[Dmitri Nabokov sends this reply to Jerry Friedman's request for clarity about the source of the phrase "right old mess" that has been ascribed to him.  -- SES]
 
The unpleasantly quaint Anglicism "right old mess" has been slithering in my wake ever since the Australian Broadcasting Corp "book talk" of Feb. 15 cited a letter of mine, in which I half (but only half) jocularly referred to a vision of my father authorizing me to conserve, and publish, *The Original of Laura*. I employed a different locution.
 
DN
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The ironic idiom "right old mess" is widely attested and needs neither apologies nor prescriptive scorn. The three words entered English very early (pre-Chaucer) and their collocation hardly strikes Brit ears as "unpleasantly quaint." We simply adore "Anglicisms," the quainter the merrier!

The Stan Laurel (Anglo-American) version is more familiar, perhaps: "Another fine [or nice] mess you've gotten me into." Strangely, unversed Brits rate "gotten" as a quaint, even ugly, Americanism in spite of its Anglo-Saxon pedigree.

It's time for all good Nabokovians to come to Dmitri's aid. The tough decision has been made. I rejoice that we'll get to see whatever survived of Laura! Idly pondering and browsing, I thought of
Shakespeare's "Love's Labours Lost," labours which have now been "Wonne!" Adding to the allusional lustre, we find an encounter with "a Mess of Russians." The Princess and Rosalind differ: were the Russians "gallants, full of courtship and of state," or surly and sad?

** PRINCESS     Not so, my lord; it is not so, I swear;     
     We have had pastimes here and pleasant game:     
     A mess of Russians left us but of late.     380
FERDINAND     How, madam! Russians!     
PRINCESS     Ay, in truth, my lord;     
     Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state.     
ROSALINE     Madam, speak true. It is not so, my lord:     
     My lady, to the manner of the days,     385
     In courtesy gives undeserving praise.     
     We four indeed confronted were with four     
     In Russian habit: here they stay'd an hour,     
     And talk'd apace; and in that hour, my lord,     
     They did not bless us with one happy word.     390
     I dare not call them fools; but this I think,     
     When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink.     
Love's Labours Lost, Act V, Scene II

Stan Kelly-Bootle
(The Devil's DP Dictionary, McGraw-Hill)

All private editorial communications, without exception, are read by both co-editors.