Igrushcha

 Sergei Eisenstein, “Names”:

 Somewhere, a very long time ago, Chukovsky very wittily defended the Futurists.

He found the same abstract charm in their euphonious nonsense as we find in Longfellow’s enumeration of Indian tribes. For us they too are utterly devoid of any sense, and their charm lies solely in the rhythm and phonetic features (in Hiawatha: “Came Comanches...” etc.).

Sometimes, when I start remembering things, I lapse into an utterly abstract chain of names and surnames.

The Pension Koppitz.

Igrushcha (the Germanized pronunciation of the diminutive of Igor). And Arsik (from Arseny, a wanton, dumpy, pallid and capricious individual of my age) from Moscow. Frau Schaub, with her little dog—and the ruddy-cheeked, bare-kneed Tolya Schaub.

Esther and Frieda.

Maka and Viba Strauch.

The architect, Felsko, from Riga, with his daughter—an aging spinster. And Mr. Torchiani, who had married her three years earlier. Frau Frisk from Norway, with the strange large earrings, brooches and rings.

Sapico-y-Sarra Lucqui, the Spanish consul.