When Kim Beauharnais (in VN's novel Ada, 1969, a kitchen boy and photographer at Ardis whom Van blinds for spying on him and Ada and attempting to blackmail Ada) visits Ada at Ardis, he vaguely resembles a janizary in some exotic opera, stomping in to announce an invasion or an execution:
During her dreary stay at Ardis, a considerably changed and enlarged Kim Beauharnais called upon her. He carried under his arm an album bound in orange-brown cloth, a dirty hue she had hated all her life. In the last two or three years she had not seen him, the light-footed, lean lad with the sallow complexion had become a dusky colossus, vaguely resembling a janizary in some exotic opera, stomping in to announce an invasion or an execution. Uncle Dan, who just then was being wheeled out by his handsome and haughty nurse into the garden where coppery and blood-red leaves were falling, clamored to be given the big book, but Kim said ‘Perhaps later,’ and joined Ada in the reception corner of the hall.
He had brought her a present, a collection of photographs he had taken in the good old days. He had been hoping the good old days would resume their course, but since he understood that mossio votre cossin (he spoke a thick Creole thinking that its use in solemn circumstances would be more proper than his everyday Ladore English) was not expected to revisit the castle soon — and thus help bring the album up to date — the best procedure pour tous les cernés (‘the shadowed ones,’ the ‘encircled’ rather than ‘concerned’) might be for her to keep (or destroy and forget, so as not to hurt anybody) the illustrated document now in her pretty hands. Wincing angrily at the jolies, Ada opened the album at one of its maroon markers meaningly inserted here and there, glanced once, reclicked the clasp, handed the grinning blackmailer a thousand-dollar note that she happened to have in her bag, summoned Bouteillan and told him to throw Kim out. The mud-colored scrapbook remained on a chair, under her Spanish shawl. With a shuffling kick the old retainer expelled a swamp-tulip leaf swept in by the draft and closed the front door again.
‘Mademoiselle n’aurait jamais dû recevoir ce gredin,’ he grumbled on his way back through the hall.
‘That’s just what I was on the point of observing,’ said Van when Ada had finished relating the nasty incident. ‘Were the photos pretty filthy?’
‘Ach!’ exhaled Ada.
‘That money might have furthered a worthier cause — Home for Blind Colts or Aging Ashettes.’
‘Odd, your saying that.’
‘Why?’
‘Never mind. Anyway, the beastly thing is now safe. I had to pay for it, lest he show poor Marina pictures of Van seducing his little cousin Ada — which would have been bad enough; actually, as a hawk of genius, he may have suspected the whole truth.’
‘So you really think that because you bought his album for a paltry thousand all evidence has been disposed of and everything is in order?’
‘Why, yes. Do you think the sum was too mean? I might send him more. I know where to reach him. He lectures, if you please, on the Art of Shooting Life at the School of Photography in Kalugano.’
‘Good place for shooting,’ said Van. ‘So you are quite sure you own the "beastly thing"?’
‘Of course, I do. It’s with me, at the bottom of that trunk; I’ll show it to you in a moment.’
‘Tell me, my love, what was your so-called I.Q. when we first met?’
‘Two hundred and something. A sensational figure.’
‘Well, by now it has shrunk rather badly. Peeking Kim has kept all the negatives plus lots of pictures he will paste or post later.’
‘Would you say it has dropped to Cordula’s level?’
‘Lower. Now let’s look at those snapshots — before settling his monthly salary.’ (2.7)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): mossio etc.: monsieur your cousin.
jolies: pretty.
n’aurait etc.: should never have received that scoundrel.
Ashettes: Cinderellas.
In Turgenev's novella Neschastnaya ("An Unhappy Girl," 1868) Mr. Ratsch (Susanna's father) harshly (and unjustly) criticizes his daughter's piano playing and mentions Janitscharen Musik (janizary music):
Я не ожидал, что она вернётся; но она скоро появилась снова: даже платья не переменила и, присев в угол, раза два внимательно посмотрела на меня. Почувствовала ли она в моём обращении с нею то невольное, мне самому неизъяснимое уважение, которое, больше чем любопытство, больше даже чем участие, она во мне возбуждала, находилась ли она в тот день в смягчённом расположении духа, только она вдруг подошла к фортепиано и, нерешительно положив руку на клавиши и склонив немного голову через плечо назад ко мне, спросила меня, что я хочу, чтоб она сыграла? Я не успел ещё ответить, как она уже села, достала ноты, торопливо их развернула и начала играть. Я с детства любил музыку, но в то время я ещё плохо понимал её, мало был знаком с произведениями великих мастеров, и если бы г. Ратч не проворчал с некоторым неудовольствием: «Aha! wieder dieser Beethoven!», я бы не догадался, что именно выбрала Сусанна. Это была, как я потом узнал, знаменитая Ф-мольная соната, opus 57. Игра Сусанны меня поразила несказанно: я не ожидал такой силы, такого огня, такого смелого размаха. С самых первых тактов стремительно-страстного allegro, начала сонаты, я почувствовал то оцепенение, тот холод и сладкий ужас восторга, которые мгновенно охватывают душу, когда в неё неожиданным налётом вторгается красота. Я не пошевельнулся ни одним членом до самого конца; я всё хотел и не смел вздохнуть. Мне пришлось сидеть сзади Сусанны, её лица я не мог видеть; я видел только, как её тёмные длинные волосы изредка прыгали и бились по плечам, как порывисто покачивался её стан и как её тонкие руки и обнажённые локти двигались быстро и несколько угловато. Последние отзвучия замерли. Я вздохнул наконец. Сусанна продолжала сидеть перед фортепиано.
— Ja, ja, — заметил г. Ратч, который, впрочем, тоже слушал внимательно, — romantische Musik! Это нынче в моде. Только зачем нечисто играть! Э? Пальчиком по двум нотам разом — зачем? Э? То-то; нам всё поскорей хочется, поскорей. Этак горячей выходит. Э? Блины горячие! — задребезжал он, как разносчик.
Сусанна слегка обратилась к г. Ратчу; я увидел лицо её в профиль. Тонкая бровь высоко поднялась над опущенной векой, неровный румянец разлился по щеке, маленькое ухо рдело под закинутым локоном.
— Я всех лучших виртуозов самолично слышал, — продолжал г. Ратч, внезапно нахмурившись, — и все они перед покойным Фильдом — тьфу! Нуль! зеро!! Das war ein Keri! Und ein so reines Spiel! И композиции его — самые прекрасные! А все эти новые «тлу-ту-ту» да «тра-та-та», это, я полагаю, больше для школяров писано. Da braucht man keine Delicatesse! Хлопай по клавишам как попало… Не беда! Что-нибудь выйдет! Janitscharen-Musik! Пхе! (Иван Демьяныч утёр себе лоб платком.) Впрочем, я это говорю не на ваш счёт, Сусанна Ивановна; вы играли хорошо и моими замечаниями не должны обижаться.
— У всякого свой вкус, — тихим голосом заговорила Сусанна, и губы её задрожали, — а ваши замечанья, Иван Демьяныч, вы знаете, меня обидеть не могут.
— О, конечно! Только вы не полагайте, — обратился ко мне Ратч, — не извольте полагать, милостивый государь, что сие происходит от излишней нашей доброты и якобы кротости душевной; а просто мы с Сусанной Ивановной воображаем себя столь высоко вознесёнными, что у-у! Шапка назад валится, как говорится по-русски, и уже никакая критика до нас досягать не может. Самолюбие, милостивый государь, самолюбие! Оно нас доехало, да, да!
I had not expected her to come back; but she quickly reappeared. She had not even changed her dress, and sitting down in a corner, she looked twice intently at me. Whether it was that she was conscious in my manner to her of the involuntary respect, inexplicable to myself, which, more than curiosity, more even than sympathy, she aroused in me, or whether she was in a softened frame of mind that day, any way, she suddenly went t o the piano, and laying her hand irresolutely on the keys, and turning her head a little over her shoulder towards me, she asked what I would like her to play. Before I had time to answer she had seated herself, taken up some music, hurriedly opened it, and begun to play. I loved music from childhood, but at that time I had but little comprehension of it, and very slight knowledge of the works of the great masters, and if Mr. Ratsch had not grumbled with some dissatisfaction, 'Aha! wieder dieser Beethoven!' I should not have guessed what Susanna had chosen. It was, as I found out afterwards, the celebrated sonata in F minor, opus 57. Susanna's playing impressed me more than I can say; I had not expected such force, such fire, such bold execution. At the very first bars of the intensely passionate allegro, the beginning of the sonata, I felt that numbness, that chill and sweet terror of ecstasy, which instantaneously enwrap the soul when beauty bursts with sudden flight upon it. I did not stir a limb till the very end. I kept, wanting—and not daring—to sigh. I was sitting behind Susanna; I could not see her face; I saw only from time to time her long dark hair tossed up and down on her shoulders, her figure swaying impulsively, and her delicate arms and bare elbows swiftly, and rather angularly, moving. The last notes died away. I sighed at last. Susanna still sat before the piano.
'Ja, ja,' observed Mr. Ratsch, who had also, however, listened with attention; 'romantische Musik! That's all the fashion nowadays. Only, why not play correctly? Eh? Put your finger on two notes at once—what's that for? Eh? To be sure, all we care for is to go quickly, quickly! Turns it out hotter, eh? Hot pancakes!' he bawled like a street seller.
Susanna turned slightly towards Mr. Ratsch. I caught sight of her face in profile. The delicate eyebrow rose high above the downcast eyelid, an unsteady flush overspread the cheek, the little ear was red under the lock pushed behind it.
'I have heard all the best performers with my own ears,' pursued Mr. Ratsch, suddenly frowning, 'and compared with the late Field they were all—tfoo! nil! zero!! Das war ein Kerl! Und ein so reines Spiel! And his own compositions the finest things! But all those now "tloo-too-too," and "tra-ta-ta," are written, I suppose, more for beginners. Da braucht man keine Delicatesse! Bang the keys anyhow... no matter! It'll turn out some how! Janitscharen Musik! Pugh!' (Ivan Demianitch wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.) 'But I don't say that for you, Susanna Ivanovna; you played well, and oughtn't to be hurt by my remarks.'
'Every one has his own taste,' Susanna said in a low voice, and her lips were trembling; 'but your remarks, Ivan Demianitch, you know, cannot hurt me.'
'Oh! of course not! Only don't you imagine'—Mr. Ratsch turned to me—'don't you imagine, my young friend, that that comes from our excessive good-nature and meekness of spirit; it's simply that we fancy ourselves so highly exalted that—oo-oo!—we can't keep our cap on our head, as the Russian proverb says, and, of course, no criticism can touch us. The conceit, my dear sir, the conceit!' (Chapter XIII)
Ada shares with Turgenev's Katya the circular marblings on her palms:
As he looks, the palm of a gipsy asking for alms fades into that of the almsgiver asking for a long life. (When will filmmakers reach the stage we have reached?) Blinking in the green sunshine under a birch tree, Ada explained to her passionate fortuneteller that the circular marblings she shared with Turgenev’s Katya, another innocent girl, were called ‘waltzes’ in California (‘because the señorita will dance all night’). (1.17)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): Katya: the ingénue in Turgenev’s ‘Fathers and Children’.
Before the family dinner in "Ardis the Second" Van tells Demon (Van's and Ada's father) that Ada cannot play a note:
Here Ada herself came running into the room. Yes-yes-yes-yes, here I come. Beaming!
Old Demon, iridescent wings humped, half rose but sank back again, enveloping Ada with one arm, holding his glass in the other hand, kissing the girl in the neck, in the hair, burrowing in her sweetness with more than an uncle’s fervor. ‘Gosh,’ she exclaimed (with an outbreak of nursery slang that affected Van with even more umilenie, attendrissement, melting ravishment, than his father seemed to experience). ‘How lovely to see you! Clawing your way through the clouds! Swooping down on Tamara’s castle!’
(Lermontov paraphrased by Lowden).
‘The last time I enjoyed you,’ said Demon ‘was in April when you wore a raincoat with a white and black scarf and simply reeked of some arsenic stuff after seeing your dentist. Dr Pearlman has married his receptionist, you’ll be glad to know. Now to business, my darling. I accept your dress’ (the sleeveless black sheath), ‘I tolerate your romantic hairdo, I don’t care much for your pumps na bosu nogu (on bare feet), your Beau Masque perfume — passe encore, but, my precious, I abhor and reject your livid lipstick. It may be the fashion in good old Ladore. It is not done in Man or London.’
‘Ladno (Okay),’ said Ada and, baring her big teeth, rubbed fiercely her lips with a tiny handkerchief produced from her bosom.
‘That’s also provincial. You should carry a black silk purse. And now I’ll show what a diviner I am: your dream is to be a concert pianist!’
‘It is not,’ said Van indignantly. ‘What perfect nonsense. She can’t play a note!’
‘Well, no matter,’ said Demon. ‘Observation is not always the mother of deduction. However, there is nothing improper about a hanky dumped on a Bechstein. You don’t have, my love, to blush so warmly. Let me quote for comic relief
‘Lorsque son fi-ancé fut parti pour la guerre
Irène de Grandfief, la pauvre et noble enfant
Ferma son pi-ano… vendit son éléphant’
‘The gobble enfant is genuine, but the elephant is mine.’ ‘You don’t say so,’ laughed Ada.
‘Our great Coppée,’ said Van, ‘is awful, of course, yet he has one very fetching little piece which Ada de Grandfief here has twisted into English several times, more or less successfully.’
‘Oh, Van!’ interjected Ada with unusual archness, and scooped up a handful of salted almonds.
‘Let’s hear it, let’s hear it,’ cried Demon as he borrowed a nut from her cupped hand.
The neat interplay of harmonious motions, the candid gayety of family reunions, the never-entangling marionette strings — all this is easier described than imagined.
‘Old storytelling devices,’ said Van, ‘may be parodied only by very great and inhuman artists, but only close relatives can be forgiven for paraphrasing illustrious poems. Let me preface the effort of a cousin — anybody’s cousin — by a snatch of Pushkin, for the sake of rhyme —’
‘For the snake of rhyme!’ cried Ada. ‘A paraphrase, even my paraphrase, is like the corruption of "snakeroot" into "snagrel" — all that remains of a delicate little birthwort.’
‘Which is amply sufficient,’ said Demon, ‘for my little needs, and those of my little friends.’
‘So here goes,’ continued Van (ignoring what he felt was an indecent allusion, since the unfortunate plant used to be considered by the ancient inhabitants of the Ladore region not so much as a remedy for the bite of a reptile, as the token of a very young woman’s easy delivery; but no matter). ‘By chance preserved has been the poem. In fact, I have it. Here it is: Leur chute est lente and one can know ‘em…’
‘Oh, I know ‘em,’ interrupted Demon:
‘Leur chute est lente. On peut les suivre
Du regard en reconnaissant
Le chêne à sa feuille de cuivre
L’érable à sa feuille de sang
‘Grand stuff!’
‘Yes, that was Coppée and now comes the cousin,’ said Van, and he recited:
‘Their fall is gentle. The leavesdropper
Can follow each of them and know
The oak tree by its leaf of copper,
The maple by its blood-red glow.’
‘Pah!’ uttered the versionist.
‘Not at all!’ cried Demon. ‘That "leavesdropper" is a splendid trouvaille, girl.’ He pulled the girl to him, she landing on the arm of his Klubsessel, and he glued himself with thick moist lips to her hot red ear through the rich black strands. Van felt a shiver of delight. (1.38)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): passe encore: may still pass muster.
Lorsque etc.: When her fiancé had gone to war, the unfortunate and noble maiden closed her piano, sold her elephant.
By chance preserved: The verses are by chance preserved
I have them, here they are:
(Eugene Onegin, Six: XXI: 1–2)
Klubsessel: Germ., easy chair.
According to Marina (Van's, Ada's and Lucette's mother), in comparison to the local girls, Ada is a Turgenevian maiden or even a Jane Austen miss:
It was now Marina’s turn to make her entrée, which she did in excellent chiaroscuro circumstances, wearing a spangled dress, her face in the soft focus sought by ripe stars, holding out both arms and followed by Jones, who carried two flambeaux and kept trying to keep within the limits of decorum the odd little go-away kicks he was aiming backwards at a brown flurry in the shadows.
‘Marina!’ cried Demon with perfunctory enthusiasm, and patted her hand as he joined her on a settee.
Puffing rhythmically, Jones set one of his beautiful dragon-entwined flambeaux on the low-boy with the gleaming drinks and was about to bring over its fellow to the spot where Demon and Marina were winding up affable preliminaries but was quickly motioned by Marina to a pedestal near the striped fish. Puffing, he drew the curtains, for nothing but picturesque ruins remained of the day. Jones was new, very efficient, solemn and slow, and one had to get used gradually to his ways and wheeze. Years later he rendered me a service that I will never forget.
‘She’s a jeune fille fatale, a pale, heart-breaking beauty,’ Demon confided to his former mistress without bothering to discover whether the subject of his praise could hear him (she did) from the other end of the room where she was helping Van to corner the dog — and showing much too much leg in the process. Our old friend, being quite as excited as the rest of the reunited family, had scampered in after Marina with an old miniver-furred slipper in his merry mouth. The slipper belonged to Blanche, who had been told to whisk Dack to her room but, as usual, had not incarcerated him properly. Both children experienced a chill of déjà-vu (a twofold déjà-vu, in fact, when contemplated in artistic retrospect).
‘Pozhalsta bez glupostey (please, no silly things), especially devant les gens,’ said deeply flattered Marina (sounding the final ‘s’ as her granddams had done); and when the slow fish-mouthed footman had gone carrying away, supine, high-chested Dack and his poor plaything, she continued: ‘Really, in comparison to the local girls, to Grace Erminin, for example, or Cordula de Prey, Ada is a Turgenevian maiden or even a Jane Austen miss.’
‘I’m Fanny Price, actually,’ commented Ada.
‘In the staircase scene,’ added Van.
‘Let’s not bother about their private jokes,’ said Marina to Demon. ‘I never can understand their games and little secrets. Mlle Larivière, however, has written a wonderful screenplay about mysterious children doing strange things in old parks — but don’t let her start talking of her literary successes tonight, that would be fatal.’
‘I hope your husband won’t be too late,’ said Demon. ‘He is not at his best after eight p.m., summertime, you know. By the way, how’s Lucette?’
At this moment both battants of the door were flung open by Bouteillan in the grand manner, and Demon offered kalachikom (in the form of a Russian crescent loaf) his arm to Marina. Van, who in his father’s presence was prone to lapse into a rather dismal sort of playfulness, proposed taking Ada in, but she slapped his wrist away with a sisterly sans-gêne, of which Fanny Price might not have approved. (1.38)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): devant les gens: in front of the servants.
Fanny Price: the heroine of Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park.
According to Marina, at Van’s age (in 1884 Van is fourteen) she would have poisoned her governess with anti-roach borax if forbidden to read, for example, Turgenev’s Smoke:
Ada was denied the free use of the library. According to the latest list (printed May 1, 1884), it contained 14,841 items, and even that dry catalogue her governess preferred not to place in the child’s hands — ‘pour ne pas lui donner des idées.’ On her own shelves, to be sure, Ada had taxonomic works on botany and entomology as well as her schoolbooks and a few innocuous popular novels. But not only was she not supposed to browse in the library unsupervised, but every book she took out to read in bed or bower had to be checked by her mentor and charged’ en lecture’ with name and stamped date in the index-card files kept in a careful mess by Mlle Larivière and in a kind of desperate order (with the insertion of queries, calls of distress, and even imprecations, on bits of pink, red or purple paper) by a cousin of hers, Monsieur Philippe Verger, a diminutive old bachelor, morbidly silent and shy, who moused in, every other week, for a few hours of quiet work — so quiet, in fact, that one afternoon when a tallish library ladder suddenly went into an eerie backward slow-motion swoon with him high up on it embracing a windmill of volumes, he reached the floor, supine, with his ladder and books, in such a hush that guilty Ada, who had thought she was alone (pulling out and scanning the utterly unrewarding Arabian Nights), mistook his fall for the shadow of a door being stealthily opened by some soft-fleshed eunuch.
Her intimacy with her cher, trop cher René, as she sometimes called Van in gentle jest, changed the reading situation entirely — whatever decrees still remained pinned up in mid-air. Soon upon his arrival at Ardis, Van warned his former governess (who had reasons to believe in his threats) that if he were not permitted to remove from the library at any time, for any length of time, and without any trace of ‘en lecture,’ any volume, collected works, boxed pamphlets or incunabulum that he might fancy, he would have Miss Vertograd, his father’s librarian, a completely servile and infinitely accommodative spinster of Verger’s format and presumable date of publication, post to Ardis Hall trunkfuls of eighteenth century libertines, German sexologists, and a whole circus of Shastras and Nefsawis in literal translation with apocryphal addenda. Puzzled Mlle Larivière would have consulted the Master of Ardis, but she never discussed with him anything serious since the day (in January, 1876) when he had made an unexpected (and rather halfhearted, really — let us be fair) pass at her. As to dear, frivolous Marina, she only remarked, when consulted, that at Van’s age she would have poisoned her governess with anti-roach borax if forbidden to read, for example, Turgenev’s Smoke. Thereafter, anything Ada wanted or might have wanted to want was placed by Van at her disposal in various safe nooks, and the only visible consequence of Verger’s perplexities and despair was an increase in the scatter of a curious snow-white dust that he always left here and there, on the dark carpet, in this or that spot of plodding occupation — such a cruel curse on such a neat little man! (1.21)
Darkbloom (‘Notes to Ada’): pour ne pas etc.: so as not to put any ideas in her head.
en lecture: ‘out’.
cher, trop cher René: dear, too dear (his sister’s words in Chateaubriand’s René).
Lucette's music teacher (and one of Ada's lovers), Philip Rack was poisoned by his jealous wife Elsie and dies in Ward Five (where hopeless cases are kept) of the Kalugano hospital (where Van recovers from a wound received in a pistol duel with Captain Tapper, of Wild Violet Lodge).