ex en Valais, Switzerland. ‘Snowing in Fate’s crystal ball,’ as he used to say. (Date erased.)
Gentiane de Koch, rare, brought by lapochka [darling] Lapiner from his ‘mute gentiarium’ 5.I.1870.
[blue-ink blot shaped accidentally like a flower, or improved felt-pen deletion] (Compliquaria compliquata var. aquamarina. Ex, 15.I.70.
Fancy flower of paper, found in Aqua’s purse. Ex, 16.II.1870, made by a fellow patient, at the Home, which is no longer hers.
Gentiana verna (printanière). Ex, 28.III.1870, on the lawn of my nurse’s cottage. Last day here.
The two young discoverers of that strange and sickening treasure commented upon it as follows:
‘I deduce,’ said the boy, ‘three main facts: that not yet married Marina and her married sister hibernated in my lieu de naissance; that Marina had her own Dr Krolik, pour ainsi dire; and that the orchids came from Demon who preferred to stay by the sea, his dark-blue great-grandmother.’
‘I can add,’ said the girl, ‘that the petal belongs to the common Butterfly Orchis; that my mother was even crazier than her sister; and that the paper flower so cavalierly dismissed is a perfectly recognizable reproduction of an early-spring sanicle that I saw in profusion on hills in coastal California last February. Dr Krolik, our local naturalist, to whom you, Van, have referred, as Jane Austen might have phrased it, for the sake of rapid narrative information (you recall Brown, don’t you, Smith?), has determined the example I brought back from Sacramento to Ardis, as the Bear-Foot, B,E,A,R, my love, not my foot or yours, or the Stabian flower girl’s — an allusion, which your father, who, according to Blanche, is also mine, would understand like this’ (American finger-snap). ‘You will be grateful,’ she continued, embracing him, ‘for my not mentioning its scientific name. Incidentally the other foot — the Pied de Lion from that poor little Christmas larch, is by the same hand — possibly belonging to a very sick Chinese boy who came all the way from Barkley College.’
‘Good for you, Pompeianella (whom you saw scattering her flowers in one of Uncle Dan’s picture books, but whom I admired last summer in a Naples museum). Now don’t you think we should resume our shorts and shirts and go down, and bury or burn this album at once, girl. Right?
‘Right,’ answered Ada. ‘Destroy and forget. But we still have an hour before tea.’ (1.1)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): Dr Lapiner: for some obscure but not unattractive reason, most of the physicians in the book turn out to bear names connected with rabbits. The French ‘lapin’ in Lapiner is matched by the Russian ‘Krolik’, the name of Ada’s beloved lepidopterist (p.13, et passim) and the Russian ‘zayats’ (hare) sounds like ‘Seitz’ (the German gynecologist on page 181); there is a Latin ‘cuniculus’ in ‘Nikulin’ (‘grandson of the great rodentiologist Kunikulinov’, p.341), and a Greek ‘lagos’ in ‘Lagosse’ (the doctor who attends Van in his old age). Note also Coniglietto, the Italian cancer-of-the-blood specialist, p.298.
mizernoe: Franco-Russian form of ‘miserable’ in the sense of ‘paltry’.
c’est bien le cas de le dire: and no mistake.
lieu de naissance: birthplace.
pour ainsi dire: so to say.
Jane Austen: allusion to rapid narrative information imparted through dialogue, in Mansfield Park.
‘Bear-Foot’, not ‘bare foot’: both children are naked.
Stabian flower girl: allusion to the celebrated mural painting (the so-called ‘Spring’) from Stabiae in the National Museum of Naples: a maiden scattering blossoms.
A. K. Tolstoy's most famous poem is Greshnitsa ("The Sinner," 1857). By Greshnitsa A. K. Tolstoy means Maria Magdalena. Describing his first day in “Ardis the Second,” Van mentions Ada’s mournful magdalene hair:
Van, sprawling supine, sick with memories, put his hands behind his nape and slit his eyes at the Lebanese blue of the sky between the fascicles of the foliage. Lucette fondly admired his long lashes while pitying his tender skin for the inflamed blotches and prickles between neck and jaw where shaving caused the most trouble. Ada, her keepsake profile inclined, her mournful magdalene hair hanging down (in sympathy with the weeping shadows) along her pale arm, sat examining abstractly the yellow throat of a waxy-white helleborine she had picked. She hated him, she adored him. He was brutal, she was defenseless. (1.32)
During his first meeting with Magda Peters, Robert Horn (the cartoonist in VN’s novel Camera Obscura, 1933) calls Magda “Magdalina” (Magdalena):
К сожалению, нельзя было так просто установить, дурен ли или хорош Мюллер. Странное, своеобразное лицо. Матово-черные волосы были небрежно причесаны на пробор сухой щеткой, на слегка впалые щеки как будто лег тонкий слой рисовой пудры. Блестящие рысьи глаза и треугольные ноздри ни минуты не оставались спокойными, между тем как нижняя часть лица с двумя мягкими складками по бокам рта была, напротив, весьма неподвижна, – изредка только он облизывал глянцевитые толстые губы. На нем были замечательная голубая рубашка, яркий, как тропическое небо, галстук и сине-вороной костюм с широченными панталонами. Он великолепно двигался, поводя крепкими квадратными плечами, – это был высокий и стройный мужчина. Магда ждала совсем не такого и несколько потерялась, когда, сидя со скрещенными руками на твердом стуле и сквозь зубы разговаривая с Левандовской о достопримечательностях Берлина, Мюллер принялся ее, Магду, потрошить взглядом; вдруг, перебив самого себя на полслове, он спросил ее резким, звенящим голосом, как ее зовут. Она сказала. «Ага, Магдалина», – произнес он с коротким смешком и, так же внезапно освободив ее от напора своего взгляда, продолжал свой глухой разговор с Левандовской. (Chapter III)
Robert Horn (who becomes Axel Rex in Laughter in the Dark, the 1938 English version of Camera Obscura) brings to mind Krasnyi Rog (Red Horn), A. K. Tolstoy's family estate in the Chernigov Governorate of the Russian Empire. Alice in the Camera Obscura is a book Van was given on his eighth birthday:
The Past, then, is a constant accumulation of images. It can be easily contemplated and listened to, tested and tasted at random, so that it ceases to mean the orderly alternation of linked events that it does in the large theoretical sense. It is now a generous chaos out of which the genius of total recall, summoned on this summer morning in 1922, can pick anything he pleases: diamonds scattered all over the parquet in 1888; a russet black-hatted beauty at a Parisian bar in 1901; a humid red rose among artificial ones in 1883; the pensive half-smile of a young English governess, in 1880, neatly reclosing her charge’s prepuce after the bedtime treat; a little girl, in 1884, licking the breakfast honey off the badly bitten nails of her spread fingers; the same, at thirty-three, confessing, rather late in the day, that she did not like flowers in vases; the awful pain striking him in the side while two children with a basket of mushrooms looked on in the merrily burning pine forest; and the startled quonk of a Belgian car, which he had overtaken and passed yesterday on a blind bend of the alpine highway. Such images tell us nothing about the texture of time into which they are woven — except, perhaps, in one matter which happens to be hard to settle. Does the coloration of a recollected object (or anything else about its visual effect) differ from date to date? Could I tell by its tint if it comes earlier or later, lower or higher, in the stratigraphy of my past? Is there any mental uranium whose dream-delta decay might be used to measure the age of a recollection? The main difficulty, I hasten to explain, consists in the experimenter not being able to use the same object at different times (say, the Dutch stove with its little blue sailing boats in the nursery of Ardis Manor in 1884 and 1888) because of the two or more impressions borrowing from one another and forming a compound image in the mind; but if different objects are to be chosen (say, the faces of two memorable coachmen: Ben Wright, 1884, and Trofim Fartukov, 1888), it is impossible, insofar as my own research goes, to avoid the intrusion not only of different characteristics but of different emotional circumstances, that do not allow the two objects to be considered essentially equal before, so to speak, their being exposed to the action of Time. I am not sure, that such objects cannot be discovered. In my professional work, in the laboratories of psychology, I have devised myself many a subtle test (one of which, the method of determining female virginity without physical examination, today bears my name). Therefore we can assume that the experiment can be performed — and how tantalizing, then, the discovery of certain exact levels of decreasing saturation or deepening brilliance — so exact that the ‘something’ which I vaguely perceive in the image of a remembered but unidentifiable person, and which assigns it ‘somehow’ to my early boyhood rather than to my adolescence, can be labeled if not with a name, at least with a definite date, e.g., January 1, 1908 (eureka, the ‘e.g.’ worked — he was my father’s former house tutor, who brought me Alice in the Camera Obscura for my eighth birthday). (Part Four)