Letters to Véra

by Vladimir Nabokov

  V.

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [3 June 1926]

  TO: b/ Frau Dtr Slonim, Sanatorium, Sankt-Blasien, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  3/VI–26

  Little old man,

  This morning I got the notice from the police that our passports are ready, – please report and pay, they say, twenty state marks. I don’t have that. What now, little old man?

  Today the day turned out greyish, inclined to rain, so I didn’t go swimming with Shura as we’d planned. We met at the Charlottenburg station (I in my new, very wide, ash trousers) and went to the zoo. Oh, what a white peacock they have! He was standing there, his tail spread out like a fan, and his tail was like shimmering hoarfrost on star-shaped branches – or like a snowflake magnified a million times – and this wonderful tail, sticking out like a puffed-out fan (puffed out from behind, like a hoop skirt inflated by the wind) – crackled from time to time all of its frosty spokes. And later in the ape house we saw two enormous russet orangutans. The husband with a red beard moved slowly, with a certain patriarchal sedateness: he solemnly scratched himself, solemnly pulled snot from his nose (he had a cold), and sonorously sucked on his finger. And there was such a kindly bitch with hanging nipples, who had been nursing two plump little lion-cubs, sitting on their rumps, motionlessly watching with their yellow eyes the warden painting the fence in front of their cage. And other amazing animal stares: the mother of those cubs trying, through the bars of her cage, to look around the corner – at the cage where her children were with their canine nanny – and the father, thoughtfully contemplating the croup of a percheron harnessed to a cart from which a labourer was offloading some planks. I took Sh. as far as the corner of Wilmersdorfer Strasse, and, after buying the Observer on the way, returned home and read till lunch. They served me (in my room – as I asked) some broth with a rice-filled pastry, a lamb chop, and apple mousse. After that I rang the Tatarinovs (I’ll visit them on Saturday). Then I changed and went to the club. I played – not badly at all – till six, and on the way back I called in at Anyuta’s. I saw everyone there, we sat around in the dusk, and I returned home for dinner (fried eggs, fried potatoes with bits of meat, radishes, cheese, sausage). After having dinner, I sat down to write to you (it’s exactly nine now). So there you are, little old man, my enchantment, my dear life. I am such a grass widow … But I feel very good here, very cosy. Good night, my little old man. I’ll compose a poem now, then go to bed at 10.30.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 4 PP.]

  [4 June 1926]

  TO: Sankt Blasien, Sanatorium, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  4/VI–26

  Mousch, mouse-sh-s-ch-sch-sh …

  In the morning, I had a postcard from Stein: ‘I need to talk to you about translating “Mary” into German. Would you kindly phone, or, still better, call in on me at “Slovo”.’ I could do neither, since I was hurrying to Shura’s. (Oh yes, there was another letter – from my mother. They almost turned her back at the border, owing to the absence of a German visa! She is very happy with her Czech village.) Shura and I went to the swimming establishment on Krumme Strasse. There was a man without an arm (cut off right at the shoulder, so he was like the statue of Venus. I kept thinking his arm was hidden somewhere. Looking at him, I felt a kind of physical unease: just a smooth place with a fringe of armpit hair), while another man had the most detailed tattoos all over his body (by his left nipple he had two little green leaves that transformed the nipple into a disgusting pink floweret). We swam, drank a bottle of Seltzer water at the villa, and I took off (for one o’clock) to my Kaplan lesson (with Madame). At two I returned home (white trousers, white sweater, mackintosh), and having locked myself in a telephone booth, called Stein. Awfully tongue-tied, with an agonizing abundance of ‘obliobli’, he informed me that ‘in German literary circles they are interested in Oblimary and the short stories as well, and so they want to translateobli both Mary and the oblistories; and that, ifobli I agree, they ask me not to undertake any steps on the side (this is in connection with Gräger) before June 20th. And please, obli, deliver all your stories to me and wait for further news, and this is an oblisolutely sure thing.’ I am somehow worried that they will obliswindle me. I’ve decided to ask six hundred marks and no Spaniards for ‘Mary’, and five hundred for the book of short stories. I will talk to Evsey Lazarevich about this tomorrow (he is leaving for Amsterdam tomorrow evening, but today went to Wannsee for a whole day off). In any event, I’m very pleased. And, considering how excited Stein was, and how he oblioblied, it really is a sure thing. My Mousch, I love you. For lunch, they gave me a couple of meatballs with carrots and asparagus, a plain brothy soup, and a little plate of perfectly sweet cherries. I have been getting my litre of milk from day one. After lunch, I went straight to the Kaplans’ again, and then played tennis till seven. The weather was rather cloudy all day, but very warm. By some miracle I received ‘Rul’’ in the evening. After getting back I read it for a bit, and began tortuously composing a poem about Russia, about ‘culture’ and about ‘exile’. And nothing came of it. Only separate silly images swim up: ‘and the alley / of cypresses went to the sea …’ or ‘in Bohemia in a beech-wood / there is a reading-room …’ and make me feel nauseous, set my teeth on edge and put my head in a fog. Only old phrases used long, long ago, surface … I have to grab hold of some kind of vision, immerse myself in it – but now only fake visions are rushing past; they irritate me terribly. At dinner (a couple of meatballs – cold cuts, sausage, radishes), I suddenly grasped the future music, the tone, but not yet the metre – a scrap of musical mist – undoubted proof that I will write this poem. I love you, Mousch. They have extended the cord, it’s now very comfortable (ah, what a downpour just now … at first an indistinct rustle, then the drumming of drops on some tin, – a windowsill, maybe – and a mounting noise, and somewhere in the yard a window banged shut with a crack. Now it’s booming at full bore … this is a broad, sheer noise, a tinny pounding, a sodden weight …). I forgot to write that all the same I didn’t go right at once to my three o’clock lesson (the noise of the rain has become remoter, softer, more even), but had fifteen minutes to lie down and heard – from some balcony – two girls memorizing French sentences out loud: ‘il est evidang … evidang …’ (the noise rose for a moment, now it’s quieter again … magnificent rain … ). The roses on my table haven’t withered yet, but I finished off the candy today (one drop fell completely separately, with a separate clear sound. Now it’s not a noise but a rustle … And subsiding). It is exactly nine now, at ten I’ll go to bed. I want to write to Mother too. My Mousch, where are you? I dare say there’ll be a little letter tomorrow morning. Do you know what the look of the envelope will remind me of? Not at all the trip to Prague (my sisters, screaming: from Mme Bertran!!), but that postman who summoned me in a peasant woman’s voice from the white road I was working near – under the huge two-ton Provençal sun –: ‘Ouna lettra por vous, mossieu …’ So, Mousch. Today’s already the third you-less day. The rain’s gone almost entirely silent, it’s cooler, the dishes are clinking delicately in the kitchen. Good night, my Mousch, my mousikins. My dear one. My sweet one … Here again, a scrap of little music. Maybe I’ll still compose it today. My Mousch …

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [5 June 1926]

  TO: Sanatorium, Sankt-Blasien, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  5/VI–26

  Goosikins,

  I’ve now returned home (7 o’clock) and found your little letter on the marble of the wash-stand. Goosikins, what is this? Leave S. B. immediately (not Slava Borisovna, but Sankt-Blasien) and go somewhere warm. Talk to your doctor. Find out how things are in Todtmoos or Titisee. My poor little one … Do you have your fur coat with you? Shall I send you something else warmish? You know, when I was in S-B last August, it was so sultry there. This is all very unpleasant. P
lease, don’t stay there, my sweet one. I won’t tell your folks anything meanwhile, I’ll wait for your next little letter (which will come tomorrow). My Feverisch … And why did your idiot-doctor send you to the mountains of all places? This is all wrong. But it’ll all turn out right, my goosikins, you’ll move tomorrow, won’t you? Today it rained all day, it’s only just cleared. This morning I went to find out about the watch – it turns out that only next week will it become clear how much it’ll cost. Then under a warm drizzle, I sailed off to Ladyzhnikov’s for Soviet fiction. I signed up – it cost me seven marks (five as a bond) – per month – I couldn’t do it any other way. They told me there that more than a hundred copies of ‘Mary’ had been sold. I took the idiotic stories of Zoshchenko and read them through by lunch. Not much of a lunch today: a soup with some kind of groats, beige thick-skinned sausage, and a rice cake. After lunch, I went to Sergey K.’s lesson and got caught in a downpour – such heavy rain that my little grey (old) trousers got soaked through under the hem of my mackintosh and immediately lost their fresh crease. At five, after the lesson, I called in at Ladyzhnikov’s again and exchanged the idiot Zoshchenko for two other little books. Then I visited the denizens of Regensburg. I had a conversation with E. L. (who is leaving only on Monday), asked him for advice about those translations. I returned by seven, found your letter. A really small day today. Now they’ll bring me dinner and then I’ll go to the Tatarinovs (there, Mlle Ioffe – pleasant name – is giving a talk about Freud – pleasant topic). Kosten’ka, my warmest regards, thanks, and all that – I won’t write about this in my letters to you. I didn’t compose that little poem last night, – and the Day of Culture is nigh. I have five marks left. They give me milk in a large sealed bottle – very appetizing. Last night mice were scuttling about a lot. My joy, my happiness, my goosikins, I feel so unhappy that you are cold and uncomfortable … But everything should work out, there are other places around … Well, here comes my dinner. Till tomorrow, my sweet love.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [6 June 1926]

  TO: Sanatorium, St-Blasien, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  6/VI

  My poochums, pooch-chums,

  Last night, at the Tartars, there was a lecture and discussions about that quack Freud (in a dispute ‘about modern woman’, Karsavin was trying to prove that men shave themselves and wear wide trousers thanks to the influence of women. Deep?). Aykhenvald received an anonymous letter after his article about Purishkevich. ‘How could you spit so upon the grave of your friend?’ A journalist called Grif informed me he’d sent a big article about me to a Dutch literary magazine; too bad I don’t understand Dutch. Generally speaking, it was rather dull, it was mostly Kadish who spoke. We left around one – so I got up late today, around eleven. I went for a walk – in a loop, past Gedächtniskirche, down to the embankment, where I watched the windy-cubist reflections of the chestnut shuttlecocks in water. And at Schillstrasse, in an antique shop, I saw an ancient little book, opened on the first page – a journey of some Spaniard to Brazil in 1553. The drawing is charming: the author in knight’s armour – chain-mail, cuirass, helmet – all fit and proper – he is riding a llama, and behind him there are natives, palm-trees, a snake around a tree-trunk. I can imagine how hot he was … I am wearing my new dove-grey trousers today and the Norfolk jacket. Before lunch I read Leonov’s ‘Badgers’. A little better than all the other rubbish – but still not genuine literature. For lunch they served broth with dumplings, meat roast with fresh asparagus, and coffee with cake. And then I lay down on the couch and spent the whole day in books: finished Leonov, read through Seyfullina’s ‘Vireneya’. A nasty hag. The dinner was the same as yesterday: fried eggs and cold cuts. See, what a quiet little Sunday I’ve had. Today I heard so much peasant talk – from the books – that when someone in the yard suddenly shouted something in German – I was startled: where did the German come from? Now half past eight; in a little while I’ll go for a stroll, post the letter, and then it will be lights-out right away. My dear joy, where are you? Are you shivering still? My poochums … Time to turn the lamp on. There. I thought there would be a little letter this morning … But tomorrow, for sure. Don’t go to Todtmoos – there, apparently, it’s even higher. I can’t wait for you to be all sorted out. My poochums, my love … My sweet little legs. Seems tomorrow the weather may be fine – such a delicate sky.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 3 PP.]

  [7 June 1926]

  TO: Sanatorium, St-Blasien, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  7–VI–26

  My monkeykins,

  Last night around nine, I went out for a stroll, feeling through my whole body that thunderstormy tension that’s the harbinger of a poem. Back home by ten, I clambered inside myself, as it were, rummaged about, tormented myself for a little, and wriggled out with nothing. I turned the light off – and suddenly an image flashed by – a little room in a poorish Toulon hotel, the velvet-black depth of the window opened into the night, and somewhere far beyond the darkness the hissing of the sea, as if someone is slowly drawing in and letting out air through his teeth. Simultaneously, I was remembering the rain which rustled so nicely in the yard one recent evening while I was writing to you. I felt there’d be a poem about the soft sound – but here my head clouded over with fatigue and to fall asleep I began to think about tennis, imagining I was playing. After a while I turned on the light on and schlepped along to the toilet. The water there squelches and tweets for ages after you pull the string. And now back in bed with this soft sound in the pipe, accompanied by my recollection-sensation of the black window in Toulon and the recent rain, I composed two stanzas of the enclosed poem: the second and the third. The first of these scrambled out almost at once, whole – but I fiddled longer with the second, setting it aside a few times to trim the corners or to think a little about the remaining stanzas, still unknown, but palpable. After composing this second and third, I calmed down and fell asleep – and in the morning, when I woke up, felt happy with them – and immediately began to compose more. When at half past twelve, I set off for my lesson with Kaplan (Madame), the fourth, the sixth, and part of the seventh were ready – and at this point I experienced that miraculous, inexplicable feeling that may be the most pleasant of all at the time of composition, namely, the precise extent of the poem, how many lines it will have in all; I knew by now – although perhaps a moment before that I hadn’t known – that there would be eight stanzas and that in the last there’d be a different rhyme pattern. I composed in the street and then over lunch (I had liver with mashed potatoes and a plum compote) and after lunch, before leaving for Sack’s (at three). It was raining, I was glad I’d put on the navy suit, black shoes, and mackintosh, and on the tram I composed the poem right to the end, in this order: eighth, fifth, first. I finished the first at the moment I opened the garden gate. I played ball with Shura, then we read Wells to terrible peals of thunder: a wonderful thunderstorm had broken – as if in accord with my liberation – since later, on the way home, looking at the gleaming puddles, buying ‘Zveno’ and the ‘Observer’ at Charlottenburg Station, I felt a luxurious lightness. In ‘Zveno’, there happened to be an announcement of ‘Volya Rossii’ (I am sending it to you; I’ll get the issue tomorrow). On the way home I stopped in at Anyuta’s. I saw E. L., he had just received a letter from S. B. Around seven, they set off for some shop, I went home and, as agreed with Anyuta, raked out your little fur coat from underneath newspapers and naphthalene (it has such a sweet little monkey on its collar …). Anyuta will pack it up tomorrow, and I’ll send it to you. I read newspapers before dinner (a letter from Mother: they live cramped but not badly), then ate potatoes with bits of meat and a lot of Swiss cheese. I sat down to write to you around nine, i.e. I reached out for a writing pad and suddenly noticed the little letter that had arrived in my absence and that I somehow hadn’t noticed. My
sweet. It is such a monkeykins little letter … It seems it’s not so much the air as ‘family matters’ that are driving you out of S. B.? Anyuta says – and I think she’s right – that mountain air often acts that way at first – but later, in two or three days, you get used to it – and then it becomes very pleasant. No, monkeykins, don’t come back – you will be shoved into the oldest, vilest little suitcase and sent off again. I will mail your reprimand to the Catholics tomorrow – thank you, monkeykins. I’ll leave the back of this sheet blank – I am sleepy. The little man brought the cigarettes when I was out. I borrowed 30 marks from Anyuta and will receive exactly that from the Kaplans tomorrow. I love you, monkeykins.