In VN's novel Ada (1969) Van, Ada and their mother Marina have no Spanish:
For some odd reason both children were relieved to learn that a stranger was expected to dinner. He was an Andalusian architect whom Uncle Dan wanted to plan an ‘artistic’ swimming pool for Ardis Manor. Uncle Dan had intended to come, too, with an interpreter, but had caught the Russian ‘hrip’ (Spanish flu) instead, and had phoned Marina asking her to be very nice to good old Alonso.
‘You must help me!’ Marina told the children with a worried frown.
‘I could show him a copy, perhaps,’ said Ada, turning to Van, ‘of an absolutely fantastically lovely nature morte by Juan de Labrador of Extremadura — golden grapes and a strange rose against a black background. Dan sold it to Demon, and Demon has promised to give it to me on my fifteenth birthday.’
‘We also have some Zurbarán fruit,’ said Van smugly. ‘Tangerines, I believe, and a fig of sorts, with a wasp upon it. Oh, we’ll dazzle the old boy with shop talk!’
They did not. Alonso, a tiny wizened man in a double-breasted tuxedo, spoke only Spanish, while the sum of Spanish words his hosts knew scarcely exceeded half a dozen. Van had canastilla (a little basket), and nubarrones (thunderclouds), which both came from an en regard translation of a lovely Spanish poem in one of his schoolbooks. Ada remembered, of course, mariposa, butterfly, and the names of two or three birds (listed in ornithological guides) such as paloma, pigeon, or grevol, hazel hen. Marina knew aroma and hombre, and an anatomical term with a ‘j’ hanging in the middle. In consequence, the table-talk consisted of long lumpy Spanish phrases pronounced very loud by the voluble architect who thought he was dealing with very deaf people, and of a smatter of French, intentionally but vainly italianized by his victims. Once the difficult dinner over, Alonso investigated by the light of three torches held by two footmen a possible site for an expensive pool, put the plan of the grounds back into his briefcase, and after kissing by mistake Ada’s hand in the dark, hastened away to catch the last southbound train. (1.6)
Darkbloom ('Notes to Ada'): lovely Spanish poem: really two poems — Jorge Guillén’s Descanso en jardin and his El otono: isla).
In a conversation with Van in "Ardis the Second" Marina mentions the cow:
Naked-faced, dull-haired, wrapped up in her oldest kimono (her Pedro had suddenly left for Rio), Marina reclined on her mahogany bed under a golden-yellow quilt, drinking tea with mare’s milk, one of her fads.
‘Sit down, have a spot of chayku,’ she said. ‘The cow is in the smaller jug, I think. Yes, it is.’ And when Van, having kissed her freckled hand, lowered himself on the ivanilich (a kind of sighing old hassock upholstered in leather): ‘Van, dear, I wish to say something to you, because I know I shall never have to repeat it again. Belle, with her usual flair for the right phrase, has cited to me the cousinage-dangereux-voisinage adage — I mean "adage," I always fluff that word — and complained qu’on s’embrassait dans tous les coins. Is that true?’ (1.37)
Darkbloom ('Notes to Ada'): chayku: Russ., tea (diminutive).
Ivanilich: a pouf plays a marvelous part in Tolstoy’s The Death of Ivan Ilyich, where it sighs deeply under a friend of the widow’s.
cousinage: cousinhood is dangerous neighborhood.
on s’embrassait: kissing went on in every corner.
The cousinage-dangereux-voisinage adage is cited at least twice in Tolstoy’s novel Voyna i mir (“War and Peace,” 1869).
In his poem Unvollkommenheit ("Imperfection") Heinrich Heine says that even the bravest, cleverest cow knows no Spanish:
Die bravste, klügste Kuh kein Spanisch weiß,
Wie Maßmann kein Latein — Der Marmorsteiß
Der Venus von Canova ist zu glatte,
Wie Maßmanus Nase viel zu ärschig platte.
According to Heine, the marble buttocks of Canova's Venus are much too smooth. Antonio Canova is the author of Pauline Bonaparte as Venus Victrix ("Venus Victorious"), a semi-nude life-size reclining neo-Classical portrait sculpture (1805-08). Napoleon's younger sister, Pauline Bonaparte was a sister-in-law of Josephine Beauharnais (Napoleon's first wife). According to Marina, she loved to identify herself with with famous beauties — Lincoln’s second wife or Queen Josephine:
They now had tea in a prettily furnished corner of the otherwise very austere central hall from which rose the grand staircase. They sat on chairs upholstered in silk around a pretty table. Ada’s black jacket and a pink-yellow-blue nosegay she had composed of anemones, celandines and columbines lay on a stool of oak. The dog got more bits of cake than it did ordinarily. Price, the mournful old footman who brought the cream for the strawberries, resembled Van’s teacher of history, ‘Jeejee’ Jones.
‘He resembles my teacher of history,’ said Van when the man had gone.
‘I used to love history,’ said Marina, ‘I loved to identify myself with famous women. There’s a ladybird on your plate, Ivan. Especially with famous beauties — Lincoln’s second wife or Queen Josephine.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed — it’s beautifully done. We’ve got a similar set at home.’
‘Slivok (some cream)? I hope you speak Russian?’ Marina asked Van, as she poured him a cup of tea.
‘Neohotno no sovershenno svobodno (reluctantly but quite fluently),’ replied Van, slegka ulïbnuvshis’ (with a slight smile). ‘Yes, lots of cream and three lumps of sugar.’
‘Ada and I share your extravagant tastes. Dostoevski liked it with raspberry syrup.’
‘Pah,’ uttered Ada. (1.5)
Darkbloom ('Notes to Ada'): with a slight smile: a pet formula of Tolstoy’s denoting cool superiority, if not smugness, in a character’s manner of speech.
Napoleon's other sister, Caroline Bonaparte, was the wife of General Murat (who is blended in Ada with Tolstoy's Haji Murad and with the French revolutionary leader Marat):
The year 1880 (Aqua was still alive — somehow, somewhere!) was to prove to be the most retentive and talented one in his long, too long, never too long life. He was ten. His father had lingered in the West where the many-colored mountains acted upon Van as they had on all young Russians of genius. He could solve an Euler-type problem or learn by heart Pushkin’s ‘Headless Horseman’ poem in less than twenty minutes. With white-bloused, enthusiastically sweating Andrey Andreevich, he lolled for hours in the violet shade of pink cliffs, studying major and minor Russian writers — and puzzling out the exaggerated but, on the whole, complimentary allusions to his father’s volitations and loves in another life in Lermontov’s diamond-faceted tetrameters. He struggled to keep back his tears, while AAA blew his fat red nose, when shown the peasant-bare footprint of Tolstoy preserved in the clay of a motor court in Utah where he had written the tale of Murat, the Navajo chieftain, a French general’s bastard, shot by Cora Day in his swimming pool. What a soprano Cora had been! Demon took Van to the world-famous Opera House in Telluride in West Colorado and there he enjoyed (and sometimes detested) the greatest international shows — English blank-verse plays, French tragedies in rhymed couplets, thunderous German musical dramas with giants and magicians and a defecating white horse. He passed through various little passions — parlor magic, chess, fluff-weight boxing matches at fairs, stunt-riding — and of course those unforgettable, much too early initiations when his lovely young English governess expertly petted him between milkshake and bed, she, petticoated, petititted, half-dressed for some party with her sister and Demon and Demon’s casino-touring companion, bodyguard and guardian angel, monitor and adviser, Mr Plunkett, a reformed card-sharper. (1.28)
Darkbloom ('Notes to Ada'): The Headless Horseman: Mayn Reid's title is ascribed here to Pushkin, author of The Bronze Horseman.
Lermontov: author of The Demon.
Tolstoy etc.: Tolstoy's hero, Haji Murad, (a Caucasian chieftain) is blended here with General Murat, Napoleon's brother-in-law, and with the French revolutionary leader Marat assassinated in his bath by Charlotte Corday.
In Tolstoy's story Smert' Ivana Ilyicha ("The Death of Ivan Ilyich," 1886) 1880 was the hardest year in the life of Ivan Ilyich Golovin.
In his essay Iz-za granitsy ("From Abroad," 1856) Afanasiy Fet describes the Venus de Milo in the Louvre and calls it "Venera Pobeditel'nitsa (Venus Victrix):"
В конце одной из галерей возникает образ, рядом с которым едва ли что может поставить скульптура. Перед нами Венера Милосская. Статуя отыскана на острове Милосе в 1820 году, и маркиз де Ривьер, бывший в то время посланником в Константинополе, прислал ее в подарок королю. Подарок истинно царский. Из одежд, спустившихся до бедер прелестнейшим изгибом, выцветает нежно, молодой, холодной кожей сдержанное тело богини. Это бархатный, прохладный и упругий завиток раннего цветка, навстречу первому лучу только что разорвавшего тесную оболочку. До него не только не касалось ничье дыхание, самая заря не успела уронить на него свою радостную слезу. Богиня не кокетничает, не ищет нравиться. Пленительный изгиб тела явился сам собою, вследствие змеиной гибкости членов. Она ступила на левую ногу, нижняя часть торса повинуется движению, а верхняя ищет равновесия. Обойдите ее всю и, затаив дыхание, любуйтесь невыразимой свежестью стана и девственно строгой пышностью груди, которая как бы оспаривает место у несколько прижатой правой руки, этой чудной, упругой, треугольной складочкой, образовавшейся сзади, под правой мышкой. Что ни новая точка зрения, то новые изгибы тончайших, совершеннейших линий. А эта, несколько приподнятая, полуоборотом, влево смотрящая голова? Вблизи, снизу вверх, кажется, будто несколько закинутые, слегка вьющиеся волосы собраны торопливо в узел. Но отойдите несколько по галерее, чтобы можно было видеть пробор, и убедитесь, что его расчесывали Грации. Только они умеют так скромно кокетничать. О красоте лица говорить нечего. Гордое сознание всепобеждающей власти дышит в разрезе губ и глаз, в воздушных очертаниях ноздрей. Но и эта гордость не жизненный нарост известных убеждений, нарост угловатый и всегда оскорбляющий глаз, как бы искусно и тщательно ни был скрываем. Это выражение, присущее самому явлению. Это гордость прекрасного коня, могучего льва, пышного павлина, распустившегося цветка. Что касается до мысли художника, -- ее тут нет. Художник не существует, он весь перешел в богиню, в свою Венеру Победительницу (Venus Victrix). Ни на чем глаз не отыщет тени преднамеренности; все, что вам невольно поет мрамор, говорит богиня, а не художник. Только такое искусство чисто и свято, все остальное его профанация. Одна сатира имеет право прикрывать виноградным венком острый рог воинственного животного, да и то, как Минерва, она должна выходить из головы отца во всеоружии, а не походить на тех кукол, у которых острый клин служит основой тряпичного тела. Если, просидев час перед милосскою Кипридой или дрезденской Мадонной, вы не убедитесь в этой вечной истине, говорите смело: "ведите меня вон! Я слеп, от рождения слеп". Когда в минуту восторга перед художником возникает образ, отрадно улыбающийся, образ, нежно согревающий грудь, наполняющий душу сладостным трепетом, пусть он сосредоточит силы только на то, чтобы передать его во всей полноте и чистоте, рано или поздно ему откликнутся. Другой цели у искусства быть не может, по той же причине, по которой в одном организме не может быть двух жизней, в одной идее двух идей. У Венеры Милосской обе руки отбиты: правая выше локтя, левая почти у самого плеча, по приподнятым округлостям которого видно, что рука была в вытянутом положении. Думают, будто победительница держала в этой руке копье. Но об этом даже подумать страшно и больно. Что ни вообрази, сейчас нарушается стройное единство идеала, находящегося перед глазами. Того, кто осмелится сюда прибавить что-либо, будь он сам Канова или Торвальдсен, надо выставить к позорному столбу общественного презрения. Знатоки ценят безрукую статую в пять мильонов франков, но эта сумма ничего не говорит. Пожалуй, цените ее хоть в грош, и грошей и мильонов на свете много, а Венера Милосская одна и во веки веков не может быть повторена ни за все сокровища мира. (Letter Two, III)
Marquis de Rivière (French ambassador to the Sublime Porte of the Ottoman Empire who sent Venus de Milo as a present to the King Louis XVIII) brings to mind Mlle Larivière, Lucette's governess who writes fiction under the penname Guillaume de Monparnasse. Describing Villa Venus (Eric Veen's floramors), Van mentions Guillaume de Monparnasse:
Eccentricity is the greatest grief’s greatest remedy. The boy’s grandfather set at once to render in brick and stone, concrete and marble, flesh and fun, Eric’s fantasy. He resolved to be the first sampler of the first houri he would hire for his last house, and to live until then in laborious abstinence.
It must have been a moving and magnificent sight — that of the old but still vigorous Dutchman with his rugged reptilian face and white hair, designing with the assistance of Leftist decorators the thousand and one memorial floramors he resolved to erect allover the world — perhaps even in brutal Tartary, which he thought was ruled by ‘Americanized Jews,’ but then ‘Art redeemed Politics’ — profoundly original concepts that we must condone in a lovable old crank. He began with rural England and coastal America, and was engaged in a Robert Adam-like composition (cruelly referred to by local wags as the Madam-I’m-Adam House), not far from Newport, Rodos Island, in a somewhat senile style, with marble columns dredged from classical seas and still encrusted with Etruscan oyster shells — when he died from a stroke while helping to prop up a propylon. It was only his hundredth house!
His nephew and heir, an honest but astoundingly stuffy clothier in Ruinen (somewhere near Zwolle, I’m told), with a large family and a small trade, was not cheated out of the millions of guldens, about the apparent squandering of which he had been consulting mental specialists during the last ten years or so. All the hundred floramors opened simultaneously on September 20, 1875 (and by a delicious coincidence the old Russian word for September, ‘ryuen’, which might have spelled ‘ruin,’ also echoed the name of the ecstatic Neverlander’s hometown). By the beginning of the new century the Venus revenues were pouring in (their final gush, it is true). A tattling tabloid reported, around 1890, that out of gratitude and curiosity ‘Velvet’ Veen traveled once — and only once — to the nearest floramor with his entire family — and it is also said that Guillaume de Monparnasse indignantly rejected an offer from Hollywood to base a screenplay on that dignified and hilarious excursion. Mere rumours, no doubt. (2.3)
and King Victor (the Antiterran ruler of the British Commonwealth who visits floramors incognito):
Demon’s father (and very soon Demon himself), and Lord Erminin, and a Mr Ritcov, and Count Peter de Prey, and Mire de Mire, Esq., and Baron Azzuroscudo were all members of the first Venus Club Council; but it was bashful, obese, big-nosed Mr Ritcov’s visits that really thrilled the girls and filled the vicinity with detectives who dutifully impersonated hedge-cutters, grooms, horses, tall milkmaids, new statues, old drunks and so forth, while His Majesty dallied, in a special chair built for his weight and whims, with this or that sweet subject of the realm, white, black or brown. (ibid.)
The author of an essay entitled 'Villa Venus: an Organized Dream,' Eric Veen derived his project from reading too many erotic works found in a furnished house his grandfather had bought near Vence from Count Tolstoy, a Russian or Pole. Eric's grandfather, David van Veen (the Flemish architect who built one hundred memorial floramors all over ‘both hemispheres of our callipygian globe’) brings to mind Jacques-Louis David, the author of The Death of Marat (1793) and of Napoleon Crossing the Alps (1801), and David, Ivanov's pupil in VN's story Sovershenstvo ("Perfection," 1832).
During his first visit to Villa Venus Van meets Alonso's sweet and sad daughter:
I have frequented bordels since my sixteenth year, but although some of the better ones, especially in France and Ireland, rated a triple red symbol in Nugg’s guidebook, nothing about them pre-announced the luxury and mollitude of my first Villa Venus. It was the difference between a den and an Eden.
Three Egyptian squaws, dutifully keeping in profile (long ebony eye, lovely snub, braided black mane, honey-hued faro frock, thin amber arms, Negro bangles, doughnut earring of gold bisected by a pleat of the mane, Red Indian hairband, ornamental bib), lovingly borrowed by Eric Veen from a reproduction of a Theban fresco (no doubt pretty banal in 1420 B.C.), printed in Germany (Künstlerpostkarte Nr. 6034, says cynical Dr Lagosse), prepared me by means of what parched Eric called ‘exquisite manipulations of certain nerves whose position and power are known only to a few ancient sexologists,’ accompanied by the no less exquisite application of certain ointments, not too specifically mentioned in the pornolore of Eric’s Orientalia, for receiving a scared little virgin, the descendant of an Irish king, as Eric was told in his last dream in Ex, Switzerland, by a master of funerary rather than fornicatory ceremonies.
Those preparations proceeded in such sustained, unendurably delicious rhythms that Eric dying in his sleep and Van throbbing with foul life on a rococo couch (three miles south of Bedford) could not imagine how those three young ladies, now suddenly divested of their clothes (a well-known oneirotic device), could manage to draw out a prelude that kept one so long on the very lip of its resolution. I lay supine and felt twice the size I had ever been (senescent nonsense, says science!) when finally six gentle hands attempted to ease la gosse, trembling Adada, upon the terrible tool. Silly pity — a sentiment I rarely experience — caused my desire to droop, and I had her carried away to a feast of peach tarts and cream. The Egypsies looked disconcerted, but very soon perked up. I summoned all the twenty hirens of the house (including the sweet-lipped, glossy chinned darling) into my resurrected presence. After considerable examination, after much flattering of haunches and necks, I chose a golden Gretchen, a pale Andalusian, and a black belle from New Orleans. The handmaids pounced upon them like pards and, having empasmed them with not unlesbian zest, turned the three rather melancholy graces over to me. The towel given me to wipe off the sweat that filmed my face and stung my eyes could have been cleaner. I raised my voice, I had the reluctant accursed casement wrenched wide open. A lorry had got stuck in the mud of a forbidden and unfinished road, and its groans and exertions dissipated the bizarre gloom. Only one of the girls stung me right in the soul, but I went through all three of them grimly and leisurely, ‘changing mounts in midstream’ (Eric’s advice) before ending every time in the grip of the ardent Ardillusian, who said as we parted, after one last spasm (although non-erotic chitchat was against the rules), that her father had constructed the swimming pool on the estate of Demon Veen’s cousin. (2.3)
Darkbloom ('Notes to Ada'): Künstlerpostkarte: Germ., art picture postcards.
la gosse: the little girl.
In Kim Beauharnais's album there is a photograph of Alonso, the swimming-pool expert:
A photograph of an oval painting, considerably diminished, portrayed Princess Sophia Zemski as she was at twenty, in 1775, with her two children (Marina’s grandfather born in 1772, and Demon’s grandmother, born in 1773).
‘I don’t seem to remember it,’ said Van, ‘where did it hang?’
‘In Marina’s boudoir. And do you know who this bum in the frock coat is?’
‘Looks to me like a poor print cut out of a magazine. Who’s he?’
‘Sumerechnikov! He took sumerographs of Uncle Vanya years ago.’
‘The Twilight before the Lumières. Hey, and here’s Alonso, the swimming-pool expert. I met his sweet sad daughter at a Cyprian party — she felt and smelt and melted like you. The strong charm of coincidence.’
‘I’m not interested. Now comes a little boy.’ (2.7)
Darkbloom ('Notes to Ada'): Sumerechnikov: His name comes from Russ., sumerki, twilight; see also p.37.
On Demonia, aka Antiterra (Earth's twin planet on which Ada is set) VN's novel Lolita (1955) is known as The Gitanilla by the Spanish writer Osberg (1.13, et passim). La gitanilla ("The Little Gypsy Girl," 1613) is a novella by Cervantes. In Cervantes' novel Don Quixote (1605, 1615) Don Quixote's "real" name is Alonso Quijano. On the other hand, Alonzo (1831) is Zhukovski's Russian version of Ludwig Uhland's ballad Durand (1815). The German title of the original brings to mind Durak Walter, Daniel Veen's nickname:
On April 23, 1869, in drizzly and warm, gauzy and green Kaluga, Aqua, aged twenty-five and afflicted with her usual vernal migraine, married Walter D. Veen, a Manhattan banker of ancient Anglo-Irish ancestry who had long conducted, and was soon to resume intermittently, a passionate affair with Marina. The latter, some time in 1871, married her first lover’s first cousin, also Walter D. Veen, a quite as opulent, but much duller, chap.
The ‘D’ in the name of Aqua’s husband stood for Demon (a form of Demian or Dementius), and thus was he called by his kin. In society he was generally known as Raven Veen or simply Dark Walter to distinguish him from Marina’s husband, Durak Walter or simply Red Veen. Demon’s twofold hobby was collecting old masters and young mistresses. He also liked middle-aged puns. (1.1)
Darkbloom ('Notes to Ada'): Durak: ‘fool’ in Russian.