Total success with "The Outrage."2 It will appear in the May issue of Mesures, and our Viktor has already received a nice little thousand for it. The lunch at the villa of Henry Church (the publisher of Mesures, an American millionaire with a splendid boil on his nape, elderly, taciturn, with a literature-addicted wife of German extraction) turned out remarkably well. The rendezvous was at Adrienne Monnier's bookstore on the Odéon, whence we proceeded by car to the Churches', out beyond St. Cloud (everything green and moist, almond trees in bloom, gnats swarming). I was much "feted" and was in great form. The writers were represented by Michaux.3 I got on swimmingly with Joyce's publisher Sylvia Beach, who might help considerably with the publication of Despair in case Gallimard and Albin Michel ne marcheront pas. After lunch there was something on the order of a meeting of the Mesures editorial board, and a lady photographer took fifteen shots of us. Among the topics discussed was the possibility of using some kind of waves to identify the sounds emitted by plants. I maintained that the poplar's voice was a soprano, and the oak's a bass, but Paulhan4 much more wittily declared that the oak apparently has exactly the same voice as a daisy—"peut-être parce qu'il est toujours un peu embarrassé." Tomorrow I am having lunch with him, Cingria, Supervielle5 and Michaux in Montmartre. My darling, I love you. The story about my little one ("for the shores")6 is enchanting. Zenzinov can't stop laughing and is telling it to everybody. Your letter to Ilyusha7 is quite nice, my darling one.8 Your passport will be renewed in France as soon as you arrive. I am terribly distressed that the Prague project fell through again, but I never quite believed it would succeed. To England I shall go for a week at the end of the month. Tomorrow at five I shall call on Madame Sablin in order to arrange a Russian reading there. In any case I shall not leave before the 25th—the book must be given a little time to ferment, as both Budberg and Struve write. Have sent Long some more addresses that were given me by Sylvia Beach. My "Pushkin"9 is having a very gratifying success. I've put on weight, gotten a tan, changed my skin, but am in a constant state of irritation because I have no place and no time to work. Tonight I am dining at the Kyandzhuntsevs'.10 Am now going to phone the old man.11
My love, my love,12 how long it's been since you've stood before me, and God, how many new things there will be about my little one, and how many births I have missed (of words, of games, of all sorts of things).
Wrote yesterday to Mrs. Chyorny. My love, be sure to prepare for your trip carefully so as to avoid any last-minute delays. How amusing about Frau V. Bardeleben.13 Poor Ilf14 has died. And, somehow, one visualizes the Siamese twins being separated. I love you, I love you. My stock has gone up a lot in France. Paulhan est tout ce qu'il y a de plus charmant, and something about him—his vivaciousness, his quick dark eye, his personality and his unshavenness—are reminiscent of Ilyusha. Give my greetings to Anyuta.15 I am expecting a letter from her.
I embrace you, my joy, my tired little thing....
V.16
TO: VÉRA NABOKOV
15 May 1937
ALS, 3 pp.
130 av. de Versailles
Paris
My priceless joy—whom, it seems now, I shall soon manage to reach—the cable arrived yesterday avec une allure of a swallow. Today at ten I was already at the Czech Consulate (they close early on Saturdays). It turned out that the visa, though already sent, had not yet arrived. By the way, was the insufficient time reserve of my passport mentioned when the visa was sent? For it was sent not in response to my special request but to Mother's previous efforts. Or was it indicated anyway? I had asked that it be specifically mentioned and had sent the number of my file. From the consulate I rushed to the Czech Legation with a letter from Makl[akov], which it took him four days to write(!), to see the Envoy, but he was not there either, so I shall go to the consulate only on Tuesday morning and, if I get it, shall leave for Prague that same Tuesday. I dreamed tonight that our little one was walking towards me on the sidewalk, his cheeks dirty for some reason, wearing a dark-colored little coat. I asked him, referring to myself, "Who is this?", and he answered, with a sly smile, "Volodya Nabokov." My tooth was finished today—a temporary filling good for two or three months—but there's not enough time to extract the roots. Rinsing it with camomile has made the swelling subside somewhat. My beloved darling, I have, basically, only a very vague idea of your life in Prague; and feel that you are terribly uncomfortable and uneasy—the news about the bedbug [in the hotel room] told me a great deal, my poor love !...Yesterday I squandered some four hours at the Sûreté, and they promised to make it possible for me to obtain a French passport1 by Thursday, but, of course, if I get my visa on Tuesday, I shall not stay here another second, and anyway I no longer have any faith in these promises. I am totally exhausted by all this senseless torture, and even more by your worrying and waiting. Now about the money: Lusya2 is holding 3100 francs and 105 pounds for me. Out of that I took 1100 francs for the two sums I sent to you (rounding out the amount with what I had in hand). Besides that I have one pound in coins, and two hundred francs. I'll probably be able to scrape together enough for the ticket without touching the reserve.
Today there was an intelligent review of Dar [The Gift] by Khodasevich.3 He came to see me recently. Tonight I am going to the Russian Theatre to see the first performance of Azef.4 All these past days I have been busy with "Printemps a F[ialta]"5 so as to get it in perfect shape, and I believe I have, but there are a million corrections, each to be made three times. I continue with the radiation treatments6 every day and am pretty much cured. You know—now I can tell you frankly—the indescribable torments I endured in February, before these treatments, drove me to the border of suicide—a border I was not authorized to cross because I had you in my luggage. My love, is it really true that I shall soon see you—in four days, if fate does not let me down? My dear love, I vow that you will have a good rest, and that life will be easier and simpler in general. My friendship with Ilya and V. M.7 has grown even closer—they are wonderful. Without even mentioning how much I am obliged to Dr. Kogan-Bernstein,8 whom I would owe over 5000 francs(!) if she were charging me anything (the usual charge for one treatment is 100 frs.!) Try not to worry too much, my love. We shall soon be together anyway.9 Tell Mother I embrace her and am not writing her only because I am spending all my epistolary energy on you.
V.10
TO: ALTAGRACIA DE JANNELLI
vÉRA NABOKOV HOLOGRAPH COPY.
Hotel de la Poste, Moulinet
14 July 1938
Dear Mr. de Jannelli
I am writing from a small mountain resort.
On the whole I rather liked N.'s1 description of The Gift, although it is very superficial—there is a lot more in my book both for the connoisseur and the lay reader. Here are some objections:
The Gift is thoroughly realistic, as it tells the story of a definite person, showing his physical existence and the development of his inner self. As he is an author, I naturally show his literary progress. Moreover, the whole story is threaded on my hero's love-romance, with the underground work of fate revealed—an essential point which N. has entirely missed. My style and methods have nothing in common with Joyce (though I greatly appreciate Ulysses). The novel is not "a crazy quilt of bits"; it is a logical sequence of psychological events: the movements of stars may seem crazy to the simpleton, but wise men know that the comets come back.
I don't understand why the reader should be "astonished" at the "insertion" of my hero's work (Chernyshevski's biography).2 The preceding chapters lead up to it and, as samples are given of all my hero's literary production, it would have been an impossible omission to leave his chief book out. Moreover, at this point, my hero's interpretation of Chernyshevski's life (which, incidentally, took me four years to write) lifts my novel to a wider plane, lending it an epic note and, so to say, spreading my hero's individual butter over the bread of a whole epoch. In this work (Chernyshevski's life), the defeat of Marxism and materialism is not only made evident, but it is
rounded out by my hero's artistic triumph.3
As to the interest which The Gift might represent to the foreign (American) reader, I want to repeat that I know how to translate the book in such a way as even to avoid the necessity of footnotes. "Human interest" means Uncle Tom's cabin to me (or Galsworthy's drivel) and makes me sick, seasick.
Your faith in my work is of the greatest value to me and I thank you warmly for your kind words.
Yours very truly,
TO: ALTAGRACIA DE JANNELLI
CC, 1 p.
Vladimir Nabokoff
Nestorstr. 22
Berlin-Halensee
November 16th, 1938?
Dear Mr. de Jannelli,
Many thanks for your nice long letter of October 12th. I quite understand what you have to say about "old-fashioned themes",—but let me be outspoken too. I am afraid that the "ultra-modernistic" fad is in its turn a little passe in Europe! That sort of thing was much discussed in Russia just before the revolution and in Paris just after the war, and we had a good many writers (most of them clean forgotten at present) doing a roaring trade by depicting the kind of "amoral" life on which you comment in such a delightful way. It may be curious, but what charms me personally about American civilisation is exactly that old-world touch, that old-fashioned something which clings to it despite the hard glitter, and hectic night-life, and up-to-date bathrooms, and lurid advertisements, and all the rest of it. Bright children, you know, are always conservative. When I come across "daring" articles in your reviews—there was one about condoms in the last Mercury—I seem to hear your brilliant moderns applauding themselves for being such brave naughty boys. Buster Brown has grown up. America is beautifully young and naif, and has a magnificent intellectual future, far beyond its wildest dreams, perhaps. But I am afraid that at present the kind of modernism you mention is only another form of conventionality—old as the hills.
I am not writing this in defence of my novels. They belong to Russia and her literature, and not only style but subject undergoes a horrible bleeding and distortion when translated into another tongue. The German version of "King, Queen, Jack" is a cheap travesty; "Camera Obscura" which, in Russian, was meant as an elaborate parody, lies limp and lifeless in John Long's and Grasset's torture-houses; and "Despair" which is something more than an essay on the psychology of crime turns out to be a half-baked thriller—even when I translate it myself. Strange indeed are the "fata" of my books! I feel sure, however, that with your help, sympathy, and wonderful understanding, I shall find in America at last the readers who, I know, are awaiting me there.
Yours faithfully
P.S. I have just received your latest report. Thank you. I have sent you a second copy of "La Course du Fou"1 some time ago.
FROM: IVAN BUNIN
TLS, 1 p.
April 1st 1939
To whom it may concern:
Mr. Vladimir Nabokoff (nom de plume V. Sirin) is a very well known Russian author whose novels (some of which have been translated into German, English and French) enjoy a high reputation among Russian intellectuals abroad. He is the son of the late V.D. Nabokoff, the eminent Russian Liberal Member of the first Russian Parliament and Professor of Criminology. After leaving his country (in 1919) Mr. Nabokoff went to Cambridge where he obtained his B.A. degree in foreign languages (French and Russian) with distinction. He is not only a novelist of quite exceptional talent, but also a profound student of Russian language and literature. As an instance of this I may signify that in one of his works he contributed to the elucidation of certain literary questions referring to the Russian sixties of which he made a long study. All this, together with his mastery of English and great experience in lecturing would make him a teacher of Russian literature and thought of quite exceptional quality at any English or American University. I recommend him very warmly for such a post as I really think that it would be hard to choose better.
Signed
Ivan Bunin1
Prix Nobel 1933
Nabokov at Domaine de Beaulieu, France, 1923
Vladimir Nabokov's mother in her twelfth year of exile, Prague, 1931
Father and son, Berlin, 1936 (photo by Véra Nabokov)
The Nabokov family in Salt Lake City, 1943
Vladimir Nabokov teaching at Wellesley College, 1943 (Wellesley Alumnae Magazine)
Nabokov at the Harvard Museum of Comparative Zoology, 1947 (Life)
Nabokov at Cornell University, ca. 1947 (photo by Louise Boyle)
Ithaca, mid-1950s (photo by McLean Dameron)
Vladimir Nabokov with his brother Kirill and sister Elena, in Switzerland, 1959
Front and spine of the first edition of Lolita (Paris, 1955)
The New York Times Book Review, 24 August 1958 (ad for Lolita)
Nabokov's sketch of the view from his balcony in Montreux
Nabokov in his apartment at the Palace Hotel, Montreux, with the lectern at which he wrote (photo by Horst Tappe)
Switzerland, July 1963 (photo by Max Fleissel)
The Nabokovs at Dmitri's 1961 Milan debut as Don Basilio in The Barber of Seville
The New York Times Book Review, 3 June 1962 (ad for Pale Fire)
Publication of Ada or Ardor occasioned a cover story in Time; the portrait is of Nabokov's mother.
Frontispiece and title page of Nabokov's 1964 translation, on which he worked more than ten years.
The Master in his seventies
Véra and Vladimir Nabokov, Montreux, ca. 1970
Switzerland, mid-1970s (photo by Gertrude Fehr)
Montreux, 1970s (photo by Horst Tappe)
LETTERS 1940–1977
TO: ELIZABETH MARINEL ALLAN AND MARUSSYA MARINEL1
ALS, 4 pp. M. Juliar.
West Wardsboro, Vt.
25 August 1940
Dear friends,
We received both your letters, and avidly but sadly absorbed every word. I value highly your lines about Invitation2; your fate worries us deeply; the incident of the harp is symbolic and appalling.
I wrote a letter to Pyatigorsky3 about you, detailed and insistent. We fervently hope that you may move to this country. We too have a feeling of some kind of interplanetary remoteness, some ungodly distance separating us from the dearest and most precious of friends. Our normal everyday existence, in contrast, seems the height of luxury, like some millionaire's coarse dream. That dreamlike, complex day of our departure, the panic-stricken, gaping suitcases and the whirlwind of old newspapers, Mitya's4 forty-degree fever, and you amid our bedlam—how shamefully distant it all is. And one begins to feel as if he had silently slipped away without sharing his foresight with others. So that, on the whole, it is embarrassing to repose—as I do now—on a blanket in a meadow amid tall grass and flowers, hearing from afar the peaceful sounds of a solitary country house, children's exclamations, the thud of a ball. We are staying amid marvelous green wilds with the wonderfully kind Karpoviches,5 where one can go around half-naked, write an English novel, and catch American butterflies (soon I'll have to start using your sweater: fall is on the way). My position is maddeningly undecided, so far nothing has worked out, and the thought of winter is rather frightening, but, by comparison, it is a genuine paradise here. It was a torment to imagine your feelings, your poor mother's situation; one would like to know many more details. I feel so sad, so distressed for you. We recall all your gentle kindness, the delightful hours we spent together, and we talk so very often about you.
My literary (or, rather, anti-literary) agent6—a short, fearsome, bandy-legged woman, her hair dyed an indecent red—demands from me a genteel book, with agreeable protagonists and moral landscapes. What I am composing now will hardly satisfy her. She also forbade me to write in Russian: that part of my life, she says, is definitely over; I don't believe I shall obey her for long.
Write to us again, please. In a few days we shall return to New York. Our address remains unchanged—the Tolstoy Foundation. I kiss your hands. Keep well.
Yours,
V. Nabokov7
TO: JAMES LAUGHLIN1
TLS, 2 pp.
V. Nabokov
35 W 87th St
New York
January 24th, 1941
Dear Mr. Laughlin,
I thank you for your letter and shall be delighted to show you some of my work; but first of all I want to be quite frank about my very singular predicament. In modern Russian literature I occupy the particular position of a novator, of a writer whose work seems to stand totally apart from that of his contemporaries. At the same time, owing to my books being banned in the Soviet Union, they can circulate only among the limited group of emigre intellectuals (chiefly in Paris). Out of a dozen novels I have written (under the penname of Vladimir Sirin) during the last fifteen years my best are "The Lujin Defense" (of which there exists a miserable French translation and an—unintelligible to me—Swedish one), "Invitation to Beheading" and the 120,000 word "Gift" (neither of the two translated). One of my worst novels "Camera Obscura", translated into half-a-dozen languages, has been published here by Bobbs-Merrill under the title of "Laughter in the Dark" in my own translation. I also translated into English a better novel of mine, "Despair" which was published in England. Moreover, I have in manuscript form a novel, "The Real Life of Sebastian Knight".2 I wrote it in English and rather like it.
Vladimir Nabokov: Selected Letters 1940-1977 Page 4
