According to Van Veen (the narrator and main character in VN’s novel Ada, 1969), Marina’s affair with Demon Veen (Van’s and Ada’s father) started on January 5, 1868:
Marina’s affair with Demon Veen started on his, her, and Daniel Veen’s birthday, January 5, 1868, when she was twenty-four and both Veens thirty.
As an actress, she had none of the breath-taking quality that makes the skill of mimicry seem, at least while the show lasts, worth even more than the price of such footlights as insomnia, fancy, arrogant art; yet on that particular night, with soft snow falling beyond the plush and the paint, la Durmanska (who paid the great Scott, her impresario, seven thousand gold dollars a week for publicity alone, plus a bonny bonus for every engagement) had been from the start of the trashy ephemeron (an American play based by some pretentious hack on a famous Russian romance) so dreamy, so lovely, so stirring that Demon (not quite a gentleman in amorous matters) made a bet with his orchestra-seat neighbor, Prince N., bribed a series of green-room attendants, and then, in a cabinet reculé (as a French writer of an earlier century might have mysteriously called that little room in which the broken trumpet and poodle hoops of a forgotten clown, besides many dusty pots of colored grease, happened to be stored) proceeded to possess her between two scenes (Chapter Three and Four of the martyred novel). In the first of these she had undressed in graceful silhouette behind a semitransparent screen, reappeared in a flimsy and fetching nightgown, and spent the rest of the wretched scene discussing a local squire, Baron d’O., with an old nurse in Eskimo boots. Upon the infinitely wise countrywoman’s suggestion, she goose-penned from the edge of her bed, on a side table with cabriole legs, a love letter and took five minutes to reread it in a languorous but loud voice for no body’s benefit in particular since the nurse sat dozing on a kind of sea chest, and the spectators were mainly concerned with the artificial moonlight’s blaze upon the lovelorn young lady’s bare arms and heaving breasts.
Even before the old Eskimo had shuffled off with the message, Demon Veen had left his pink velvet chair and proceeded to win the wager, the success of his enterprise being assured by the fact that Marina, a kissing virgin, had been in love with him since their last dance on New Year’s Eve. Moreover, the tropical moonlight she had just bathed in, the penetrative sense of her own beauty, the ardent pulses of the imagined maiden, and the gallant applause of an almost full house made her especially vulnerable to the tickle of Demon’s moustache. She had ample time, too, to change for the next scene, which started with a longish intermezzo staged by a ballet company whose services Scotty had engaged, bringing the Russians all the way in two sleeping cars from Belokonsk, Western Estoty. In a splendid orchard several merry young gardeners wearing for some reason the garb of Georgian tribesmen were popping raspberries into their mouths, while several equally implausible servant girls in sharovars (somebody had goofed — the word ‘samovars’ may have got garbled in the agent’s aerocable) were busy plucking marshmallows and peanuts from the branches of fruit trees. At an invisible sign of Dionysian origin, they all plunged into the violent dance called kurva or ‘ribbon boule’ in the hilarious program whose howlers almost caused Veen (tingling, and light-loined, and with Prince N.’s rose-red banknote in his pocket) to fall from his seat.
His heart missed a beat and never regretted the lovely loss, as she ran, flushed and flustered, in a pink dress into the orchard, earning a claque third of the sitting ovation that greeted the instant dispersal of the imbecile but colorful transfigurants from Lyaska — or Iveria. Her meeting with Baron O., who strolled out of a side alley, all spurs and green tails, somehow eluded Demon’s consciousness, so struck was he by the wonder of that brief abyss of absolute reality between two bogus fulgurations of fabricated life. Without waiting for the end of the scene, he hurried out of the theater into the crisp crystal night, the snowflakes star-spangling his top hat as he returned to his house in the next block to arrange a magnificent supper. By the time he went to fetch his new mistress in his jingling sleigh, the last-act ballet of Caucasian generals and metamorphosed Cinderellas had come to a sudden close, and Baron d’O., now in black tails and white gloves, was kneeling in the middle of an empty stage, holding the glass slipper that his fickle lady had left him when eluding his belated advances. The claqueurs were getting tired and looking at their watches when Marina in a black cloak slipped into Demon’s arms and swan-sleigh. (1.2)
Darkbloom ('Notes to Ada'): Raspberries; ribbon: allusions to ludicrous blunders in Lowell’s versions of Mandelshtam’s poems (in the N.Y. Review, 23 December 1965).
Belokonsk: the Russian twin of ‘Whitehorse’ (city in N.W. Canada).
Marina played Lara in Eugene and Lara, a play ("the trashy ephemeron") that seems to be a cross between Pushkin's Eugene Onegin and Pasternak's Doctor Zhivago (1957), a novel known on Demonia (Earth's twin planet also known as Antiterra) as Les Amours du Docteur Mertvago, a mystical romance by a pastor (1.8), Mertvago Forever (2.5) and Klara Mertvago (2.7). In his memoirs Moy dyadya - Pushkin. Iz semeynoy khroniki ("My Uncle Pushkin. From the Family Chronicle," 1888) Lev Pavlishchev (the poet's nephew, 1834-1915, son of Olga Pavlishchev, the poet's elder sister, 1797-1868) quotes his mother's letter of January 5, 1832, to her husband (the poet's brother-in-law, Nikolay Pavlishchev, 1802-79):
Дядя Александр возвратился из Москвы к новому году.
Этот новый (1832) год Ольга Сергеевна встретила в последний раз в кругу родных – в доме моего деда и бабки – с братом и его женой.
«Никогда еще мне не было так грустно, как в прошлую пятницу, 1 января, – пишет она отцу (во вторник 5 января), – когда обедала с братом и Наташей у стариков. Папа и мама хотя и не совсем передо мною правы, но все же любят меня по-своему; меня томили недобрые предчувствия, что в день нового года обедаю у них последний раз. Александр и Наташа оставались у них – как и я – весь вечер. Родные, когда я заговорила им о вероятной разлуке, и слышать не хотят, чтобы я променяла Петербург на Варшаву, а Соболевский, который тоже был там (он едет скоро за границу и будет у тебя в твоем возлюбленном городе), уверял меня, что твое пребывание в Польше временное, и, если только искренно захочешь, можешь возвратиться в Иностранную коллегию, тем более, что тебя еще не вычеркнули из списка ее чиновников, точно так же, как и еще двух или трех господ, отправившихся с Энгелем. Соболевский прав, и послушай меня: брось чужой тебе край и возвращайся на твою родину, святую Русь, ко мне. Чем тебе опротивела наша – хоть и бедненькая, но все же миленькая – квартира в доме Дмитриева? Чем тебе стали немилы твои лицейские товарищи, твои добрые петербургские сослуживцы-друзья, которые тебя так любят и так жалеют о твоем отсутствии? С кем, не говоря уже обо мне, обменяешься по душе родным русским словом? Брат Леон пишет Александру, что он ни за что не останется в Варшаве: война давно кончена, и ему там ровно нечего делать, и Ширков и Сиянов тоже уедут. С кем же останешься из близких тебе? В твоей варшавской службе счастия не вижу, и вот мой совет: брат Александр еще в ноябре поступил в службу с прекрасным жалованьем туда, где и ты еще считаешься, – в Иностранную коллегию, – заниматься в архиве историческими работами; эти работы и ты любишь. Хотя Александр и моложе тебя чинами, но известен всей России; слово его веско, и он будет очень рад случаю тебя толкнуть вперед (de te pousser aussi en avant) как своего зятя, выхлопочет тебе такое же занятие себе в помощь и пристроит тебя, уверяю, в коллегию; сделать это брату будет тем легче, что ты в коллегию не вновь должен определиться, а только возвратиться. Выхлопочет Александр тебе и занятия по литературе; не одни же недоброжелатели журналисты его окружают, а твое перо многим уже известно. Обо всем этом он, при Соболевском, мне намекал, следовательно, и пишу тебе en connaissance de cause». (Chapter XXIX)
"I'm writing to you en connaissance de cause" in Olga Sergeyevna's letter to her husband brings to mind "the sole people to have ever admired it en connaissance de cause" (a phrase used by Van):
They reveled, and traveled, and they quarreled, and flew back to each other again. By the following winter he began to suspect she was being unfaithful to him, but could not determine his rival. In mid-March, at a business meal with an art expert, an easy-going, lanky, likeable fellow in an old-fashioned dress-coat, Demon screwed in his monocle, unclicked out of its special flat case a small pen-and-wash and said he thought (did not doubt, in fact, but wished his certitude to be admired) that it was an unknown product of Parmigianino’s tender art. It showed a naked girl with a peach-like apple cupped in her half-raised hand sitting sideways on a convolvulus-garlanded support, and had for its discoverer the additional appeal of recalling Marina when, rung out of a hotel bathroom by the phone, and perched on the arm of a chair, she muffled the receiver while asking her lover something that he could not make out because the bath’s voice drowned her whisper. Baron d’Onsky had only to cast one glance at that raised shoulder and at certain vermiculated effects of delicate vegetation to confirm Demon’s guess. D’Onsky had the reputation of not showing one sign of esthetic emotion in the presence of the loveliest masterpiece; this time, nonetheless, he laid his magnifier aside as he would a mask, and allowed his undisguised gaze to caress the velvety apple and the nude’s dimpled and mossed parts with a smile of bemused pleasure. Would Mr Veen consider selling it to him there and then, Mr Veen, please? Mr Veen would not. Skonky (a oneway nickname) must content himself with the proud thought that, as of today, he and the lucky owner were the sole people to have ever admired it en connaissance de cause. Back it went into its special integument; but after finishing his fourth cup of cognac, d’O. pleaded for one last peep. Both men were a little drunk, and Demon secretly wondered if the rather banal resemblance of that Edenic girl to a young actress, whom his visitor had no doubt seen on the stage in ‘Eugene and Lara’ or ‘Lenore Raven’ (both painfully panned by a ‘disgustingly incorruptible’ young critic), should be, or would be, commented upon. It was not: such nymphs were really very much alike because of their elemental limpidity since the similarities of young bodies of water are but murmurs of natural innocence and double-talk mirrors, that’s my hat, his is older, but we have the same London hatter.
Next day Demon was having tea at his favorite hotel with a Bohemian lady whom he had never seen before and was never to see again (she desired his recommendation for a job in the Glass Fish-and-Flower department in a Boston museum) when she interrupted her voluble self to indicate Marina and Aqua, blankly slinking across the hall in modish sullenness and bluish furs with Dan Veen and a dackel behind, and said:
‘Curious how that appalling actress resembles "Eve on the Clepsydrophone" in Parmigianino’s famous picture.’
‘It is anything but famous,’ said Demon quietly, ‘and you can’t have seen it. I don’t envy you,’ he added; ‘the naive stranger who realizes that he or she has stepped into the mud of an alien life must experience a pretty sickening feeling. Did you get that small-talk information directly from a fellow named d’Onsky or through a friend of a friend of his?’
‘Friend of his,’ replied the hapless Bohemian lady.
Upon being questioned in Demon’s dungeon, Marina, laughing trillingly, wove a picturesque tissue of lies; then broke down, and confessed. She swore that all was over; that the Baron, a physical wreck and a spiritual Samurai, had gone to Japan forever. From a more reliable source Demon learned that the Samurai’s real destination was smart little Vatican, a Roman spa, whence he was to return to Aardvark, Massa, in a week or so. Since prudent Veen preferred killing his man in Europe (decrepit but indestructible Gamaliel was said to be doing his best to forbid duels in the Western Hemisphere — a canard or an idealistic President’s instant-coffee caprice, for nothing was to come of it after all), Demon rented the fastest petroloplane available, overtook the Baron (looking very fit) in Nice, saw him enter Gunter’s Bookshop, went in after him, and in the presence of the imperturbable and rather bored English shopkeeper, back-slapped the astonished Baron across the face with a lavender glove. The challenge was accepted; two native seconds were chosen; the Baron plumped for swords; and after a certain amount of good blood (Polish and Irish — a kind of American ‘Gory Mary’ in barroom parlance) had bespattered two hairy torsoes, the whitewashed terrace, the flight of steps leading backward to the walled garden in an amusing Douglas d’Artagnan arrangement, the apron of a quite accidental milkmaid, and the shirtsleeves of both seconds, charming Monsieur de Pastrouil and Colonel St Alin, a scoundrel, the latter gentlemen separated the panting combatants, and Skonky died, not ‘of his wounds’ (as it was viciously rumored) but of a gangrenous afterthought on the part of the least of them, possibly self-inflicted, a sting in the groin, which caused circulatory trouble, notwithstanding quite a few surgical interventions during two or three years of protracted stays at the Aardvark Hospital in Boston — a city where, incidentally, he married in 1869 our friend the Bohemian lady, now keeper of Glass Biota at the local museum.
Marina arrived in Nice a few days after the duel, and tracked Demon down in his villa Armina, and in the ecstasy of reconciliation neither remembered to dupe procreation, whereupon started the extremely interesnoe polozhenie (‘interesting condition’) without which, in fact, these anguished notes could not have been strung. (1.2)
Darkbloom ('Notes to Ada'): en connaissance de cause: knowing what it was all about (Fr.).
Aardvark: apparently, a university town in New England.
Gamaliel: a much more fortunate statesman than our W.G. Harding.
interesting condition: family way.
Demon's adversary in a sword duel, Baron d’Onsky seems to be a cross between Dmitri Donskoy, the Moscow Prince who defeated Khan Mamay in the battle of Kulikovo (Sept. 8, 1380), and Onegin’s donskoy zherebets (Don stallion) mentioned by Pushkin in Chapter Two (V: 4) of Eugene Onegin:
Сначала все к нему езжали;
Но так как с заднего крыльца
Обыкновенно подавали
Ему донского жеребца,
Лишь только вдоль большой дороги
Заслышат их домашни дроги, —
Поступком оскорбясь таким,
Все дружбу прекратили с ним.
«Сосед наш неуч; сумасбродит;
Он фармазон; он пьет одно
Стаканом красное вино;
Он дамам к ручке не подходит;
Все да да нет; не скажет да-с
Иль нет-с». Таков был общий глас.
At first they all would call on him,
but since to the back porch
habitually a Don stallion
for him was brought
as soon as one made out along the highway
the sound of their domestic runabouts —
outraged by such behavior,
they all ceased to be friends with him.
“Our neighbor is a boor; acts like a crackbrain;
he's a Freemason; he
drinks only red wine, by the tumbler;
he won't go up to kiss a lady's hand;
'tis all ‘yes,’ ‘no’ — he'll not say ‘yes, sir,’
or ‘no, sir.’ ” This was the general voice.
In a letter of January 5, 1897, to Ivan Leontiev-Shcheglov (a fellow writer) Chekhov says that Shcheglov should live with a pretty blue-eyed little actress:
Вы опять в мрачном «Кокоревском подворье»! Это Эскориал, и Вы кончите тем, что станете Альбой. Вы юморист, по натуре человек жизнерадостный, вольный, Вам бы нужно жить в светленьком домике, с хорошенькой голубоглазой актриской, которая весь день пела бы Вам тарарабумбию, а Вы, наоборот, выбираете всё унылые места вроде Кокоревки или Студеной горы, которая почему-то представляется мне Шлиссельбургом, и водите компанию с такими инквизиторами, как Соловьев или рыжий Фудель!
In his letter Chekhov mentions the philosopher Vladimir Solovyov (1853-1900), the author of Sud'ba Pushkina ("The Fate of Pushkin," 1898). On May 25 (May 26 is Pushkin's birthday), 1901, Chekhov married Olga Knipper, a leading actress of the Moscow Art Theater.
Marina Durmanov and her twin sister Aqua were born on January 5, 1844. January 5 is Vera Nabokov's birthday. In his memoirs Lev Pavlishchev mentions his mother's watercolor portrait painted by her friend Varvara Fyodorovna Chernov in 1844 in Puławy (a city in SE Poland):
До настоящего времени никто из биографов покойного моего дяди, — как это ни покажется странным, — не отвел единственной, родной сестре его, матери моей Ольге Сергеевне, подобающего ей места, между тем как, распространяясь о младшем брате поэта, господа эти толковали усердно и о няньке матери моей и его, Ирине Родионовне (нашедшей себе место и на картине Ге — "Пушкин, читающий свои стихи Пущину"), личности полуграмотной и ровно ничем не замечательной в сущности, кроме сообщаемых ею россказней о богатыре Еруслане Лазаревиче, царе Салтане и прочих, в этом роде, народных басен. Этого мало. Из представленных мною на Пушкинскую выставку в Москве — во время открытия памятника дяде в 1880 году — семейных портретов воспроизведены только в "Пушкинском альбоме", изданном при содействии г. Поливанова, портреты его брата, Льва Сергеевича, и бабки моей Надежды Осиповны, работы графа де Местра, имеющиеся только у меня. Между тем г. Поливанов, выпросивший тогда у меня портреты для снятия с них изображений, не знаю почему, счел излишним воспроизвести предъявленный ему мною портрет старшей сестры поэта вместе с остальными двумя и, отсылая мне их обратно, не потрудился мне объяснить причину такого недосмотра.
Все эти пробелы о незабвенной матери моей считаю сыновним долгом пополнить насколько возможно и вместе с тем приложить к моим воспоминаниям копию с портрета покойной. Оригинал портрета — работы подруги Ольги Сергеевны, Варвары Федоровны Черновой, которая нарисовала его акварелью в 1844 году, когда мать моя гостила у нее в Пулавах. (Chapter I)
In the "library" chapter of Ada Van mentions Demon's librarian, Miss Vertograd:
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)
Vertograd moey sestry... ("My sister's garden," 1825) is a poem by Pushkin:
Вертоград моей сестры,
Вертоград уединенный;
Чистый ключ у ней с горы
Не бежит запечатленный.
У меня плоды блестят
Наливные, золотые;
У меня бегут, шумят
Воды чистые, живые.
Нард, алой и киннамон
Благовонием богаты:
Лишь повеет аквилон,
И закаплют ароматы.
Garden of my sister,
secluded garden;
No clear spring there
runs down, captured from the mountains.
In my garden gleam fruits
golden and ready to eat;
In my garden runs noisily
clear, living water.
Spikenard, aloe and cinnamon,
rich in fragrance:
So long as the aquilon wind is blowing,
the aromas will spread!
Reading Van's palm, Demon mentions the strange condition of the Sister of Van's Life:
‘I say,’ exclaimed Demon, ‘what’s happened — your shaftment is that of a carpenter’s. Show me your other hand. Good gracious’ (muttering:) ‘Hump of Venus disfigured, Line of Life scarred but monstrously long…’ (switching to a gipsy chant:) ‘You’ll live to reach Terra, and come back a wiser and merrier man’ (reverting to his ordinary voice:) ‘What puzzles me as a palmist is the strange condition of the Sister of your Life. And the roughness!’
‘Mascodagama,’ whispered Van, raising his eyebrows.
‘Ah, of course, how blunt (dumb) of me. Now tell me — you like Ardis Hall?’
‘I adore it,’ said Van. ‘It’s for me the château que baignait la Dore. I would gladly spend all my scarred and strange life here. But that’s a hopeless fancy.’
‘Hopeless? I wonder. I know Dan wants to leave it to Lucile, but Dan is greedy, and my affairs are such that I can satisfy great greed. When I was your age I thought that the sweetest word in the language rhymes with "billiard," and now I know I was right. If you’re really keen, son, on having this property, I might try to buy it. I can exert a certain pressure upon my Marina. She sighs like a hassock when you sit upon her, so to speak. Damn it, the servants here are not Mercuries. Pull that cord again. Yes, maybe Dan could be made to sell.’ (1.38)
Pasternak's collection Sestra moya zhizn' ("My Sister Life," 1922) opens with the poem Pamyati Demona ("In Memory of Demon"). Reading his son's palm, Demon seems to predict his own death in an airplane disaster in March 1905. Van does not realize that his father died because Ada (who could not pardon Demon his forcing Van to give her up) managed to persuade the pilot to destroy his machine in midair.