The action in VN's novel Ada (1969) takes place on Demonia, Earth's twin planet also known as Antiterra. According to Van Veen (the narrator and main character in Ada), by the L disaster (that happened on Demonia in the beau milieu of the 19th century) he does not mean Elevated:
The details of the L disaster (and I do not mean Elevated) in the beau milieu of last century, which had the singular effect of both causing and cursing the notion of ‘Terra,’ are too well-known historically, and too obscene spiritually, to be treated at length in a book addressed to young laymen and lemans — and not to grave men or gravemen.
Of course, today, after great anti-L years of reactionary delusion have gone by (more or less!) and our sleek little machines, Faragod bless them, hum again after a fashion, as they did in the first half of the nineteenth century, the mere geographic aspect of the affair possesses its redeeming comic side, like those patterns of brass marquetry, and bric-à-Braques, and the ormolu horrors that meant ‘art’ to our humorless forefathers. For, indeed, none can deny the presence of something highly ludicrous in the very configurations that were solemnly purported to represent a varicolored map of Terra. Ved’ (‘it is, isn’t it’) sidesplitting to imagine that ‘Russia,’ instead of being a quaint synonym of Estoty, the American province extending from the Arctic no longer vicious Circle to the United States proper, was on Terra the name of a country, transferred as if by some sleight of land across the ha-ha of a doubled ocean to the opposite hemisphere where it sprawled over all of today’s Tartary, from Kurland to the Kuriles! But (even more absurdly), if, in Terrestrial spatial terms, the Amerussia of Abraham Milton was split into its components, with tangible water and ice separating the political, rather than poetical, notions of ‘America’ and ‘Russia,’ a more complicated and even more preposterous discrepancy arose in regard to time — not only because the history of each part of the amalgam did not quite match the history of each counterpart in its discrete condition, but because a gap of up to a hundred years one way or another existed between the two earths; a gap marked by a bizarre confusion of directional signs at the crossroads of passing time with not all the no-longers of one world corresponding to the not-yets of the other. It was owing, among other things, to this ‘scientifically ungraspable’ concourse of divergences that minds bien rangés (not apt to unhobble hobgoblins) rejected Terra as a fad or a fantom, and deranged minds (ready to plunge into any abyss) accepted it in support and token of their own irrationality.
As Van Veen himself was to find out, at the time of his passionate research in terrology (then a branch of psychiatry) even the deepest thinkers, the purest philosophers, Paar of Chose and Zapater of Aardvark, were emotionally divided in their attitude toward the possibility that there existed 'a distortive glass of our distorted glebe’ as a scholar who desires to remain unnamed has put it with such euphonic wit. (Hm! Kveree-kveree, as poor Mlle L. used to say to Gavronsky. In Ada’s hand.)
There were those who maintained that the discrepancies and ‘false overlappings’ between the two worlds were too numerous, and too deeply woven into the skein of successive events, not to taint with trite fancy the theory of essential sameness; and there were those who retorted that the dissimilarities only confirmed the live organic reality pertaining to the other world; that a perfect likeness would rather suggest a specular, and hence speculatory, phenomenon; and that two chess games with identical openings and identical end moves might ramify in an infinite number of variations, on one board and in two brains, at any middle stage of their irrevocably converging development.
The modest narrator has to remind the rereader of all this, because in April (my favorite month), 1869 (by no means a mirabilic year), on St George’s Day (according to Mlle Larivière’s maudlin memoirs) Demon Veen married Aqua Veen — out of spite and pity, a not unusual blend.
Was there some additional spice? Marina, with perverse vainglory, used to affirm in bed that Demon’s senses must have been influenced by a queer sort of ‘incestuous’ (whatever that term means) pleasure (in the sense of the French plaisir, which works up a lot of supplementary spinal vibrato), when he fondled, and savored, and delicately parted and defiled, in unmentionable but fascinating ways, flesh (une chair) that was both that of his wife and that of his mistress, the blended and brightened charms of twin peris, an Aquamarina both single and double, a mirage in an emirate, a germinate gem, an orgy of epithelial alliterations.
Actually, Aqua was less pretty, and far more dotty, than Marina. During her fourteen years of miserable marriage she spent a broken series of steadily increasing sojourns in sanatoriums. A small map of the European part of the British Commonwealth — say, from Scoto-Scandinavia to the Riviera, Altar and Palermontovia — as well as most of the U.S.A., from Estoty and Canady to Argentina, might be quite thickly prickled with enameled red-cross-flag pins, marking, in her War of the Worlds, Aqua’s bivouacs. She had plans at one time to seek a modicum of health (‘just a little grayishness, please, instead of the solid black’) in such Anglo-American protectorates as the Balkans and Indias, and might even have tried the two Southern Continents that thrive under our joint dominion. Of course, Tartary, an independent inferno, which at the time spread from the Baltic and Black seas to the Pacific Ocean, was touristically unavailable, though Yalta and Altyn Tagh sounded strangely attractive... But her real destination was Terra the Fair and thither she trusted she would fly on libellula long wings when she died. Her poor little letters from the homes of madness to her husband were sometimes signed: Madame Shchemyashchikh-Zvukov (‘Heart rending-Sounds’). (1.3)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): beau milieu: right in the middle.
Faragod: apparently, the god of electricity.
braques: allusion to a bric-à-brac painter.
In VN's first novel, Mashen'ka ("Mary," 1926), the action begins in an elevator where Ganin and Alfyorov (Mary's husband) got stuck:
– Лев Глево… Лев Глебович? Ну и имя у вас, батенька, язык вывихнуть можно.
– Можно, – довольно холодно подтвердил Ганин, стараясь разглядеть в неожиданной темноте лицо своего собеседника. Он был раздражен дурацким положеньем, в которое они оба попали, и этим вынужденным разговором с чужим человеком.
– Я неспроста осведомился о вашем имени, – беззаботно продолжал голос. – По моему мнению, всякое имя…
– Давайте я опять нажму кнопку, – прервал его Ганин.
– Нажимайте. Боюсь, не поможет. Так вот: всякое имя обязывает. Лев и Глеб – сложное, редкое соединение. Оно от вас требует сухости, твердости, оригинальности. У меня имя поскромнее; а жену зовут совсем просто: Мария. Кстати, позвольте представиться: Алексей Иванович Алферов. Простите, я вам, кажется, на ногу наступил.
– Очень приятно, – сказал Ганин, нащупывая в темноте руку, которая тыкалась ему в обшлаг. – А как вы думаете, мы еще тут долго проторчим? Пора бы что-нибудь предпринять. Чорт…
– Сядем-ка на лавку да подождем, – опять зазвучал над самым его ухом бойкий и докучливый голос. – Вчера, когда я приехал, мы с вами столкнулись в коридоре. Вечером, слышу, за стеной вы прокашлялись, и сразу по звуку кашля решил: земляк. Скажите, вы давно живете в этом пансионе?
– Давно. Спички у вас есть?
– Нету. Не курю. А пансионат грязноват, – даром что русский. У меня, знаете, большое счастье: жена из России приезжает. Четыре года – шутка ль сказать… Да-с. А теперь недолго ждать. Нынче уже воскресенье.
– Тьма какая. – проговорил Ганин и хрустнул пальцами. – Интересно, который час…
Алферов шумно вздохнул; хлынул теплый, вялый запашок не совсем здорового, пожилого мужчины. Есть что-то грустное в таком запашке.
– Значит, осталось шесть дней. Я так полагаю, что она в субботу приедет. Вот я вчера письмо от нее получил. Очень смешно она адрес написала. Жаль, что такая темень, а то показал бы. Что вы там щупаете, голубчик? Эти оконца не открываются.
– Я не прочь их разбить, – сказал Ганин.
– Бросьте, Лев Глебович; не сыграть ли нам лучше в какое-нибудь пти-жо? Я знаю удивительные, сам их сочиняю. Задумайте, например, какое-нибудь двухзначное число. Готово?
– Увольте, – сказал Ганин и бухнул раза два кулаком в стенку.
– Швейцар давно почивает, – всплыл голос Алферова, – так что и стучать бесполезно.
– Но согласитесь, что мы не можем всю ночь проторчать здесь.
– Кажется, придется. А не думаете ли вы, Лев Глебович, что есть нечто символическое в нашей встрече? Будучи еще на терра фирма, мы друг друга не знали, да так случилось, что вернулись домой в один и тот же час и вошли в это помещеньице вместе. Кстати сказать, – какой тут пол тонкий! А под ним – черный колодец. Так вот, я говорил: мы молча вошли сюда, еще не зная друг друга, молча поплыли вверх и вдруг – стоп. И наступила тьма.
– В чем же, собственно говоря, символ? – хмуро спросил Ганин.
– Да вот, в остановке, в неподвижности, в темноте этой. И в ожиданье. Сегодня за обедом этот, – как его… старый писатель… да, Подтягин… – спорил со мной о смысле нашей эмигрантской жизни, нашего великого ожиданья. Вы сегодня тут не обедали, Лев Глебович?
– Нет. Был за городом.
– Теперь – весна. Там, должно быть, приятно.
Голос Алферова на несколько мгновений пропал и, когда снова возник, был неприятно певуч, оттого что, говоря, Алферов, вероятно, улыбался:
– Вот когда жена моя приедет, я тоже с нею поеду за город. Она обожает прогулки. Мне хозяйка сказала, что ваша комната к субботе освободится?
– Так точно, – сухо ответил Ганин.
– Совсем уезжаете из Берлина?
Ганин кивнул, забыв, что в темноте кивок не виден. Алферов поерзал на лавке, раза два вздохнул, затем стал тихо и сахаристо посвистывать. Помолчит и снова начнет. Прошло минут десять; вдруг наверху что-то щелкнуло.
– Вот это лучше, – усмехнулся Ганин.
В тот же миг вспыхнула в потолке лампочка, и вся загудевшая, поплывшая вверх клетка налилась желтым светом. Алферов, словно проснувшись, заморгал. Он был в старом, балахонистом, песочного цвета пальто, – как говорится, демисезонном, – и в руке держал котелок. Светлые редкие волосы слегка растрепались, и было что-то лубочное, слащаво-евангельское в его чертах – в золотистой бородке, в повороте тощей шеи, с которой он стягивал пестренький шарф.
Лифт тряско зацепился за порог четвертой площадки, остановился.
– Чудеса, – заулыбался Алферов, открыв дверь… – Я думал, кто-то наверху нас поднял, а тут никого и нет. Пожалуйте, Лев Глебович; за вами.
Но Ганин, поморщившись, легонько вытолкнул его и затем, выйдя сам, громыхнул в сердцах железной дверцей. Никогда он раньше не бывал так раздражителен.
– Чудеса, – повторял Алферов, – поднялись, а никого и нет. Тоже, знаете, – символ.
‘Lev Glevo. Lev Glebovich? A name like that’s enough to twist your tongue off, my dear fellow.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Ganin agreed somewhat coldly, trying to make out the face of his interlocutor in the unexpected darkness. He was annoyed by the absurd situation in which they both found themselves and by this enforced conversation with a stranger.
‘I didn’t ask for your name and patronymic just out of idle curiosity, you know,’ the voice went on undismayed. ‘I think every name —’
‘Let me press the button again,’ Ganin interrupted him.
‘Do press it. I’m afraid it won’t do any good. As I was saying every name has its responsibilities. Lev and Gleb, now — that’s a rare combination, and very demanding. It means you’ve got to be terse, firm and rather eccentric. My name is a more modest one and my wife’s name is just plain Mary. By the way, let me introduce myself: Aleksey Ivanovich Alfyorov. Sorry, I think I trod on your foot —’
‘How do you do,’ said Ganin, feeling in the dark for the hand that poked at his cuff. ‘Do you think we are going to be stuck here for long? It’s time somebody did something. Hell.’
‘Let’s just sit down on the seat and wait,’ the tiresome, cheerful voice rang out again just above his ear. ‘Yesterday when I arrived we bumped into each other in the passage. Then in the evening, through the wall, I heard you clearing your throat and I knew at once from the sound of your cough that you were a fellow countryman. Tell me, have you been boarding here for long?’
‘Ages. Got a match?’
‘No. I don’t smoke. Grubby place, this pension — even though it is Russian. I’m a very lucky man, you know — my wife’s coming from Russia. Four years, that’s no joke. Yes, sir. Not long now. It’s Sunday today.’
‘Damned darkness,’ muttered Ganin, and cracked his fingers. ‘I wonder what time it is.’
Alfyorov sighed noisily, giving off the warm, stale smell of an elderly man not in the best of health. There is something sad about that smell.
‘Only six more days now. I assume she’s coming on Saturday. I had a letter from her yesterday. She wrote the address in a very funny way. Pity it’s so dark, or I’d show it to you. What are you fumbling for, my dear fellow? Those little vents don’t open, you know.’
‘For two pins I’d smash them,’ said Ganin.
‘Come, come, Lev Glebovich. Wouldn’t it be better to play some party game? I know some splendid ones, I make them up myself. For instance: think of a two-figure number. Ready?’
‘Count me out,’ said Ganin, and thumped twice on the wall with his fist.
‘The porter’s been asleep for hours,’ droned Alfyorov’s voice, ‘so it’s no use banging like that.’
‘But you must agree that we can’t hang here all night.’
‘It looks as if we shall have to. Don’t you think there’s something symbolic in our meeting like this, Lev Glebovich? When we were on terra firma we didn’t know each other. Then we happen to come home at the same time and get into this contraption together. By the way, the floor is horribly thin and there’s nothing but a black well underneath it. Well, as I was saying, we stepped in without a word, still not knowing each other, glided up in silence and then suddenly — stop. And darkness.’
‘What’s symbolic about it?’ Ganin asked gloomily.
‘Well, the fact that we’ve stopped, motionless, in this darkness. And that we’re waiting. At lunch today that man — what’s his name — the old writer — oh yes, Podtyagin — was arguing with me about the sense of this émigré life of ours, this perpetual waiting. You were absent all day, weren’t you, Lev Glebovich?’
‘Yes. I was out of town.’
‘Ah, spring. It must be nice in the country now.’
Alfyorov’s voice faded away for a few moments, and when it sounded again there was an unpleasant lilt to it, probably because the speaker was smiling.
‘When my wife comes I shall take her out into the country. She adores going for walks. Didn’t the landlady tell me that your room would be free by Saturday?’
‘That is so,’ Ganin replied curtly.
‘Are you leaving Berlin altogether?’
Ganin nodded, forgetting that nods were invisible in the dark. Alfyorov fidgeted on the seat, sighed once or twice, then began gently whistling a saccharine tune, stopping and starting again. Ten minutes passed; suddenly there came a click from above.
‘That’s better,’ Ganin said with a smile.
At the same moment the ceiling bulb blazed forth, and the humming and heaving cage was flooded with yellow light. Alfyorov blinked, as though just waking up. He was wearing an old sandy-colored, formless overcoat — of the so-called ‘in-between-season’ sort — and holding a bowler hat. His thin fair hair was slightly ruffled and something about his features reminded one of a religious oleograph: that little golden beard, the turn of that scraggy neck from which he pulled off a bright-speckled scarf.
With a lurch the lift caught on the sill of the fourth-floor landing and stopped.
‘A miracle,’ Alfyorov said, grinning, as he opened the door. ‘I thought someone had pressed the button and brought us up, but there’s no one here. After you, Lev Glebovich.’
But Ganin, with a grimace of impatience, gave Alfyorov a slight push and, having followed him out, relieved his feelings by noisily slamming the steel door behind him. Never before had he been so irritable.
‘A miracle,’ Alfyorov repeated. ‘Up we came and yet there’s no one here. That’s symbolic too.’ (Chapter I)
Terra firma mentioned by Alfyorov brings to mind Terra the Fair (in Ada, the real destination of poor mad Aqua, the twin sister of Van's, Ada's and Lucette's mother Marina). According to Van, Ada is addressed to young laymen and lemans — and not to grave men or gravemen. In a letter of July 20, 1958, to Edward Thornton C. G. Jung (a Swiss psychiatrist, 1875-1961, whose name means in German "young") says that it is good, as a rule, to keep at least one foot upon terra firma:
The question you ask me is - I am afraid - beyond my competence.
It is a question of fate in which you should not be influenced by any arbitrary outer influence.
As a rule I am all for walking in two worlds at once since we are gifted with two legs, remembering that spirit is pneuma which means “moving air.”
It is a wind that all too easily can lift you up from the solid earth and can carry you away on uncertain waves.
It is good therefore, as a rule, to keep at least one foot upon terra firma.
We are still in the body and thus under the rule of heavy matter.
Also it is equally true that matter not moved by the spirit is dead and empty.
Over against this general truth one has to be flexible enough to admit all sorts of exceptions, as they are the unavoidable accompaniments of all rules.
The spirit is no merit in itself and it has a peculiarly irrealizing effect if not counter-balanced by its material opposite.
Thus think again and if you feel enough solid ground under your feet, follow the call of the spirit. (Carl Jung, Letters, Vol. II, pp. 459-460)
According to Jung, as a rule, he is all for walking in two worlds at once since we are gifted with two legs, remembering that spirit is pneuma which means “moving air.” Air is the element that destroys Demon Veen (Van's and Ada's father who in March 1905 perishes in a mysterious airplane disaster above the Pacific):
Numbers and rows and series — the nightmare and malediction harrowing pure thought and pure time — seemed bent on mechanizing his mind. Three elements, fire, water, and air, destroyed, in that sequence, Marina, Lucette, and Demon. Terra waited. (3.1)
"Numbers and rows and series" bring to mind tsifra i tsvetok (a figure and a flower), a phrase used by Ganin as he speaks to Alfyorov:
- А я на числах, как на качелях, всю жизнь прокачался. Бывало, говорил жене: раз я математик, ты мать-и-мачеха.
Горноцветов и Колин залились тонким смехом. Госпожа Дорн вздрогнула, испуганно посмотрела на обоих.
-- Одним словом: цифра и цветок,-- холодно сказал Ганин.
Только Клара улыбнулась. Ганин стал наливать себе воды, все смотрели на его движенье.
-- Да, вы правы, нежнейший цветок,-- протяжно сказал Алфёров, окинув соседа своим блестящим, рассеянным взглядом. – Прямо чудо, как она пережила эти годы ужаса. Я вот уверен, что она приедет сюда цветущая, веселая… Вы – поэт, Антон Сергеевич, опишите-ка такую штуку – как женственность, прекрасная русская женственность, сильнее всякой революции, переживает все – невзгоды, террор…
‘You’re not a mathematician, Anton Sergeyevich,’ Alfyorov went on fussily, ‘but I’ve been swinging on that trapeze all my life. I once used to say to my wife that if I’m a “summer” you’re surely a spring cinquefoil —’
Gornotsvetov and Kolin dissolved in mannered mirth. Frau Dorn gave a start and looked at them both in fright.
‘In short, a flower and a figure,’ said Ganin drily. Only Klara smiled. Ganin started pouring himself some water, his action watched by all the others.
‘Yes, you’re right, a most fragile flower,’ drawled Alfyorov, turning his bright, vacant look onto his neighbor. ‘It’s an absolute miracle how she survived those seven years of horror. And I’m sure that when she arrives she’ll be gay and blooming. You’re a poet, Anton Sergeyevich; you ought to write something about it — about how womanhood, lovely Russian womanhood, is stronger than any revolution and can survive it all — adversity, terror —’ (Chapter II)
The main character in Mary, Ganin brings to mind Ganya Ivolgin, a character in Dostoevski's novel The Idiot (1869). Chronologically, the Antiterran L disaster in the beau milieu of the 19th century seems to correspond to the mock execution of Dostoevski and the Petrashevskians on Jan. 3, 1850 (NS), in our world. Ganin's name-and-patronymic, Lev Glebovich seems to hint at Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910), the author ov Vlast' t'my (The Power of Darkness, 1886), and Gleb Uspenski (1843-1902), the author of Vlast' Zemli ("The Power of Earth," 1882). Alfyorov and his wife make a brief appearance in VN's novel Zashchita Luzhina ("The Luzhin Defence," 1930):
На сизом катке (там, где летом площадка для тенниса), слегка припудренном сухим снежком, опасливо резвились горожане, и в ту минуту, как мимо, по тротуару, проходили Лужины, совершавшие утреннюю прогулку, самый бойкий из конькобежцев, молодец в свитере, изящно раскатился голландским шагом и с размаху сел на лед. Дальше, в небольшом сквере, трехлетний ребенок, весь в красном, шатко ступая шерстяными ножками, поплелся к тумбе, беспалой ладошкой загреб снег, лежавший аппетитной горкой, и поднес его ко рту, за что сразу был схвачен сзади и огрет. “Ах ты, бедненький”,– оглянувшись, сказала Лужина. По убеленной мостовой проехал автобус, оставив за собой две толстых, черных полосы. Из магазина говорящих и играющих аппаратов раздалась зябкая музыка, и кто-то прикрыл дверь, чтобы музыка не простудилась. Такса в заплатанном синем пальтишке, с низко болтающимися ушами остановилась, обнюхивая снег, и Лужина успела ее погладить. Что-то легкое, острое, белесое било в лицо, и, если посмотреть на пустое небо, светленькие точка плясали в глазах. Лужина поскользнулась и укоризненны взглянула на свои серые ботики. Около русского гастрономического магазина встретили знакомых, чету Алферовых. “Холодина какая”,– воскликнул Алферов, тряся желтой своей бородкой. “Не целуйте, перчатка грязная”, – сказала Лужина и спросила у Алферовой, с улыбкой глядя на ее прелестное, всегда оживленное лицо, почему она никогда не зайдет. “А вы полнеете, сударь”,– буркнул Алферов, игриво косясь на лужинский живот, преувеличенный ватным пальто. Лужин умоляюще посмотрел на жену. “Так что, милости просим”,– закивала она. “Постой, Машенька, телефон ты их знаешь? — спросил Алферов. – Знаешь? Ладно. Ну-с, пока, – как говорят по-советски. Нижайший поклон вашей матушке”.
“Он какой-то несчастненький,– сказала Лужина, взяв мужа под руку и меняя шаг, чтобы идти с ним в ногу.– Но Машенька… Какая душенька, какие глаза… Не идите так скоро, милый Лужин,– скользко”.
Снег сеять перестал, небо в одном месте бледно посветлело, и там проплыл плоский, бескровный солнечный диск. “А знаете, мы сегодня пойдем так, направо,– предложила Лужина.– Мы, кажется, еще там не проходили”. “Апельсины”,– сказал Лужин, указывая тростью на лоток. “Хотите купить?– спросила жена.– Смотрите, мелом на доске: сладкие, как сахар”. “Апельсины”,– повторил со вкусом Лужин и вспомнил при этом, как его отец утверждал, что, когда произносишь “лимон”, делаешь поневоле длинное лицо, а когда говоришь “апельсин”,– широко улыбаешься. Торговка ловко расправила отверстие бумажного мешочка и насовала в него холодных, щербато-красных шаров. Лужин на ходу стал чистить апельсин, морщась в предвидении того, что сок брызнет в глаза. Корки он положил в карман, так как они выглядели бы слишком ярко на снегу, да и, пожалуй, можно сделать из них варенье. “Вкусно?” – спросила жена. Он просмаковал последнюю дольку и с довольной улыбкой взял было жену опять под руку, но вдруг остановился, озираясь. Подумав, он пошел обратно к углу и посмотрел на название улицы. Потом быстро догнал жену и ткнул тростью по направлению ближайшего дома, обыкновенного серо-каменного дома, отделенного от улицы небольшим палисадником за чугунной решеткой. “Тут мой папаша обитал, – сказал Лужин, – Тридцать пять А”. “Тридцать пять А”, – повторила за ним жена, не зная, что сказать, и глядя вверх, на окна. Лужин тронулся, срезая тростью снег с решетки. Немного дальше он замер перед писчебумажным магазином, где в окне бюст воскового мужчины с двумя лицами, одним печальным, другим радостным, поочередно отпахивал то слева, то справа пиджак: самопишущее перо, воткнутое в левый карманчик белого жилета, окропило белизну чернилами, справа же было перо, которое не течет никогда. Лужину двуликий мужчина очень понравился, и он даже подумал, не купить ли его. “Послушайте, Лужин,– сказала жена, когда он насытился витриной,– Я давно хотела вас спросить,– ведь после смерти вашего отца остались, должно быть, какие-нибудь вещи. Где все это?” Лужин пожал плечами. “Был такой Хрущенко”,– пробормотал он погодя. “Не понимаю”,– вопросительно сказала жена. “В Париж мне написал,– нехотя пояснил Лужин,– что вот, смерть и похороны и все такое, и что у него сохраняются вещи, оставшиеся после покойника”. “Ах, Лужин,– вздохнула жена.– Что вы делаете с русским языком”. Она подумала и добавила: “Мне-то все равно, мне только казалось, что вам было бы приятно иметь эти вещи,– ну, как память”. Лужин промолчал. Она представила себе эти никому не нужные вещи,– быть может, писательское перо старика Лужина, какие-нибудь бумаги, фотографии,– и ей стало грустно, она мысленно упрекнула мужа в жестокосердии, “Но одно нужно сделать непременно,– сказала она решительно.– Мы должны поехать на кладбище, посмотреть на могилу, посмотреть, не запущено ли”. “Холодно и далеко”,– сказал Лужин. “Мы это сделаем на днях,– решила она.– Погода должна перемениться. Пожалуйста, осторожно,– автомобиль”.
On a grayish-blue rink (where there were tennis courts in summer), lightly powdered with snow, the townsfolk were disporting themselves cautiously, and at the very moment the Luzhins passed by on their morning stroll, the sprightliest of the skaters, a besweatered young fellow, gracefully launched into a Dutch step and sat down hard on the ice. Farther, in a small public garden, a three-year-old boy all in red, walking unsteadily on woolen legs, made his way to a stirrup-stone, scraped off with one fingerless little hand some snow that was lying there in an appetizing hillock and raised it to his mouth, for which he was immediately seized from behind and spanked. "Oh, you poor little thing," said Mrs. Luzhin, looking back. A bus went along the whitened asphalt, leaving two thick, black stripes behind it. From a shop of talking and playing machines came the sound of fragile music and someone closed the door so the music would not catch cold. A dachshund with a patched, blue little overcoat and low-swinging ears stopped and sniffed the snow and Mrs. Luzhin just had time to stroke it. Something light, sharp and whitish kept striking them in the face, and when they peered at the empty sky, bright specks danced before their eyes. Mrs. Luzhin skidded and looked reproachfully at her gray snowboots. By the Russian food store they met the Alfyorov couple. "Quite a cold snap," exclaimed Alfyorov with a shake of his yellow beard. "Don't kiss it, the glove's dirty," said Mrs. Luzhin, and looking with a smile at Mrs. Alfyorov's enchanting, always animated face she asked why she never came to visit them. "And you're putting on weight, sir," growled Alfyorov, squinting playfully at Luzhin's stomach, exaggerated by his wadded overcoat. Luzhin looked imploringly at his wife. "Remember, you're always welcome," she said, nodding. "Wait, Mashenka, do you know their telephone number?" asked Alfyorov. "You know? Fine. Well, so long--as they say in Soviet Russia. My deepest respects to your mother."
"There's something a little mean and a little pathetic about him," said Mrs. Luzhin, taking her husband's arm and changing step in order to match his. "But Mashenka ... what a darling, what eyes.... Don't walk so fast, dear Luzhin--it's slippery."
The light snow ceased to fall, a spot of sky gleamed through palely, and the flat, bloodless disk of the sun floated out. 'You know what, let's go to the right today,' suggested Mrs. Luzhin, 'We've never been that way, I believe.' 'Look, oranges,' said Luzhin with relish and recalled how his father had asserted that when you pronounce 'leemon' (lemon) in Russian, you involuntarily pull a long face, but when you say 'apelsin' (orange) — you give a broad smile, The salesgirl deftly spread the mouth of the paper bag and rammed the cold, pocked-red globes into it. Luzhin began to peel an orange as he walked, frowning in anticipation that the juice would squirt in his eye. He put the peel in his pocket, because it would have stood out too vividly on the snow, and because, perhaps, you could make jam with it. 'Is it good?' asked his wife. Luzhin smacked his lips on the last segment and with a contended smile was about to take his wife's arm again, but suddenly he stopped and looked around. Having thought for a moment, he walked back to the corner and looked at the name of the street. Then he quickly caught up with his wife again and thrust out his cane in the direction of the nearest house, an ordinary gray stone house separated from the street by a small garden behind iron railings. 'My dad used to reside here,' said Luzhin. 'Thirty-five A,' 'Thirty-five A,' his wife repeated after him, not knowing what to say and looking up at the windows, Luzhin walked on, cutting snow away from the railings with his cane. Presently he stopped stock-still in front of a stationery store where the wax dummy of a man with two faces, one sad and the other joyful, was throwing open his jacket alternately to left and right: the fountain pen clipped into the left pocket of his white waistcoat had sprinkled the whiteness with ink, while on the right was the pen that never ran. Luzhin took a great fancy to the bifacial man and even thought of buying him. 'Listen, Luzhin,' said his wife when he had had his fill of the window. 'I've wanted to ask you for a long time — haven't some things remained after your father's death? Where are they all?' Luzhin shrugged his shoulders. 'There was a man called Khrushchenko,' he muttered after a while. 'I don't understand,' said his wife questioningly. 'He wrote to me in Paris,' explained Luzhin reluctantly, 'about the death and funeral and all that, and that he preserved the things left after the late father.' 'Oh, Luzhin,' she sighed, 'what you do to the language.' She reflected a moment and added: 'It doesn't matter to me, but I just thought it might be pleasant for you to have those things — as having belonged to your father.' Luzhin remained silent. She imagined those unwanted things — perhaps the pen that old man Luzhin wrote his books with, some documents or other, photographs — and she grew sad and mentally reproached her husband for hardheartedness. 'But one thing has to be done without fail,' she said decisively. 'We must go to the cemetery to see his grave, to see that it's not neglected.' 'Cold and far,' said Luzhin. 'We'll do it in a day or two,' she decided. 'The weather is bound to change. Careful, please — there's a car coming.' (Chapter 13)
Apelsin (orange) brings to mind Mr Ronald Oranger, old Van's secretary and the editor of Ada. After Van's and Ada's death Ronald Oranger marries Violet Knox, old Van's typist whom Ada calls Fialochka ('little Violet'):
Violet Knox [now Mrs Ronald Oranger. Ed.], born in 1940, came to live with us in 1957. She was (and still is — ten years later) an enchanting English blonde with doll eyes, a velvet carnation and a tweed-cupped little rump [.....]; but such designs, alas, could no longer flesh my fancy. She has been responsible for typing out this memoir — the solace of what are, no doubt, my last ten years of existence. A good daughter, an even better sister, and half-sister, she had supported for ten years her mother’s children from two marriages, besides laying aside [something]. I paid her [generously] per month, well realizing the need to ensure unembarrassed silence on the part of a puzzled and dutiful maiden. Ada called her ‘Fialochka’ and allowed herself the luxury of admiring ‘little Violet’ ‘s cameo neck, pink nostrils, and fair pony-tail. Sometimes, at dinner, lingering over the liqueurs, my Ada would consider my typist (a great lover of Koo-Ahn-Trow) with a dreamy gaze, and then, quick-quick, peck at her flushed cheek. The situation might have been considerably more complicated had it arisen twenty years earlier. (5.4)
Because love is blind, Van fails to see that Andrey Vinelander (Ada's husband) and Ada have at least two children and that Ronald Oranger and Violet Knox are Ada's grandchildren. Similarly, Van does not realize that his father died, because Ada (who could not pardon Demon his forcing Van to give her up) managed to persuade the pilot to destroy his machine in midair. According to Ada, at Marina's funeral she met d'Onsky's son, a person with only one arm. In his letter to Edward Thornton C. G. Jung says that we are gifted with two legs and points out that spirit is pneuma which means “moving air.” In his poem Whispers of Immortality (1919) T. S. Eliot (the author of The Waste Land, 1922, and Sweeney Agonistes, 1932) metnions Grishkin whose friendly bust gives promise of pneumatic bliss:
Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
Is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
Describing the last occasion on which he saw his father, Van mentions The Waistline, a satire in free verse on Anglo-American feeding habits, and Cardinal Grishkin (an overtly subtle yarn extolling the Roman faith) by Kithar K. L. Sween (a friend of Milton Eliot, the real estate magnate):
The last occasion on which Van had seen his father was at their house in the spring of 1904. Other people had been present: old Eliot, the real-estate man, two lawyers (Grombchevski and Gromwell), Dr Aix, the art expert, Rosalind Knight, Demon’s new secretary, and solemn Kithar Sween, a banker who at sixty-five had become an avant-garde author; in the course of one miraculous year he had produced The Waistline, a satire in free verse on Anglo-American feeding habits, and Cardinal Grishkin, an overtly subtle yarn extolling the Roman faith. The poem was but the twinkle in an owl’s eye; as to the novel it had already been pronounced ‘seminal’ by celebrated young critics (Norman Girsh, Louis Deer, many others) who lauded it in reverential voices pitched so high that an ordinary human ear could not make much of that treble volubility; it seemed, however, all very exciting, and after a great bang of obituary essays in 1910 (‘Kithar Sween: the man and the writer,’ ‘Sween as poet and person,’ ‘Kithar Kirman Lavehr Sween: a tentative biography’) both the satire and the romance were to be forgotten as thoroughly as that acting foreman’s control of background adjustment — or Demon’s edict.
The table talk dealt mainly with business matters. Demon had recently bought a small, perfectly round Pacific island, with a pink house on a green bluff and a sand beach like a frill (as seen from the air), and now wished to sell the precious little palazzo in East Manhattan that Van did not want. Mr Sween, a greedy practitioner with flashy rings on fat fingers, said he might buy it if some of the pictures were thrown in. The deal did not come off. (3.7)