On Demonia (Earth's twin planet on which VN's novel Ada, 1969, is set) Paris is also known as Lute:
In 1885, having completed his prep-school education, he went up to Chose University in England, where his fathers had gone, and traveled from time to time to London or Lute (as prosperous but not overrefined British colonials called that lovely pearl-gray sad city on the other side of the Channel). (1.28)
Darkbloom ('Notes to Ada'): Lute: from ‘Lutèce’, ancient name of Paris.
Lute is pronounced like lyut, a short form of lyutyi (Russ., brutal, ferocious, fierce). In his poem Tatsit ("Tacitus," 1797) Karamzin (the author of the twelve-volume History of the Russian State) says that one sould not feel sorry for Rome because it deserved lyutykh bed (its calamities):
Тацит велик; но Рим, описанный Тацитом,
Достоин ли пера его?
В сем Риме, некогда геройством знаменитом,
Кроме убийц и жертв не вижу ничего,
Жалеть об нём не должно:
Он стоил лютых бед несчастья своего,
Терпя, чего терпеть без подлости не можно!
According to Karamzin, Tacitus is great but Rome was not worthy of Tacitus's pen. Rome's lyutye bedy (calamities) bring to mind Lettrocalamity, as Van calls electromagnet (banned on Demonia after the L disaster in the beau milieu of the 19th century):
Van regretted that because Lettrocalamity (Vanvitelli’s old joke!) was banned allover the world, its very name having become a ‘dirty word’ among upper-upper-class families (in the British and Brazilian sense) to which the Veens and Durmanovs happened to belong, and had been replaced by elaborate surrogates only in those very important ‘utilities’ — telephones, motors — what else? — well a number of gadgets for which plain folks hanker with lolling tongues, breathing faster than gundogs (for it’s quite a long sentence), such trifles as tape recorders, the favorite toys of his and Ada’s grandsires (Prince Zemski had one for every bed of his harem of schoolgirls) were not manufactured any more, except in Tartary where they had evolved ‘minirechi’ (‘talking minarets’) of a secret make. Had our erudite lovers been allowed by common propriety and common law to knock into working order the mysterious box they had once discovered in their magic attic, they might have recorded (so as to replay, eight decades later) Giorgio Vanvitelli’s arias as well as Van Veen’s conversations with his sweetheart. Here, for example, is what they might have heard today — with amusement, embarrassment, sorrow, wonder. (1.24)
Darkbloom ('Notes to Ada'): Lettrocalamity: a play on Ital. elettrocalamita, electromagnet.
An Italian architect and painter, Luigi Vanvitelli (1770-74) was a son of Caspar van Wittel (1652 or 1653-1736), a Dutch painter and draughtsman who had a long career in Rome. Van Wittel played a pivotal role in the development of the genre of topographical painting known as veduta (a highly detailed, usually large-scale painting or, more often, print of a cityscape or some other vista).
In the same chapter of Ada Van pairs Karamzin with Count Tolstoy:
After that, they tried to settle whether their ways had merged somewhere or run closely parallel for a bit that year in Europe. In the spring of 1881, Van, aged eleven, spent a few months with his Russian tutor and English valet at his grandmother’s villa near Nice, while Demon was having a much better time in Cuba than Dan was at Mocuba. In June, Van was taken to Florence, and Rome, and Capri, where his father turned up for a brief spell. They parted again, Demon sailing back to America, and Van with his tutor going first to Gardone on Lake Garda, where Aksakov reverently pointed out Goethe’s and d’Annunzio’s marble footprints, and then staying for a while in autumn at a hotel on a mountain slope above Leman Lake (where Karamzin and Count Tolstoy had roamed). Did Marina suspect that Van was somewhere in the same general area as she throughout 1881? Probably no. Both girls had scarlet fever in Cannes, while Marina was in Spain with her Grandee. After carefully matching memories, Van and Ada concluded that it was not impossible that somewhere along a winding Riviera road they passed each other in rented victorias that both remembered were green, with green-harnessed horses, or perhaps in two different trains, going perhaps the same way, the little girl at the window of one sleeping car looking at the brown sleeper of a parallel train which gradually diverged toward sparkling stretches of sea that the little boy could see on the other side of the tracks. The contingency was too mild to be romantic, nor did the possibility of their having walked or run past each other on the quay of a Swiss town afford any concrete thrill. But as Van casually directed the searchlight of backthought into that maze of the past where the mirror-lined narrow paths not only took different turns, but used different levels (as a mule-drawn cart passes under the arch of a viaduct along which a motor skims by), he found himself tackling, in still vague and idle fashion, the science that was to obsess his mature years — problems of space and time, space versus time, time-twisted space, space as time, time as space — and space breaking away from time, in the final tragic triumph of human cogitation: I am because I die. (1.24)
In Dusha Tolstogo (“The Soul of Tolstoy,” 1927) Ivan Nazhivin quotes the words of Tolstoy’s fellow student at the Kazan University with whom Tolstoy was locked up in the dark University cell for the skipping of a lecture in history. “Having noticed that I am reading Lermontov’s “The Demon,” Tolstoy spoke ironically about verses in general and then, turning to Karamzin’s “History” that lay beside me, said that history was the most boring and nearly useless subject:
"Заметив, что я читаю "Демона" Лермонтова, Толстой иронически отнесся к стихам вообще, а потом, обратившись к лежавшей возле меня истории Карамзина, напустился на историю, как на самый скучный и чуть ли не бесполезный предмет. "История, - рубил он с плеча, - это не что иное, как собрание басен и бесполезных мелочей, пересыпанных массой ненужных цифр и собственных имен. Смерть Игоря, змея, ужалившая Олега, - что же это как не сказки, и кому нужно знать, что второй брак Иоанна на дочери Темрюка совершился 21 августа 1562 года, а четвертый, на Анне Алексеевне Колтовской, в 1572 году, а ведь от меня требуют, чтобы я задолбил все это, а не знаю, так ставят единицу. А как пишется история? Все пригоняется к известной мерке, измышленной историком. Грозный царь, о котором в настоящее время читает профессор Иванов, вдруг с 1560 года из добродетельного и мудрого превращается в бессмысленного и свирепого тирана. Как и почему, об этом не спрашивайте..." (Chapter Three)
Van's English University, Chose brings to mind C'est toujours quelque chose (It's always something), a phrasre used by Karamzin in Pis'ma russkogo puteshestvennika ("Letters of a Russian Traveler," 1791-92) when he describes the French Academy:
Собственно так называемая Французская академия, учрежденная кардиналом Ришельё для обогащения французского языка, утверждена парламентом и королем. Девиз ее: "Бессмертию!" Жаль, что она обязана бытием своим такому жестокому министру! Жаль, что всякий новый член при вступлении своем должен хвалить его! Жаль, что половина членов состоит из людей едва не безграмотных, для того единственно, что они знатные! Такие академики, нимало не возвышая себя ученым титулом, унижают только академию. "Всякий знай свое место и дело", – есть мудрое правило, но реже всего исполняется. Правда, что господа сорок, messieurs les quarante (Их всегда сорок, ни более, ни менее), наблюдают в своих заседаниях точное равенство. Прежде всего они сидели на стульях; один из знатных членов потребовал для себя кресел; что же сделали другие? Сами сели на кресла. C'est toujours quelque chose). Главный плод сего академического дерева есть "Лексикон французского языка", чистый, правильный, строгий, но неполный, так что в первом издании господа члены забыли даже слово "академия"! Например, английский лексикон Джонсонов и немецкий Аделунгов гораздо совершеннее французского. Вольтер более всех чувствовал недостатки его, хотел дополнить, украсить, но смерть помешала (Остроумный Ривароль давно обещает новый философический словарь языка своего, но чрезмерная леность, как сказывают, мешает ему исполнить обещание.). Академия занималась и критикою, только редко и мало; в угождение своему основателю Ришельё доказывала, что Корнелев "Сид" недостоин славы, но парижские любители театра, назло ей, тем более хвалили "Сида". Она могла бы, конечно, быть гораздо полезнее, издавая, например, журнал для критики и словесности; чего бы не произвели соединенные труды лучших писателей? Однако ж польза ее несомнительна. Множество хороших пиес написано для славы быть членом академии или заслужить ее хвалу. Всякий год избирает она два предмета для стихотворства и красноречия, вызывает всех авторов обрабатывать их, в день св. Лудовика торжественно объявляет, кто победитель, чье творение достойно награды, и раздает золотые медали. Спрашивается, для чего Лафонтен, Мольер, Жан-Батист, Жан-Жак Руссо, Дидрот, Дорат и многие другие достойные писатели не были ее членами? Ответ: где люди, там пристрастие и зависть; иногда славнее не быть, нежели быть академиком. Истинные дарования не остаются без награды; есть публика, есть потомство. Главное дело не получать, а заслуживать.
In her letter to Van (written a month before Demon Veen's death in an airplane disaster) Ada (now married to Andrey Vinelander) says that her sister-in-law, Dorothy Vinelander, finished Chose where she read History:
He greeted the dawn of a placid and prosperous century (more than half of which Ada and I have now seen) with the beginning of his second philosophic fable, a ‘denunciation of space’ (never to be completed, but forming in rear vision, a preface to his Texture of Time). Part of that treatise, a rather mannered affair, but nasty and sound, appeared in the first issue (January, 1904) of a now famous American monthly, The Artisan, and a comment on the excerpt is preserved in one of the tragically formal letters (all destroyed save this one) that his sister sent him by public post now and then. Somehow, after the interchange occasioned by Lucette’s death such nonclandestine correspondence had been established with the tacit sanction of Demon:
And o’er the summits of the Tacit
He, banned from Paradise, flew on:
Beneath him, like a brilliant’s facet,
Mount Peck with snows eternal shone.
It would seem indeed that continued ignorance of each other’s existence might have looked more suspicious than the following sort of note:
Agavia Ranch
February 5, 1905
I have just read Reflections in Sidra, by Ivan Veen, and I regard it as a grand piece, dear Professor. The ‘lost shafts of destiny’ and other poetical touches reminded me of the two or three times you had tea and muffins at our place in the country about twenty years ago. I was, you remember (presumptuous phrase!), a petite fille modèle practicing archery near a vase and a parapet and you were a shy schoolboy (with whom, as my mother guessed, I may have been a wee bit in love!), who dutifully picked up the arrows I lost in the lost shrubbery of the lost castle of poor Lucette’s and happy, happy Adette’s childhood, now a ‘Home for Blind Blacks’ — both my mother and L., I’m sure, would have backed Dasha’s advice to turn it over to her Sect. Dasha, my sister-in-law (you must meet her soon, yes, yes, yes, she’s dreamy and lovely, and lots more intelligent than I), who showed me your piece, asks me to add she hopes to ‘renew’ your acquaintance — maybe in Switzerland, at the Bellevue in Mont Roux, in October. I think you once met pretty Miss ‘Kim’ Blackrent, well, that’s exactly dear Dasha’s type. She is very good at perceiving and pursuing originality and all kinds of studies which I can’t even name! She finished Chose (where she read History — our Lucette used to call it ‘Sale Histoire,’ so sad and funny!). For her you’re le beau ténébreux, because once upon a time, once upon libellula wings, not long before my marriage, she attended — I mean at that time, I’m stuck in my ‘turnstyle’ — one of your public lectures on dreams, after which she went up to you with her latest little nightmare all typed out and neatly clipped together, and you scowled darkly and refused to take it. Well, she’s been after Uncle Dementiy to have him admonish le beau ténébreux to come to Mont Roux Bellevue Hotel, in October, around the seventeenth, I guess, and he only laughs and says it’s up to Dashenka and me to arrange matters.
So ‘congs’ again, dear Ivan! You are, we both think, a marvelous, inimitable artist who should also ‘only laugh,’ if cretinic critics, especially lower-upper-middle-class Englishmen, accuse his turnstyle of being ‘coy’ and ‘arch,’ much as an American farmer finds the parson ‘peculiar’ because he knows Greek.
P.S.
Dushevno klanyayus’ (‘am souledly bowing’, an incorrect and vulgar construction evoking the image of a ‘bowing soul’) nashemu zaochno dorogomu professoru (‘to our "unsight-unseen" dear professor’), o kotorom mnogo slïshal (about whom have heard much) ot dobrago Dementiya Dedalovicha i sestritsï (from good Demon and my sister).
S uvazheniem (with respect),
Andrey Vaynlender (3.7)
Darkbloom ('Notes to Ada'): And o’er the summits of the Tacit etc.: parody of four lines in Lermontov’s The Demon (see also p.115).
le beau ténébreux: wrapt in Byronic gloom.
"The summits of the Tacit" seem to hint at Tatsit, the Russian name of Publius Cornelius Tacitus, known simply as Tacitus (c. AD 56 – c. 120), a Roman historian and politician. Banned from Paradise, Lermontov's Demon flies over the summits of the Caucasus (i nad vershinami Kavkaza). Colonel Vershinin is a character in Chekhov's play Tri sestry ("The Three Sisters," 1901) known on Demonia as Four Sisters (2.1 et passim). A character in Chekhov's play, Solyonyi (the bretteur who kills Baron Tuzenbakh in a pistol duel) imagines that he resembles Lermontov.
Ray being Russian for "paradise" and ad meaning "hell," VN's novel brings to mind Karamzin's poem (subtitled "an ancient ballad") Raisa (1791). At the end of Karamzin's ballad Raisa drowns herself in the sea and the thunder anounces the death of Kronid (the man who ruined Raisa by leaving her for Lyudmila):
Сказав сии слова, Раиса
Низверглась в море. Грянул гром:
Сим небо возвестило гибель
Тому, кто погубил ее.
Karamzin is the author of Bednaya Liza ("Poor Liza," 1792), a sentimental tale whose heroine finds out that her Erast will soon marry a rich widow and drowns herself in a pond. A comedy name, Erast brings to mind Peter de Rast, a painter mentioned by Van:
She [Lucette] would advance up to the center of the weedy playground in front of the forbidden pavilion, and there, with an air of dreamy innocence, start to jiggle the board of an old swing that hung from the long and lofty limb of Baldy, a partly leafless but still healthy old oak (which appeared - oh, I remember, Van! - in a century-old lithograph of Ardis, by Peter de Rast, as a young colossus protecting four cows and a lad in rags, one shoulder bare). (1.34)
Rast is "tsar" backwards. The Russian tsar Peter I (1672-1725) is often called "Peter the Great." Pierre Legrand is Van's fencing master:
‘Now let’s go out for a breath of crisp air,’ suggested Van. ‘I’ll order Pardus and Peg to be saddled.’
‘Last night two men recognized me,’ she said. ‘Two separate Californians, but they didn’t dare bow — with that silk-tuxedoed bretteur of mine glaring around. One was Anskar, the producer, and the other, with a cocotte, Paul Whinnier, one of your father’s London pals. I sort of hoped we’d go back to bed.’
‘We shall now go for a ride in the park,’ said Van firmly, and rang, first of all, for a Sunday messenger to take the letter to Lucette’s hotel — or to the Verma resort, if she had already left.
‘I suppose you know what you’re doing?’ observed Ada.
‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘You are breaking her heart,’ said Ada.
‘Ada girl, adored girl,’ cried Van, ‘I’m a radiant void. I’m convalescing after a long and dreadful illness. You cried over my unseemly scar, but now life is going to be nothing but love and laughter, and corn in cans. I cannot brood over broken hearts, mine is too recently mended. You shall wear a blue veil, and I the false mustache that makes me look like Pierre Legrand, my fencing master.’
‘Au fond,’ said Ada, ‘first cousins have a perfect right to ride together. And even dance or skate, if they want. After all, first cousins are almost brother and sister. It’s a blue, icy, breathless day,’
She was soon ready, and they kissed tenderly in their hallway, between lift and stairs, before separating for a few minutes.
‘Tower,’ she murmured in reply to his questioning glance, just as she used to do on those honeyed mornings in the past, when checking up on happiness: ‘And you?’
‘A regular ziggurat.’ (2.8)
Darkbloom ('Notes to Ada'): bretteur: duelling bravo.
au fond: actually.