Ada, or Ador: A Family Chronicle

The uha, the shashlik, the Ai were facile and familiar successes; but the old songs had a peculiar poignancy owing to the participation of a Lyaskan contralto and a Banff bass, renowned performers of Russian ‘romances,’ with a touch of heart-wringing tsiganshchina vibrating through Grigoriev and Glinka. And there was Flora, a slender, hardly nubile, half-naked music-hall dancer of uncertain origin (Rumanian? Romany? Ramseyan?) whose ravishing services Van had availed himself of several times in the fall of that year. As a ‘man of the world,’ Van glanced with bland (perhaps too bland) unconcern at her talented charms, but they certainly added a secret bonus to the state of erotic excitement tingling in him from the moment that his two beauties had been unfurred and placed in the colored blaze of the feast before him; and that thrill was somehow augmented by his awareness (carefully profiled, diaphanely blinkered) of the furtive, jealous, intuitive suspicion with which Ada and Lucette watched, unsmilingly, his facial reactions to the demure look of professional recognition on the part of the passing and repassing blyadushka (cute whorelet), as our young misses referred to (very expensive and altogether delightful) Flora with ill-feigned indifference. Presently, the long sobs of the violins began to affect and almost choke Van and Ada: a juvenile conditioning of romantic appeal, which at one moment forced tearful Ada to go and ‘powder her nose’ while Van stood up with a spasmodic sob, which he cursed but could not control. He went back to whatever he was eating, and cruelly stroked Lucette’s apricot-bloomed forearm, and she said in Russian ‘I’m drunk, and all that, but I adore (obozhayu), I adore, I adore, I adore more than life you, you (tebya, tebya), I ache for you unbearably (ya toskuyu po tebe nevïnosimo), and, please, don’t let me swill (hlestat’) champagne any more, not only because I will jump into Goodson River if I can’t hope to have you, and not only because of the physical red thing — your heart was almost ripped out, my poor dushen’ka (‘darling,’ more than ‘darling’), it looked to me at least eight inches long —’

‘Seven and a half,’ murmured modest Van, whose hearing the music impaired.

‘— but because you are Van, all Van, and nothing but Van, skin and scar, the only truth of our only life, of my accursed life, Van, Van, Van.’

Here Van stood up again, as Ada, black fan in elegant motion, came back followed by a thousand eyes, while the opening bars of a romance (on Fet’s glorious Siyala noch’) started to run over the keys (and the bass coughed à la russe into his fist before starting).

A radiant night, a moon-filled garden. Beams

Lay at our feet. The drawing room, unlit;

Wide open, the grand piano; and our hearts

Throbbed to your song, as throbbed the strings in it…

Then Banoffsky launched into Glinka’s great amphibrachs (Mihail Ivanovich had been a summer guest at Ardis when their uncle was still alive — a green bench existed where the composer was said to have sat under the pseudoacacias especially often, mopping his ample brow):

Subside, agitation of passion!

Then other singers took over with sadder and sadder ballads — ‘The tender kisses are forgotten,’ and ‘The time was early in the spring, the grass was barely sprouting,’ and ‘Many songs have I heard in the land of my birth: Some in sorrow were sung, some in gladness,’ and the spuriously populist

There’s a crag on the Ross, overgrown with wild moss

On all sides, from the lowest to highest…

and a series of viatic plaints such as the more modestly anapestic:

In a monotone tinkles the yoke-bell,

And the roadway is dusting a bit…

And that obscurely corrupted soldier rot of singular genius

Nadezhda, I shall then be back

When the true batch outboys the riot…

and Turgenev’s only memorable lyrical poem beginning

Morning so nebulous, morning gray-drowning,

Reaped fields so sorrowful under snow coverings

and naturally the celebrated pseudo-gipsy guitar piece by Apollon Grigoriev (another friend of Uncle Ivan’s)

O you, at least, do talk to me,

My seven-stringed companion,

Such yearning ache invades my soul,

Such moonlight fills the canyon!