Letters to Véra

by Vladimir Nabokov

  The typesetter Aristarkhov told the Kokoshkins about Camera Obscura (which he was setting – and keeping them informed about its development): ‘at first it was such a jolly story – who could have expected …’ (and at this shook his head). I have met outstanding readers at the Kokoshkins’ – there are people worth writing for. Two days ago I had coffee with Lyusya (I treated him) and a bit of a discussion. Then visited Khodasevich who was lying sick on an ottoman, strangely improved in his looks – perhaps even looking like (maybe because I was seeing him from a new angle) an Indian chief – dark, flat hair and thinness; – but some other likeness also tickled my imagination: wrapped in a plaid blanket, dishevelled and eloquent, ‘with the seal of genius on his pale forehead’, he suddenly reminded me of something old-fashioned, and the old-fashioned turned out to be Pushkin – I put side-whiskers on him – and believe me, he began to look like him (as some entomologist would look like a May-bug, or a cashier like a number). He was on top form and poured out for me his sparkling venom. Yesterday had lunch at the Kyandzhuntsevs, then went to the Louvre to a lecture by my dear old Fierens, with whom I am having dinner today. Walked with Irina in the Tuileries, then went to Léon’s where I had dinner with Aunt Nina. Girshman is still very beautiful, but the younger (comparatively) Ekaterina has aged awfully. Léon has given me as a present (as far as I understood) several books by Joyce with his inscriptions, and suggested that we called on him after dinner, but surrounded the visit with so much fuss and caution that I finally refused, saying I didn’t have the time (and the pointlessness of such a meeting. Joyce met Proust just once, by chance; Proust and he happened to be in the same taxi-cab, the window of which the first would close and the second open – they almost quarrelled). On the whole it was rather tedious.

  About those new things of his: abstract puns, a masquerade of words, shadows of words, maladies of words. I parody him: creaming at the pot of his Joyce. Ultimately: wit sets behind reason, and while it is setting, the sky is marvellous, but then it’s night.

  My sweetheart, what if you wrapped our boy up and came here with him? We’ll have enough to begin with, and then work will turn up. Well? I think such things should be decided at once, striking the iron while it aurait chaud (I’m still parodying him).

  Yesterday I broke off the letter to go to Rudnev’s for pancakes, and I had dinner with Fierens, – spent a lovely evening with him. Now it’s morning. I will go for lunch with Sofa, then to Marcel’s, then to Bunin’s. If you dare not to come, then I’ll head back on Thursday the 27th – today I will find out, if I have time, when the train arrives and let you know.

  I think Anyuta has already remarked: there are no clocks at all at the métro stations, but there are all of two at the Trocadero station – one even with a pendulum. I once asked a conductor what was in the composition of the stone steps that sparkled so nicely – the sparks were like the play of quartz in granite, and at this he, with unusual eagerness – giving me les honneurs du Métro, so to speak, – started explaining to me and showed me where to stand and how to look to enjoy the glitter at its best: if I described this, people would say I made it up.

  Kisses, my happiness … You’re somehow writing very briefly to me. Ilyusha hasn’t had a single bath since I’ve been here.

  Kissing you once more.

  V.

  Matveev’s idiotic card won’t fit in the envelope – I’ll bring it.

  [APCS]

  [postmarked 26 February 1936]

  TO: Nestor Str. 22, Berlin – Halensee, Allemagne

  [Paris]

  My love, my yesterday’s matinée went marvellously, about a hundred came, it was lavish, lively – in a word, couldn’t have gone better. Marcel spoke about me for about an hour (the day before, on top of everything he had read, I explained to him the idea of Invitation; besides he’d summoned Weidle, who crammed him full) and very, very intelligently. Every detail of ‘Mlle O’ was greeted with waves of sympathy, smiles of approval – and a couple of times I was ‘interrupted with applause’. I’m very pleased.

  It seems we can consider solved the problem of placing ‘Désespoir’ (Stock or Plon). The fate of ‘Mlle O’ and ‘Pilgram’ still hasn’t been settled, I’ll stay here for two more days, that is will leave on Friday – that’s final. This evening there’s a party at Marcel’s. This little postcard is not part of my letter count, but just so you know how successful it was yesterday, my love. You know, after all our dear Grigory Abramovich has topped the previous trip. I’ll see An. Nat. today.

  My darling, I kiss you and my little one, I am longing for you.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [27 February 1936]

  [TO: Berlin]

  [Paris]

  My love, my wonderful happiness, according to Cook I am leaving at 22.45 and arriving at Charlottenburg at 17.19, so if the weather is good and there are no little snuffles – well then, on Saturday, at nineteen minutes past five. On Monday (today is Thursday, evening), I had lunch with Sofa in a little Russian restaurant, she again talked with hatred about Ratner (who, in Raisa’s words, in her own time, that is, about three months ago, had been obtaining and obtained money for Sofa herself; overboard, as old Joyce would’ve put it). I adopted the tone with her that you suggested in your letter. She said: ‘all of that should have been told me when I was eighteen years old; now it’s too late.’ She didn’t show up at my reading at Ridel’s. After that I stopped by at Irina’s and with her, in her limousine, made a formal call on Bunin, who received us in cherry-coloured pyjamas – bags under his eyes, with a cold, depressed – and treated us to Samosa wine. We sat down for a quarter of an hour (strictly speaking, the visit was meant for Vera Nikolaevna, but she wasn’t there) and went to Jones’ – that’s a shop. When I got back I found Dastakiyan, whom I very promptly led off in the direction of Boulevard Murat, so I could invent a visit (to the Kaminkas). When I got back again I discovered the same society as was there last Monday, and the question for discussion was ‘sacredness and creativity’. The sweetest of all was Ladinsky, like an old rooster that’s lost its voice – a gentle rooster. Everyone left at half past two. On Tuesday there was the French reading, more than successful, and after that I went to bed at nine o’clock, impossibly tired (it lasted from three to eight, tout compris!). Yesterday I lunched at La Coupole with Mme Tatarinov; there too at three o’clock met Anna Natanovna, sat with her till four, after which appeared a very likeable but hopelessly red-haired Zeldovich, who walked me to the métro. In the evening there was a gathering at Marcel’s: he read his new play, absolutely talentless, with a musical German émigré in the main role. At midnight we called in on the way back at a café where Kerensky, the Aldanovs, Teffi and many more had gathered. Today I spoke with Rudnev about ‘Sovr. zap.’: he definitely wants ‘Chernyshevsky’ for the next issue. He will write to the old man about the memoirs – he promised. I said goodbye to the Kyandzhuntsevs, then went to the Belgian Consulate. Then I bought some tulips and under the pouring rain, adorned with snow, called on Mme Ridel (she, by the way, is a cousin of Poncet, the ambassador), where I spent a very pleasant and useful hour. Tomorrow I will see Paulhan and Slonim and in the evening will set out on my return journey. I think of you with the most excruciating tenderness, my darling. And of my little one. It seems I will have to send this letter by airmail, or it won’t make it. I want to be in Berlin. Got a letter from Long, everything’s in order. It’s raining, squelching in the garden outside the window; the rain's tired. Me, too.

  There was a time when Teffi, corpulent and white-necked, would sit in the Stray Dog, in a décolleté for forty-eight persons, and approximately that many young gentlemen with parted hair would all latch on together to her shoulders, and now she’s a haggish old woman with a face extraordinarily like a galosh. I hear Sherman’s voice, he’s come to Zenzinov. See you soon, my darling, I can’t even tell you how much I’m kissing you.

  V.

  ___________
_________

  [APCS]

  [postmarked 10 June 1936]

  TO: bei Bromberg, Ehrensteinstr. 34-I, Leipzig N 22

  Nestor str. 22

  [Berlin]

  My darling, thanks for the report. It was very sad to watch the little face floating by. I’ve just had dinner, not in a Russian, but in a German restaurant, since the Russian turned out too dear – more than a mark. A message has come from the Fid. Com. that the thing is finished and there will be money in two weeks; and Zeldovich writes that she has not received the books. I couldn’t eat up all the rhubarb yesterday. The journal ‘Krug’ with Weidle’s article about me has come. Frigid weather. Make sure he doesn’t catch a cold. Today without him I’m as if I have no soul. Half past one now, I am writing in the post office, will return home and write. Tomorrow evening I am at Zyoka’s. My love, stay longer without moving around.

  Greetings to Anyuta and Elena Lvovna.

  V.

  ____________________

  [APCS]

  [postmarked 11 June 1936]

  TO: bei Bromberg, Leipzig N 22, Ehrensteinstr. 34-I

  [Berlin]

  My love, a letter from Long. Having excused himself for the ‘delay’, he carries on: ‘up to the present, however, we have not made any plans for the publication of this book, the chief reason being that some of our Readers’ reports have not been at all enthusiastic, especially in regard to your translation. In view of the latter, we are now writing to ask you whether it would be possible for you to get hold of the translation that the American publishers used?’ What shall I answer?

  Nina P. phoned offering a job for you in the French Verkehr society: from 9 to 6, Fr. Germ. typewr. stenog., pay 150 marks. I said I’d write to you (but this is, of course, impossible to take).

  Zhdanov sent the manuscript back.

  At night I was composing a play and slept terribly. I love you, don’t get too upset. I can imagine what kind of ‘readers’ they have (which is not much consolation, all the same).

  V.

  ____________________

  [APCS]

  [postmarked 12 June 1936]

  TO: bei Bromberg, Leipzig N 22, Ehrensteinstr. 34-I

  Nestor str. 22

  [Berlin]

  My love, make sure you write to me, or I’ll stop, too. The sweetest and most touching postcard from F. He writes that Paulhan’s number is 15–00. Everything is in order. He will be here himself at the end of summer. I have forwarded to Anyuta a letter in a long envelope. I am very bored without you and the little boy. Why does it smell in his room, persistently and amiably, of sour milk? I have been to Aksyonov’s just now, and on the way spoke with princess Sh., whom I ran into. I received Adamovich’s review of ‘The Cave’, where he very brazenly ‘drew a parallel’ between the precious M. A. and myself. Yesterday I ‘dined’ at home, and today, at the Russian deli on Pariser Str. I love you, my darling. Write.

  Greetings to Anyuta-anyuta …

  V.

  ____________________

  [APCS]

  [13? June 1936]

  TO: bei Bromberg, Leipzig N 22, Ehrensteinstr. 34-I

  Nestor str. 22

  [Berlin]

  My darling, I’m very happy that you’re enjoying Leipzig. I received yet another article about myself (the third in three days!) – from Gleb, in the little Russian-English newspaper.

  A letter from Mother, worried about K. (who foolishly wants absolutely to go to England for his holidays) and the apartment – not for the first time. The weather is marvellous today, I was in the Grunewald. ‘Sovremennye’ is coming out 1-VII. I must juggle a bit, so as not to spend more than a mark a day on everything.

  Nika’s mother has called. My darling, try to lie a little in the sun. When exactly will you come back? I love you.

  V.

  [APCS]

  [14? June 1936]

  TO: Leipzig N 22, Ehrensteinstr. 34-I, b/ Bromberg

  [Berlin]

  My love,

  Nothing new, except a long thank-you letter from Mme Piotrovsky, I won’t forward it to you. I’m waiting for Gertruda tomorrow. Was in the Grunewald today. The weather’s so fine. Write me in more detail, when my son will be returned to me. Kissing you, my darling. Strange he’s afraid of squirrels. Now I will make myself some cocoa.

  V.

  ____________________

  [APCS]

  [postmarked 15 June 1936]

  TO: Leipzig N 22, Ehrensteinstr. 34-I, b/ Bromberg

  Nestor str. 22

  [Berlin]

  My dear darling, yesterday I spent most of the day in the forest, and today am having dinner at Hes.’s. By mistake I used the oatmeal caca-o and it turned out such slop that I almost threw up, and yet had to drink up three cups, so as not to waste the milk, which I was boiling at the same time, pouring ‘caca-o’ into it. Yesterday the radio of some loathsome neighbours (with the window open) thundered till midnight (of all inventions it’s surely the most banal and foolish); I and somebody else yelled ‘Ruhe!’, but in vain: the red-checkered brown operatic voice continued at full tilt. Today it’s overcast again. I miss you. I love you.

  V.

  I am forwarding two letters to Anyuta, whom I kiss.

  [APCS]

  [postmarked 16 June 1936]

  TO: b/ Bromberg, Leipzig N 22, Ehrensteinstr. 34-I

  [Berlin]

  My darling,

  a letter from Rudnev with a passionate plea to write for them on ‘The Cave’ – no one wants to do this. They need it for July first. Please, bring the book back.

  I don’t need your five marks yet, I’m still holding out. The old man asked me to read (re-read!) his ‘memoirs’ and mend where necessary. I am having dinner at his place today (which, to my mind, is somehow dimly-unconsciously connected with the editing) and in general he asks me to dine with him every day, but I don’t.

  I miss you very much, my love. Besides I am a bit irritated. Great that the little boysie has learned how to sit on the potty. Truda called in and brought him five eggs. I’ve forwarded two letters to Anyuta. I love you.

  V.

  The most cordial greetings to Elena Lvovna!

  ____________________

  [APC]

  [postmarked 18 June 1936]

  TO: Leipzig N 22, Ehrensteinstr. 34-I, b/ Bromberg

  [Berlin]

  My darling, a letter today from Karpovich that he will be here on Sunday (so as to leave on Monday morning) and he proposes to call in here at 5 o’clock (but he’ll be at Hessen’s for the evening). I’ll offer him tea.

  Today on the lake I saw a pochard, who swam carrying his chick on his back – and envied him. Saw – and heard – a company of Russians, of whom one was, strictly speaking, a fat German, with pronunciation to match, so that when her husband asked her ‘Pupusha, what are you sitting on there?’ she replied ‘On my ass’.

  I haven’t yet bought anything on the coupon at Hemdenhalle. Kisses to you, my love, and to him, him …

  1937

  ____________________

  [APCS]

  [postmarked 20 January 1937]

  TO: Nestor str., 22, b/Feigin, Berlin, Allemagne

  [Brussels]

  My darling, the snow on the carriage roof soon began to melt – and suddenly: the light bulbs started to drip, gradually drowning the compartment. At the border it turned out that Anyutochka was absolutely right: the official felt mortally insulted by the pins that fastened the inner belts, and there was an exchange of rough remarks finishing in a compromise: he unfastened the left one, and I – the right. In his rage, he ripped everything apart. Then lots of merry Belgian commercial travellers crawled in, and talked about the figures of ladies they know and about interest rates. Pendant que l’avoine pousse, le cheval crèvera, one remarked in some connection. It’s wonderful at Zinochka’s. I’ve slept well in a soft bed, in a marvellous room. Her yellow-eyed wolf keeps sniffing at me.

  I wanted to write much more, but see I won’t have time
. I prefer to send as is. Love you, him. Kiss Anyuta.

  V.

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [22 January 1937]

  TO: 22, Nestor str., Berlin – Halensee, Allemagne

  c/o Fondaminsky,

  130, av. de Versailles

  [Paris]

  22–I–37

  My darling, my dear love, I am writing to you on the train going to Paris, so there’s a certain tremor in my handwriting. The French evening went even more successfully than last time, the big plush hall was jam-packed. In place of an introduction Jacques Masui spoke charmingly and intelligently about me. The old man de Rieux (who is now publishing a book about … Lawrence, – not the colonel, but the lover), came up to me and remarked qu’il n’aurait jamais cru that Pushkin could have such a beautiful line as ‘… l’étoile n’est plus là parce que l’eau se ride’. The reading was drawn tight at the middle by a little belt of applause, and at the end there was a completely massive and heavy-duty din. Victor has earned a thousand francs for this kind of lecture, a fine fellow, isn’t he? Eleonora was there, I kept her at my side all the time (why is she in such a hurry, express, jumps the gun), we were in a café together, and so on. By the way, they say that they didn’t completely understand Aleksandra Lazarevna’s mysterious hint (about the gift), but her father had guessed correctly to her. Kirill, alas, entirely conforms to the impression we already had of him (my darling, I already miss you insanely – and the little boyo – I am kissing you, my happiness), he is very thin and morose, completely lacking his former vivacity. I won’t write about his ‘light bulbs’. I retrieved his things for twenty-five francs (!), went myself with him to get them, because on his own he was afraid of the landlady. I will just say that among the armful of things we were wrapping up there was a teaspoon with leftovers of jam, and scissors rusted orange all over. Sergey and Anna are very kind to him, as well as Zina. How charming little Niki is! I couldn’t tear myself away from him. He was lying, a red little thing, dishevelled, with bronchitis, surrounded with automobiles of all makes and sizes. I spoke with Margarita about Kir., her plan is to arrange a job at a toy store for him – in any case, she took it all very seriously. Fierens is in Paris. I was at Hellens’s, he looked even more like a hungry condor than before. He was in a dressing gown, ‘down with flu’. I have given him ‘l’outrage’, and signed a dedication to it (remembering only later that in Russian this is, after all, dedicated to Bunin – so if it were published, it would turn out funny). He kept asking whether I had written his last name clearly enough, and then went ahead and scribbled it out himself, – that’s what we’re like. This little detail convinces me he’ll really try to get the story out; but he advised me to give the lecture to Paulhan right away. I’m so tortured by my Greek, I’m dreaming about precipitation. I eat a lot, do not smoke, ou presque. It pains me to think, my joy, how tired you probably are now. Leonora insists you pay a visit to Holland. Why don’t you go there earlier, i.e. before the final exodus?