Letters to Véra

by Vladimir Nabokov

  It is impossible to find Shvarts, and I do not have time now for treatment, and if I went to Dynkin for advice, then he’d charge 75 fr. for this ‘advice’, but all the same I’ll go to him after my return from London, but only if I haven’t received free treatment at the hospital where Sherman works. I have asked several people today and they all said with one voice that 400 is very cheap and that it is, of course, tout compris, so that they all recommend that we grab it, as I do – although I’m still waiting for answers from pensions through Mme Schlesinger and others. Today out of curiosity I looked over the furnished apartment (3 rooms etc., magnificent, clean, spacious), which I was promised from Belgium through Zina, supposedly 650 a month tout compris (even that wouldn’t work, of course) – but also it turned out to be not 650, but 800.

  Cards: of course without any ‘écrivain’, but tout court. Lyusya has amassed a collection of three thousand butterflies – so far. Old man Paul has finally made me a proposal: two spots a month for 400, c’est toujours quelque chose, but I haven’t yet agreed, I’ll raise it. The old man is not stone, but cardboard. One spot, an essay or review, and the other, ‘belles-lettres’. We are having wonderful spring weather all the time. Please, plan to set out in March.

  Military duty cannot affect me in any way. I’ll get a residence permit as soon as I return from London. Ilyusha does not need a wallet, but he was pleased. I handed over to the old man the books and vodka brought from Romania by El. Lvovna. I will write to Lisbet. And to Heath. Will write to Anyuta. I have received a desperate letter from Mother. Au fond, shouldn’t I do this: I found out at the travel office that aller et retour to Prague costs five hundred and fifty (through Germany). Half I can earn back at an evening there. The other half I will use up anyway waiting for you. So: what if I went to Prague for ten days at the beginning of March? I have written to Ksyunin in Belgr., but still no reply. Advise me. Maybe this is a way out? Now Victor has appeared again! He complains that a lot goes on moving around, on food, on little things. Very much a business letter today. Yesterday I had an endless lunch with Denis Roche, and in the afternoon took tea with lots of ladies at Mme Jacques Chardonne’s. I received from Aunt Nina several ‘society connections’ in London, and the same from the Golovins, whom I visited today. In the evening I’m going to a party at Ergaz’s. Kisses to my marzipanny, my engine-drivery, my dear one. I miss you madly, my love, my angel, my soul …

  Very true about Herzen. I love you. And the little man.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [8 February 1937]

  [TO: Berlin]

  [Paris]

  My adorable love,

  Not much from you lately, for some reason. The little boy’s not sick, is he? Soon, I’ll be able to think that I will see you in a month. My darlings …

  Feverish preparations are underway for my French reading – announcements in all the papers, sales of my ‘Course’ and ‘Chambre’ at the reading, endless phone calls. All of this is extremely lucrative for me, but of course there’s a danger that those thirsting to hear the much-talked-about Hungarian writer won’t be eager to listen to a substitute (as if a touring sword-swallower were to perform instead of Plevitskaya); but it’s touching that many of those who were at Ridel’s want to come again! Gallimard has finally arranged a meeting with me – on Thursday morning. There was a very successful evening at the Ergazes’, and on Saturday night I read to the thirty ‘knights’ here, for which I chose ‘Young Chernyshevsky’, which left a painful impression on Vishnyak, Rudnev and Vlad. Mikh. (the last of these told me, bitterly: ‘you have made him loathsome’), but which Ilyusha liked very much. The rest, apart from Aldanov, Teffi, Pereverzev and Mme Tatarinov, simply did not get what it was about. Overall, it caused rather a scandal but went off very well. Yesterday I had lunch at the Etingons’ – he can torture one to death with his Jewish jokes. Their son died in Berlin, from purulent appendicitis, at twenty. What can Anyuta say about them? I’m not asking this for nothing, but because they are very interested in my fate. But what about old man Pol! Eh? Four hundred francs … Je n’en reviens pas. Yesterday I paid a visit to the very sweet and very deaf Maklakov. He showed me old photographs of his Moscow estate, through a stereoscope: every blade of grass seemed alive, but the people were flat.

  I received, at the same time: a letter (charming) from Mme Chernavin, according to which I will ‘huddle’ on a couch in the same room as her son, and a letter from Lisbet, who suggests not locking their apartment (they leave on the 14th) so that I could stay there. I wrote her back right away, saying thanks but I’d live at Mme Ch.’s – and very much regret this, since I foresee I’ll be diabolically uncomfortable in a room already inhabited – especially given my psoriasis (which absolutely poisons my existence, but I’m afraid to start treatment before leaving for London). My cheek almost puffed up, but Mme Adamov took out the rotting nerve, and in the métro, my mouth suddenly filled up with blood and pus – and everything cleared up miraculously; but, apparently, I’ll have to have the tooth pulled out – but, again, I’m afraid to do this before Thursday. Autrement, I feel great. I talk to Lyusya on the phone almost every day, and I’ll give him a few more journals before my departure. Today, I had a visit from one Isr. Kogan, with an offer to place short stories in American magazines. I gave him ‘The Passenger’ and ‘Chorb’ (in Struve’s translations); but you should write to me where they’ve been published and, if possible, send me the review from the N. Y. Times. Bernstein sent him to me. Tonight, I am having dinner with Bunin and the Tsetlins.

  I am expecting you both on March 15. Tell me your thoughts about the trip to Prague. Ilyusha is entrancingly, touchingly, and endlessly nice, but Vlad. Mikh. has turned glum after ‘Chernyshevsky’. My darling, I embrace you over all your tender length. I dreamt of you yesterday night.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [postmarked 10 February 1937]

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

  c/o Fondaminsky,130, av. de Versailles

  [Paris]

  My love, my darling,

  well, things turned out very successfully with the printing of ‘Le Vrai’: it will appear in N. R. F. on March 1st. Today I am again going to visit Paulhan qui est tout ce qu’ il y a de plus charmant.

  I do not understand what you write about the south of France. It’s absolutely decided that you’ll leave in the middle of March (perhaps not even through Paris but through Strasbourg? Let’s think more about this) to the place chosen (the choice will be made in ‘the very near future’. About ten people are working on it). Please understand that if this isn’t resolved now, then, again, nothing will come of it, we’ll linger, put it off – in a word, tell yourself our Berlin life is over – and, please, get ready. Maybe we don’t have funds for five years ahead, but we do for the summer. As soon as I come back from London, the visa etc. will be sent to you. Apart from everything else, I can’t live without you and the little boy. I’ll last one more month, but longer – no. Besides, my turning up again in Nestor str. borders on the grotesque. Tu ne le voudrais pas.

  My psor is getting worse all the time – although in all other respects I feel splendid. Two days ago there was a literary dinner at Tsetlin’s, and yesterday I went out of town to see my Kirghiz. Today I am having lunch at Léon’s and will establish a connection with Polyakov in London. In the afternoon Lyusya and I will be at Sofa’s. I’ll write to Gubsky, of course. As for Czechoslovakia, I’m afraid you’re right. I’m waiting for a reply from Ksyunin. There’s a great buzz around my reading tomorrow. Marcel will start off again with a ‘word’ about me.

  The reverberations from what I read (‘young Chernyshevsky’) are unusually loud. Vishnyak said that he’d quit the board of ‘Sovr. zap.’ if this is printed. It’ll be interesting to see what happens when they read the whole chapter. But that’s still a long way off.

  I want to write! I was a
bsolutely not made for the colourful life here – or, rather, everything would be fine if I could find, in the flashing landscape of each day, my little homeland – three or four hours to dedicate to writing. My darling, how I love you … That’s wonderful, the conversation with the little dog! My little one.

  Mother is sick again. They live in one room so it’ll be warmer. She is in despair that I’m not coming again, that there’s disappointment once more. I just don’t know what to do …

  I wrote the letter to Milyukov and gave it to Ilyusha, to whom Aldanov came today especially to talk about this problem. What are you doing now? (It is four o’clock, Wednesday. He probably didn’t sleep and is now bustling around over something.)

  Bunin phoned me now with an offer to find a place near Lavandou suitable for us and to settle down nearby. I’m having lunch with him on Saturday. The weather is what Pushkin’s Laura imagines, thinking about Paris. But sparrows are twittering between the rains and the iron fences are glittering soothingly. I love you. I repeat: I expect you in the middle of March. If there is a permanent job – great, if just bits and pieces – never mind, I’ll manage.

  It’s impossible to talk about Butler now, let’s settle first the question of the newspaper. On Saturday afternoon I’m meeting Lady Fletcher. I kiss you, my love.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [postmarked 12 February 1937]

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

  c/o Fondaminsky, 130, av. de Versailles

  [Paris]

  My happiness, my dear darling,

  Yesterday’s matinée was the most successful of my readings (although there were no more than 150 people – and crowds of local Hungarians returned tickets at the box office). In the morning, the translations, rather prettily plumed by Melot, arrived, so I read some of them in two versions. By the way, Joyce was present; we had a very nice talk. He’s taller than I thought, with a terrible leaden stare: with one eye he can’t see at all, already, while the pupil of the other (which he points at you in a special way, because he can’t rotate it) is replaced with a hole, they had to operate six times before they managed to drill the pupil without causing a haemorrhage.

  The letter to Mil. was rejected, and, probably, I’ll have to see him again – or write another letter. I worked out a life-plan with I.I., but much depends on the London trip. One thing greatly cheers me up: the success of my little French pieces. Over the summer, apart from ‘The Gift’, I will definitely compose two conférence[s] and translate – or write directly – a story or two. We’ll spend the summer in the south – and only in the worst case, if nothing at all comes out of the butterflies in London, will we have to settle near Paris. But, I repeat, I won’t write today about all the details we’ve already discussed.

  I arrived at Gallimard at noon, as arranged, and the telephone girl downstairs at reception, where I was the only visitor, said that a lady was with him, I had to wait. After a quarter of an hour, she (the telephone miss), humming, put on her little hat and went out to lunch. I stayed there as if in a desert. At half past, I went upstairs, asked someone there how to get to Gallimard’s; the man said that G. was busy and let me into another, very elegantly furnished waiting room, with armchairs, ashtrays and a view of the rain, and there, in perfect silence, I sat for another half an hour – and probably would be sitting there still had I not guessed to go downstairs again. There I learned from a fleetingly glimpsed lady employee in a fur coat that Gal. had gone out to lunch. Then I said: ‘c’est un peu fort’. She offered to check anyway and at last in another part of the building we found Gal. already in a coat. It turned out no one had let him know. It turned out too that he cannot read English himself, but right away in my presence he made a note about ‘Despair’, which Fernandez will read, and he’ll give me an answer before the 15th (?). I’ve also asked Paulhan with whom I corrected Le Vrai the day before yesterday (he threw out the end so that now it ends with ‘grenier’ – but I don’t give a damn about these French excrements of mine! And instead of poète anglais I inserted ‘allemand’) to talk again to Gal. and Fernand. There.

  Sofa lives in a hotel room, with a lapdog and a double bed. As unbearable as ever. Today I had lunch at the Shklyavers’: everything just the same as in ’33 and ’36, down to the menu. Now I’m going to Fletcher. I got a letter from Lisbet; they put their trip off for several days, so I’ll see them. I wrote to her again. Sent the little books to Mother without touching Lyusya’s. Slept well, in spite of the itch. The matinée, it seems, earned Victor nothing, i.e. Mme Tatarinov is writing to Földes asking for reimbursement for the losses. Everyone liked it so much that they decided to organize the same thing again – but on different conditions, of course.

  Kisses for my little one! My kitten … And you, my darling, I love infinitely and am waiting for you in agony.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [postmarked 15 February 1937]

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

  c/o Fondaminsky, 130, av. de Versailles

  [Paris]

  My love, my dear love,

  on the contrary – I read your letters very attentively – and even take notes, so I can reply to everything.

  In London I will stay at the Tsetlins’ apartment (her keys are already in my pocket). Here’s the address: 15 Princes House 52 Kensington Park Rd c/o M. Zetlin. London W. 11. I’ll be going there just a little later, in the evening of the 17th to be precise, since the reading at the Sablins’ is on the 25th. Besides that, Gleb’s arranging two whole English-Russian meetings, for one of which people will pay. I propose, in general, to read in English an excerpt from ‘Me’ (a temporary title), since my French successes have greatly encouraged me. Pourtalès, author of many ‘romancées,’ squirmed as I read about biographers’ sins! A letter from Gleb – an unexpectedly sensible one. I wrote lots of letters to England, in keeping with the advice I got here. Léon, his wife and sisters are extremely obliging and sweet. I’ve received an invitation to Cambridge from acquaintances of Kan[n]egis.– will certainly go. Zhdanov is already in London, there he will ‘hook me up’ with K.; once again the hope of seeing Cam. Obsc. materialize flared up, but I don’t much believe it will happen. I see thousands of people – the Kokoshkin-Guadaninis (don’t you dare be jealous), Teffi, the Bunins, the Tatarinovs. Yesterday I was at Mme L. S. Gavronsky’s, where a Persian did marvellous magic tricks, and then Berberova, driving very rhythmically, took me and Ilyusha home; incidentally, the little automobile broke down right near our house. Two more French readings have been announced, at the beginning of March. Please send Denis (who has worn me out) a copy of ‘Spring in F’. (you will find an offprint in the trunk): he can’t wait to translate it and plans to publish it together with ‘Aguet’. Besides that send (or tell Petrop. to send) a copy of ‘Despair’ to Antonini (6, rue Corot), he’s writing about me. And one more thing I ask you to do, darling: send photographs of the boy to Mother. I can’t part with mine. The story about the crows and the swallows had a resounding success here. My little darling!

  I sent it off to Wilson. Yes, the cuisine’s not great, it seems. I still believe all the same that we will indeed go south – but this will be decided when I’m back from London. I’m thinking of coming back here on February 27th. I often speak with Lyusya on the phone. He is very nice, but rather impossible. He invents complex cobwebs out of trifles and experiments with things he knows he has no intention of carrying out. Tomorrow I will see him and Mme Morevsky (who, by the way, was at Mme Gavronsky’s). I’m still suffering terribly from the psoriasis: it has reached hitherto unseen dimensions, and it’s particularly unpleasant that my face is blotchy, too. But the most awful thing is the itch. I dream madly of peace, ointment, sun … Zen-Zin is sick today, and Vlad. Mikh. has bought him a chicken. I’ll write to Mme Chernavin now, cancelling. A great relief, I must say.

  I love you.
A month’s gone already … I want so much to write, but I can’t even think about it now.

  Greetings to Anyuta, I will write to her again one of these days. Lyusya’s not going anywhere on the 15th.

  My darling!

  V.

  Do you have Khodas.’s article? If not I’ll send it.

  [APCS]

  [postmarked 16 February 1937]

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

  c/o Fondaminsky, 130, av. de Versailles

  [Paris]

  My love, so, tomorrow I’m on my way. I’ve written to everyone, got telegrams from Thompson and Gubsky, – and in general all’s going well. I got the books from Paulhan. Wrote to Mother. Have you received ‘Mercury’? I met yesterday with Lyusya who’s also planning to go to London. He’ll now do thirty-one pages, and I have four more with me. As an author, I am pleased. I wrote five letters to Prague; but still no answer from Ksyunin. Yesterday was a quiet day; I went to bed early – while, in the dining room, ‘Novyi grad’ was holding a meeting. My darling, I am afraid you are tired and lonely, but you have the little one with you at least, and I haven’t. Today I.I. and I will write a new letter to P. N. The whole time the weather has been wonderful, warm, damp. I overheard yesterday one conductor telling another on the métro: ‘moi ce que j’aime chez Montherlant …’ I love you, I love you.

  V.

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [postmarked 19 February 1937]

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

  c/o Fondaminsky,130, av. de Versailles

  [Postmarked Paris, mailed from London]

  52 Kensington Park Rd

  Princes House 15

  (you don’t need anything else:

  15 is the apartment number)

  Tel: Park 79 74

  19–II–1937

  My darling, my love,

  to the blue sleeping train they attached a single shortish third class car (where, however, there happened to be an empty compartment and a soft, narrow bench), and at half past one at night, in Dunkirk (we crawled for a long time past endless barrels and then by bridges, and the infrequent streetlights shone with a mean port light, carefully moving backwards, and the water, surprised, showed black every now and then) it was shamefully unhooked, so that the sleeping-cars, like somnambulists, streamed to the ferry-boat, while we (two Russian Jews, a lame Englishman, an old Frenchman and I) after a certain chilled stupor in a dimly, soullessly (I cannot pick the right adverb: it should smell immediately of all this material melancholy of the bare yellow custom houses at night) lit douane crossed without the car to the same ferry-boat and stepped down into a very comfortable saloon, where it was in any case better than in the luxurious coffins of the train, chained and nightmarishly, helplessly swaying along with the ferry, because: the tossing was terrible, for a long time they didn’t dare go out to sea: the storm held us up for five more hours (and a strange thing happened to me: I was enjoying the tossing – from four to half past nine – and in the morning I saw something so poignantly familiar! the sea, very lightly touched up with blue and throwing itself at everything, and the seagulls, and the smudged horizon, and on the right, then on the left, then ahead the white-washed chiselled-off shores); the tossing continued to the very end, I ate an English breakfast (rather expensive), and then they tormented us (all of the same outcast little bunch) for more than an hour (passports, check-up) – and, finally, again in a soft empty compartment, we flew through Kent – and again the familiar: grey suede sheep on crumbly green meadows. At one I had to lunch with the Thompsons, but we arrived at Victoria at a quarter to: I rushed in an antediluvian cuboid cab (a cube of indigo, not just in shape), not recognizing anything, as if I had arrived for the first time: found your sweet darling letters on the table (and the room is ideal, with a huge bed hidden upright in a white closet, with a radio, with a live, human – not automatic – telephone and still-lifes by Mlle Avksentiev (a daughter from the first marriage) on the walls; and the bathroom is, of course, beautiful); I rang up the Thompsonovs, they sent an automobile for me from the restaurant in a quarter of an hour (I managed both to bathe and shave) – and six of us had lunch (with two readers – and I’ve already launched my ‘autob’, i.e. arranged to give it to her, the woman reader, and she’ll try, through Curtis Brown, the old man, to get it to Gollan[c]z. Lisbet is still the same, animated, he chose the food, with the same terrible artfulness, and gorged; at a table nearby sat Fritz[i] Massari, tell Anyuta. Then we parted (tomorrow I’ll dine at their place, again with some people). I called Struve and Molly: I’ll see both tomorrow: with Molly I am lunching at Charing-Cross and I’ll be taking from her the corrected ‘autob.’ for Eileen Bigland – Curt. Br. – Goll.