In the Kalugano hospital where Van Veen (the narrator and main character in VN’s novel Ada, 1969) recovers from a wound received in a pistol duel with Captain Tapper, of Wild Violet Lodge, Dr Fitzbishop congratulates Van on having escaped with a superficial muscle wound, the bullet having lightly grooved or, if he might say so, grazed the greater serratus:
They found a convenient clearing, and the principals, pistol in hand, faced each other at a distance of some thirty paces, in the kind of single combat described by most Russian novelists and by practically all Russian novelists of gentle birth. As Arwin clapped his hands, informally signaling the permission to fire at will, Van noticed a speckled movement on his right: two little spectators — a fat girl and a boy in a sailorsuit, wearing glasses, with a basket of mushrooms between them. It was not the chocolate-muncher in Cordula’s compartment, but a boy very much like him, and as this flashed through Van’s mind he felt the jolt of the bullet ripping off, or so it felt, the entire left side of his torso. He swayed, but regained his balance, and with nice dignity discharged his pistol in the sun-hazy air.
His heart beat steadily, his spit was clear, his lungs felt intact, but a fire of pain raged somewhere in his left armpit. Blood oozed through his clothes and trickled down his trouserleg. He sat down, slowly, cautiously, and leaned on his right arm. He dreaded losing consciousness, but, maybe, did faint briefly, because next moment he became aware that Johnny had relieved him of the letter and was in the act of pocketing it.
‘Tear it up, you idiot,’ said Van with an involuntary groan.
The Captain strolled up and muttered rather gloomily: ‘I bet you are in no condition to continue, are you?’
‘I bet you can’t wait —’ began Van: he intended to say: ‘you can’t wait to have me slap you again,’ but happened to laugh on ‘wait’ and the muscles of mirth reacted so excruciatingly that he stopped in mid-sentence and bowed his sweating brow.
Meanwhile, the limousine was being transformed into an ambulance by Arwin. Newspapers were dismembered to protect the upholstery, and the fussy Captain added to them what looked like a potato bag or something rotting in a locker, and then after rummaging again in the car trunk and muttering about the ‘bloody mess’ (quite a literal statement) decided to sacrifice the ancient and filthy macintosh on which a decrepit dear dog had once died on the way to the veterinary.
For half a minute Van was sure that he still lay in the car, whereas actually he was in the general ward of Lakeview (Lakeview!) Hospital, between two series of variously bandaged, snoring, raving and moaning men. When he understood this, his first reaction was to demand indignantly that he be transferred to the best private palata in the place and that his suitcase and alpenstock be fetched from the Majestic. His next request was that he be told how seriously he was hurt and how long he was expected to remain incapacitated. His third action was to resume what constituted the sole reason of his having to visit Kalugano (visit Kalugano!). His new quarters, where heartbroken kings had tossed in transit, proved to be a replica in white of his hotel apartment — white furniture, white carpet, white sparver. Inset, so to speak, was Tatiana, a remarkably pretty and proud young nurse, with black hair and diaphanous skin (some of her attitudes and gestures, and that harmony between neck and eyes which is the special, scarcely yet investigated secret of feminine grace fantastically and agonizingly reminded him of Ada, and he sought escape from that image in a powerful response to the charms of Tatiana, a torturing angel in her own right. Enforced immobility forbade the chase and grab of common cartoons. He begged her to massage his legs but she tested him with one glance of her grave, dark eyes — and delegated the task to Dorofey, a beefy-handed male nurse, strong enough to lift him bodily out of bed. with the sick child clasping the massive nape. When Van managed once to twiddle her breasts, she warned him she would complain if he ever repeated what she dubbed more aptly than she thought ‘that soft dangle.’ An exhibition of his state with a humble appeal for a healing caress resulted in her drily remarking that distinguished gentlemen in public parks got quite lengthy prison terms for that sort of thing. However, much later, she wrote him a charming and melancholy letter in red ink on pink paper; but other emotions and events had intervened, and he never met her again). His suitcase promptly arrived from the hotel; the stick, however, could not be located (it must be climbing nowadays Wellington Mountain, or perhaps, helping a lady to go ‘brambling’ in Oregon); so the hospital supplied him with the Third Cane, a rather nice, knotty, cherry-dark thing with a crook and a solid black-rubber heel. Dr Fitzbishop congratulated him on having escaped with a superficial muscle wound, the bullet having lightly grooved or, if he might say so, grazed the greater serratus. Doc Fitz commented on Van’s wonderful recuperational power which was already in evidence, and promised to have him out of disinfectants and bandages in ten days or so if for the first three he remained as motionless as a felled tree-trunk. Did Van like music? Sportsmen usually did, didn’t they? Would he care to have a Sonorola by his bed? No, he disliked music, but did the doctor, being a concert-goer, know perhaps where a musician called Rack could be found? ‘Ward Five,’ answered the doctor promptly. Van misunderstood this as the title of some piece of music and repeated his question. Would he find Rack’s address at Harper’s music shop? Well, they used to rent a cottage way down Dorofey Road, near the forest, but now some other people had moved in. Ward Five was where hopeless cases were kept. The poor guy had always had a bad liver and a very indifferent heart, but on top of that a poison had seeped into his system; the local ‘lab’ could not identify it and they were now waiting for a report, on those curiously frog-green faeces, from the Luga people. If Rack had administered it to himself by his own hand, he kept ‘mum’; it was more likely the work of his wife who dabbled in Hindu-Andean voodoo stuff and had just had a complicated miscarriage in the maternity ward. Yes, triplets — how did he guess? Anyway, if Van was so eager to visit his old pal it would have to be as soon as he could be rolled to Ward Five in a wheelchair by Dorofey, so he’d better apply a bit of voodoo, ha-ha, on his own flesh and blood.
That day came soon enough. After a long journey down corridors where pretty little things tripped by, shaking thermometers, and first an ascent and then a descent in two different lifts, the second of which was very capacious with a metal-handled black lid propped against its wall and bits of holly or laurel here and there on the soap-smelling floor, Dorofey, like Onegin’s coachman, said priehali (‘we have arrived’) and gently propelled Van, past two screened beds, toward a third one near the window. There he left Van, while he seated himself at a small table in the door corner and leisurely unfolded the Russian-language newspaper Golos (Logos). (1.42)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): palata: Russ., ward.
A fan-shaped muscle at the lateral wall of the thorax, serratus anterior brings to mind vastus externus, a muscle mentioned by Bazarov in Turgenev’s novel Ottsy i deti (“Fathers and Sons,” 1862):
Базаров тихонько двинулся вперед, и Павел Петрович пошел на него, заложив левую руку в карман и постепенно поднимая дуло пистолета... "Он мне прямо в нос целит, - подумал Базаров, - и как щурится старательно, разбойник! Однако это неприятное ощущение. Стану смотреть на цепочку его часов..." Что-то резко зыкнуло около самого уха Базарова, и в то же мгновенье раздался выстрел. "Слышал, стало быть ничего", - успело мелькнуть в его голове. Он ступил еще раз и, не целясь, подавил пружинку.
Павел Петрович дрогнул слегка и хватился рукою за ляжку. Струйка крови потекла по его белым панталонам.
Базаров бросил пистолет в сторону и приблизился к своему противнику.
— Вы ранены? — промолвил он.
— Вы имели право подозвать меня к барьеру, — проговорил Павел Петрович, — а это пустяки. По условию каждый имеет еще по одному выстрелу.
— Ну, извините, это до другого раза, — отвечал Базаров и обхватил Павла Петровича, который начинал бледнеть. — Теперь я уже не дуэлист, а доктор и прежде всего должен осмотреть вашу рану. Петр! поди сюда, Петр! куда ты спрятался?— Все это вздор... Я не нуждаюсь ни в чьей помощи, — промолвил с расстановкой Павел Петрович, — и... надо... опять... — Он хотел было дернуть себя за ус, но рука его ослабела, глаза закатились, и он лишился чувств.
— Вот новость! Обморок! С чего бы! — невольно воскликнул Базаров, опуская Павла Петровича на траву. — Посмотрим, что за штука? — Он вынул платок, отер кровь, пощупал вокруг раны... — Кость цела, — бормотал он сквозь зубы, — пуля прошла неглубоко насквозь, один мускул, vastus externus, задет. Хоть пляши через три недели!.. А обморок! Ох, уж эти мне нервные люди! Вишь, кожа-то какая тонкая.
— Убиты-с? — прошелестел за его спиной трепетный голос Петра.
Базаров оглянулся.— Ступай за водой поскорее, братец, а он нас с тобой еще переживет.
Но усовершенствованный слуга, казалось, не понимал его слов и не двигался с места. Павел Петрович медленно открыл глаза.
«Кончается!» — шепнул Петр и начал креститься.
— Вы правы... Экая глупая физиономия! — проговорил с насильственною улыбкой раненый джентльмен.
— Да ступай же за водой, черт! — крикнул Базаров.
— Не нужно... Это был минутный vertige... Помогите мне сесть... вот так... Эту царапину стоит только чем-нибудь прихватить, и я дойду домой пешком, а не то можно дрожки за мной прислать. Дуэль, если вам угодно, не возобновляется. Вы поступили благородно... сегодня, сегодня — заметьте.
— О прошлом вспоминать незачем, — возразил Базаров, — а что касается до будущего, то о нем тоже не стоит голову ломать, потому что я намерен немедленно улизнуть. Дайте, я вам перевяжу теперь ногу; рана ваша — не опасная, а все лучше остановить кровь. Но сперва необходимо этого смертного привести в чувство.
Bazarov moved slowly forward, and Pavel Petrovich, his left hand thrust in his pocket, walked towards him, gradually raising the muzzle of his pistol.... 'He's aiming straight at my nose,' thought Bazarov, 'and doesn't he blink down it carefully, the ruffian! Not an agreeable sensation though. I'm going to look at his watch chain.'
Something whizzed sharply by his very ear, and at the same instant there was the sound of a shot. 'I heard it, so it must be all right,' had time to flash through Bazarov's brain. He took one more step, and without taking aim, pressed the spring.
Pavel Petrovich gave a slight start, and clutched at his thigh. A stream of blood began to trickle down his white trousers.
Bazarov flung aside the pistol, and went up to his antagonist. 'Are you wounded?' he said.
'You had the right to call me up to the barrier,' said Pavel Petrovich, 'but that's of no consequence. According to our agreement, each of us has the right to one more shot.'
'All right, but, excuse me, that'll do another time,' answered Bazarov, catching hold of Pavel Petrovich, who was beginning to turn pale. 'Now, I'm not a duellist, but a doctor, and I must have a look at your wound before anything else. Piotr! come here, Piotr! where have you got to?'
'That's all nonsense.... I need no one's aid,' Pavel Petrovich declared jerkily, 'and ... we must ... again ...' He tried to pull at his moustaches, but his hand failed him, his eyes grew dim, and he lost consciousness.
'Here's a pretty pass! A fainting fit! What next!' Bazarov cried unconsciously, as he laid Pavel Petrovich on the grass. 'Let's have a look what's wrong.' He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped away the blood, and began feeling round the wound.... 'The bone's not touched,' he muttered through his teeth; 'the ball didn't go deep; one muscle, vastus externus, grazed. He'll be dancing about in three weeks!... And to faint! Oh, these nervous people, how I hate them! My word, what a delicate skin!'
'Is he killed?' the quaking voice of Pyotr came rustling behind his back.
Bazarov looked round. 'Go for some water as quick as you can, my good fellow, and he'll outlive us yet.'
But the modern servant seemed not to understand his words, and he did not stir. Pavel Petrovich slowly opened his eyes. 'He will die!' whispered Pyotr, and he began crossing himself.
'You are right ... What an imbecile countenance!' remarked the wounded gentleman with a forced smile.
'Well, go for the water, damn you!' shouted Bazarov.
'No need.... It was a momentary vertigo.... Help me to sit up ... there, that's right.... I only need something to bind up this scratch, and I can reach home on foot, or you can send a droshky for me. The duel, if you are willing, shall not be renewed. You have behaved honourably ... to-day, to-day—observe.'
'There's no need to recall the past,' rejoined Bazarov; 'and as regards the future, it's not worth while for you to trouble your head about that either, for I intend being off without delay. Let me bind up your leg now; your wound's not serious, but it's always best to stop bleeding. But first I must bring this corpse to his senses.' (Chapter XXIV)
According to Dr. Fitzbishop, the bullet has grazed the greater serratus. In Turgenev’s novel Bazarov says: “one muscle, vastus externus, grazed.” According to Bazarov, Pavel Petrovich will be dancing about in three weeks. After his duel with Tapper, Van Veen (who performed in variety shows as Mascodagama) loses his ability to dance on his hands:
Van spent a medicinal month in Cordula’s Manhattan flat on Alexis Avenue. She dutifully visited her mother at their Malbrook castle two or three times a week, unescorted by Van either there or to the numerous social ‘flits’ she attended in town, being a frivolous fun-loving little thing; but some parties she canceled, and resolutely avoided seeing her latest lover (the fashionable psychotechnician Dr F.S. Fraser, a cousin of the late P. de P.’s fortunate fellow soldier). Several times Van talked on the dorophone with his father (who pursued an extensive study of Mexican spas and spices) and did several errands for him in town. He often took Cordula to French restaurants, English movies, and Varangian tragedies, all of which was most satisfying, for she relished every morsel, every sip, every jest, every sob, and he found ravishing the velvety rose of her cheeks, and the azure-pure iris of her festively painted eyes to which indigo-black thick lashes, lengthening and upcurving at the outer canthus, added what fashion called the ‘harlequin slant.’
One Sunday, while Cordula was still lolling in her perfumed bath (a lovely, oddly unfamiliar sight, which he delighted in twice a day), Van ‘in the nude’ (as his new sweetheart drolly genteelized ‘naked’), attempted for the first time after a month’s abstinence to walk on his hands. He felt strong, and fit, and blithely turned over to the ‘first position’ in the middle of the sun-drenched terrace. Next moment he was sprawling on his back. He tried again and lost his balance at once. He had the terrifying, albeit illusionary, feeling that his left arm was now shorter than his right, and Van wondered wrily if he ever would be able to dance on his hands again. King Wing had warned him that two or three months without practice might result in an irretrievable loss of the rare art. On the same day (the two nasty little incidents thus remained linked up in his mind forever) Van happened to answer the ‘phone — a deep hollow voice which he thought was a man’s wanted Cordula, but the caller turned out to be an old schoolmate, and Cordula feigned limpid delight, while making big eyes at Van over the receiver, and invented a number of unconvincing engagements.
‘It’s a gruesome girl!’ she cried after the melodious adieux. ‘Her name is Vanda Broom, and I learned only recently what I never suspected at school — she’s a regular tribadka — poor Grace Erminin tells me Vanda used to make constant passes at her and at — at another girl. There’s her picture here,’ continued Cordula with a quick change of tone, producing a daintily bound and prettily printed graduation album of Spring, 1887, which Van had seen at Ardis, but in which he had not noticed the somber beetle-browed unhappy face of that particular girl, and now it did not matter any more, and Cordula quickly popped the book back into a drawer; but he remembered very well that among the various more or less coy contributions it contained a clever pastiche by Ada Veen mimicking Tolstoy’s paragraph rhythm and chapter closings; he saw clearly in mind her prim photo under which she had added one of her characteristic jingles:
In the old manor, I’ve parodied
Every veranda and room,
And jacarandas at Arrowhead
In supernatural bloom.
It did not matter, it did not matter. Destroy and forget! But a butterfly in the Park, an orchid in a shop window, would revive everything with a dazzling inward shock of despair. (1.43)
The name Vanda Broom is secretly present in Ada’s poem. Turgenev's Bazarov makes one think of "quaint bazaars" at the beginning of VN's novel:
Besides that old illustrated section of the still existing but rather gaga Kaluga Gazette, our frolicsome Pimpernel and Nicolette found in the same attic a reel box containing what turned out to be (according to Kim, the kitchen boy, as will be understood later) a tremendous stretch of microfilm taken by the globetrotter, with many of its quaint bazaars, painted cherubs and pissing urchins reappearing three times at different points, in different shades of heliocolor. Naturally, at a time one was starting to build a family one could not display very well certain intérieurs (such as the group scenes in Damascus starring him and the steadily-smoking archeologist from Arkansas with the fascinating scar on his liver side, and the three fat whores, and old Archie’s premature squitteroo, as the third male member of the party, a real British brick, drolly called it); yet most of the film, accompanied by purely factual notes, not always easy to locate — because of the elusive or misleading bookmarks in the several guidebooks scattered around — was run by Dan many times for his bride during their instructive honeymoon in Manhattan. (1.1)