Ada or Ardor: A Family Chronicle Part 1, Chapter 25 (view annotations) |
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"Poste restante both ways; and I want at least three letters a | |
week, my white love." | |
It was the first time he had seen her in that luminous frock | |
nearly as flimsy as a nightgown. She had braided her hair, and | |
158.05 | he said she resembled the young soprano Maria Kuznetsova in |
the letter scene in Tschchaikow's opera Onegin and Olga. | |
Ada, doing her feminine best to restrain and divert her sobs | |
by transforming them into emotional exclamations, pointed out | |
some accursed insect that had settled on an aspen trunk. | |
158.10 | (Accursed? Accursed? It was the newly described, fantas- |
tically rare vanessian, Nymphalis danaus Nab., orange-brown, | |
with black-and-white foretips, mimicking, as its discoverer Pro- | |
fessor Nabonidus of Babylon College, Nebraska, realized, not | |
the Monarch butterfly directly, but the Monarch through the | |
158.15 | Viceroy, one of the Monarch's best known imitators. In Ada's |
angry hand.) | |
"Tomorrow you'll come here with your green net," said | |
Van bitterly, "my butterfly." | |
She kissed him all over the face, she kissed his hands, then | |
158.20 | again his lips, his eyelids, his soft black hair. He kissed her |
ankles, her knees, her soft black hair. | |
"When, my love, when again? In Luga? Kaluga? Ladoga? | |
Where, when?" | |
"That's not the point," cried Van, "the point, the point, the | |
158.25 | point is—will you be faithful, will you be faithful to me?" |
"You spit, love," said wan-smiling Ada, wiping off the P's | |
and the F's. "I don't know. I adore you. I shall never love any- | |
body in my life as I adore you, never and nowhere, neither in | |
eternity, nor in terrenity, neither in Ladore, nor on Terra, | |
158.30 | where they say our souls go. But! But, my love, my Van, I'm |
physical, horribly physical, I don't know, I'm frank, qu'y | |
puis-je? Oh dear, don't ask me, there's a girl in my school who | |
is in love with me, I don't know what I'm saying—" | |
"The girls don't matter," said Van, "it's the fellows I'll kill |
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if they come near you. Last night I tried to make a poem about | |
it for you, but I can't write verse; it begins, it only begins: | |
Ada, our ardors and arbors—but the rest is all fog, try to fancy | |
the rest." | |
159.05 | They embraced one last time, and without looking back he |
fled. | |
Stumbling on melons, fiercely beheading the tall arrogant | |
fennels with his riding crop, Van returned to the Forest Fork. | |
Morio, his favorite black horse, stood waiting for him, held by | |
159.10 | young Moore. He thanked the groom with a handful of stellas |
and galloped off, his gloves wet with tears. |
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