Letters to Véra

by Vladimir Nabokov

  HELLO, MY JOY, THANK YOU FOR THE LOVELY PICTURES – ESPECIALLY FOR THE SQUIRREL AND THE BIKE. LOVE YOU. DADDY

  ____________________

  [ALS, 3 PP.]

  [12 April 1939]

  TO: Hotel Royal Versailles, 31, r. Le Marois, Paris 16e

  5, Brechin Place

  [London]

  12–IV–39

  My love, first of all, what are those half-crossed-out lines? What letter? What is all this nonsense? I don’t quite understand what you mean – or meant – but I think that you genuinely cannot help feeling that you, and our love, and everything is now always and absolutely safe. Please, stop this, nothing exists for me except for you – and him. Nevertheless my response may be off, because I don’t understand exactly what’s got into your head – but whatever it is – it should leave, immediately and for ever. Now about my staying here: I cannot stay at the Sablins’ longer than Sunday. On the other hand, I really should stay for three or so more days. If the Tsetlins don’t come back, I would move to their place on the 17th – she left me the keys to her apartment. Today I spoke to Struve, and he vows that if I do ‘get stuck’ here, there’d be a big paid English reading on the 21st. This of course is the final deadline, because in any case (except for one thing – more below) I want to be at home on the evening of the 22nd. Meanwhile, I feel that the longer I stay here the better it is for my prospects, i.e. it would be good to wait for an invitation to a meeting at Leeds (and so, if, for example, I decided to stay up to and including the 21st and received that invitation at the very last moment, then I would have to stay here one day longer (it takes 6 hours to get there by bus, i.e. one can do it in a day)). All my other business – Sebastian, the play, the grant, the additional knotting up of connections also require more time. There was a letter from Zina today – the French reading isn’t working out, either, so Belgium completely drops out. Yes, it seems I will have to stay till the 21st – which means I will see Vinaver here. See him too yourself on the 17th or the 18th. I have already written in detail about my situation: 1) I have prepared, and tomorrow will give to be copied out cleanly and attractively: an application, a curriculum, and three testimonials, plus names of the three referee[s] – Wells, Pares, Konovalov; 2) this can be mailed to the university only after the announcement; 3) the announcement may appear now, in April, or it may appear at the beginning of May; 4) I’m waiting for Pares so I can find out whether I could, before the announcement, i.e. right now, dash to Leeds for the interview – generally, this can be done, i.e. there is no strict dependence on the job announcement – but only they need to know there (through Pares) that I am here and that it would be more difficult to summon me from Paris; 5) three people are chasing Leeds: Struve and two English lecturers. a) Struve won’t take it if it’s less than 500 p[ounds]. b) Pares doesn’t want to do without Morrison, who also won’t take less than in London, where he teaches Polish, Serbian, and so on – and this is why, evidently, he offered them my candidacy. c) B.... (I have forgotten his name) (no, I haven’t – I’ve written it down – Birket) has the same position in Sheffield, for 250, it seems, i.e. he is my only serious rival, but then his chair will become free. This is all that I know so far, but maybe something else will become clear by the 17th. I talked about Hicks with Mrs Whale, and for Vinaver’s contact with him I can ask her to write to him about this (in any case I will see her before my departure). I cannot write my ‘work’ now, of course, – that’s unthinkable. But send me, just in case, ‘Le vrai …’ – it is in my briefcase. Of course on my return all I’ll do will be to write in English about Russian literature.

  I was at the Lees’ yesterday, it was very pleasant – I’ve made friends with him once and for all, while she, it seems, judging by several hints, is expecting a child. This morning I got phone calls from 1) Eva, with an invitation to dinner – I wouldn’t have gone had she not given me 10 guin. for Mother; this will be a family dinner, of course (although she whispered insinuatingly that she was keeping my poems and ‘will never part with them’) 2) the very sweet Sergey phoned, he was very happy with the play, he gave it to Leslie Banks (a famous actor) and is expecting an answer tomorrow night. I’ll visit him again. 3) Budberg phoned – saying that she was enraptured etc. by Sebastian, gave it to a publisher, thinks I have a very good chance, wrote to Walpole about me and wants to organize a dinner with him and me on the 20th – I said that I will give her my answer tomorrow about whether I am staying or not—; I’ll go to her place tomorrow. 4) Gubsky phoned – I must go to see him now – and it seems I will have to break off the letter, my precious, my immeasurable love. My happiness.

  This morning, I was at Oriental Furs, invited Osya (the other was not there) to a bar, treated him to beer and gave him 20 pounds, which will be sent to you immediately. Sablin offered to send the money to Mother, i.e. to Evg. Konst. from here, he can do this through his charity service record. The rate will be good: 1 p. = 22 marks. I had lunch at home. After Gubsky, I’ll come back, Struve will come by, and we’ll go to a lit. evening at Mme Tyrkov’s, where I will read ‘Tyrants’.

  I will write to Priel – by the way, I would very much like you to see those gentlemen.

  It’s hot! I have been going around without a coat for three days now. Love you endlessly. When I come back from Gubsky, I will check whether I have written you everything, in the sense of answers to your questions and concerns – and if not, I’ll add more tomorrow. I write to you every day – do you get everything? I kiss your dear eyes.

  V.

  MY MITEN’KA, MY DARLING!

  DADDY

  ____________________

  [ALS, 4 PP.]

  [13 April 1939]

  TO: Hotel Royal Versailles, 31, rue Le Marois, Paris 16e

  5, Brechin Place, London S. W. 7

  13–IV–39

  3 p.m.

  My love, my angel, congratulations: 14 years! One more week, and I will kiss you, my tenderness. Today, when I got up, I suddenly felt like dropping everything and coming back – especially since Gleb tells me sourly that the English evening at Mme Shklovsky’s won’t give me more than 3 pounds (however, I’ll take my own measures too). I’ll pay her a visit tomorrow to arrange everything with her in person. So, now: I have just sent a letter to Konovalov, at P. O. Euston, London (figuring that if he passes through there – though he does not know I’m here till the 21st – I’ll see him again). I think he’s still in Paris, at his father’s. It is easy to find him through ‘Posledn. nov.’ I am asking him in the letter 1) whether I should send, with a reference to him, the copied-out application, C. V., and testimonials directly to the Leeds vice-chancellor, without waiting for the announcement (which, by the way, sometimes doesn’t appear at all, when the candidates are selected in advance); 2) whether he will let Leeds know that I am in England and can come to the required meeting (for it will be more difficult for me to do this from France). If you could catch him, that would be great. True, Gleb wrote to Pares especially about the second point and most likely, Pares has done it, but s i c h e r i s t s i c h e r. On the other hand, my candidacy has already been submitted (but, remember, we gave them the Saigon address, so if I’m still in England, I will receive the notice about the interview and so on from them by a roundabout route Saigon – Le Marois – 5, Brechin – and with my luck, it’ll happen right when I’m in the middle of my trip back), submitted by Konovalov and Pares (since I could (in Glebushka’s words) be concerned that Pares only said he’d submitted it (with my curricul. composed by Gleb)), yesterday I went specially for this to the Gubskys’, whose daughter is Pares’ secretary, i.e. she knows his correspondence. She told me that he had indeed sent my candidacy and that they expect him any day. I arranged with her for her to let me know as soon as he comes back, so that I could immediately go to see him. I rang her today myself on the off-chance, but he is still not there. I need him, first and foremost, for the same thing I’m writing to Konovalov about. Gleb assures me that I’m worrying for nothing: ‘that
everything will happen in its own time’, that ‘they will let me know themselves’ and so on, and can’t understand that it’s important for me to resolve all of this right away. But then, he wrote an excellent letter to Baring (6 copies made already), and I’ll make sure he collects signatures quickly. All in all I have a feeling that something should come out of this, except that our destiny is a slattern and cares more for the soul than for the body.

  Gubsky is just as apish and unlikeable as before – in his stoop-shouldered speech, in his gloominess with a little ironic edge, and even in his looks he is somewhat reminiscent of Achilles K. I got back from his place, changed, and with ‘Tyr. Dest.’ went to Mme Tyrkov’s. About thirty people there, plus an Easter cake. Most were women, and I’m afraid, the impression was somewhat eerie – I judge that because, after the chain of usual compliments, Ariadna hinted that she feared for my reason. In a bleating chant, Gleb recited several poems about St Petersburg sent by an anonymous poetess from Russia. For my part, I was most interested in Elisabeth Hill, a lively, hefty, manly lady, with a wolf’s jaw and burning eyes – a Russian lecturer at Cambridge (that very one). She told me in detail about her work, about ‘wonderful youth’, and invited me to give a lecture in Cambridge in October – a public one – about 19th century Russian literature. I won’t get money for this, but they will cover all of my travel costs. I said yes, of course. In general, she fastened on me and wants without fail to organize the publication of ‘Sebastian’ (all the same I don’t have a free copy). She has to phone me today about our next meeting, and I had to give her two numbers, for where I will be tonight. She is unappealing. Energy, pressure, emphasis on social life (her students sing Russian songs – you see what I mean), but her Russian is excellent – she is the daughter of a Russian priest. Lionlike – and very much the lioness. This morning I was busy with Priel and throwing au net the papers for the university, then I bought one more (cheap, but wonderful) little toy for my little one, had lunch and now will go to Budberg’s for 5, from there to Grinberg’s for dinner (he promised ‘to think of something’, but he is also a ditherer, like Gleb), and from there to a friend of the Sablins, the actress Charova (old and fat – I mention this just in case, although even if she were young and slender, nothing would change – I am only interested in one woman, – you). The Sablins are extremely nice, especially him (under a wrapping of a certain pompousness). I announced to them at lunch today that I will stay in London till the 21st, but will move out of their place on the 17th. They did not object. I’m afraid that those three or four extra days will cost me more than all the previous ones. By the way: cigarettes cost a shilling a day, two trips underground (but I often have more than two – up to six or eight) are sixpence – if the distances are short, a stamp is 2½ and a London stamp is 1½ pence, and, well, there are other little expenses – for ex., I had to buy envelopes, so I spend a minimum of two shillings a day. I have money set aside for the ticket, of course.

  I have written to Mme Solomon. Don’t forget Vinaver and – Konovalov. How is the furniture? Are you moving? I am writing to Priel that I won’t get back before the 22nd and that if worst comes to worst, my wife, etc. I had his old letter with me – the one about the manuscript.

  Well, that’s how things are, my darling. Everything that I do I do as if in the dark, gropingly, since I feel myself a cretin in cunning human connections. I’m ready to come back to Paris, having left the Leeds castle hanging in the lilac dusk an inch above the horizon, but if this happens, believe it, it won’t be my fault – I’m doing all in my powers and possibilities. It seems the most important thing for me now is to get my papers to them and then to appear there in person. Struve is even more unreliable than Klamm’s messenger.

  Yellow-blue bus, I love you. I adore you.

  V.

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [14 April 1939]

  TO: Hotel Royal Versailles, 31, rue Le Marois, Paris XVI

  5 Brechin Place

  [London]

  14–IV–39

  morning, then 3 p.m.

  My beloved (and a trifle silly) darling, I have prepared for you – a very small surprise, namely: when I went to the baroness’s last time, I agreed with her that she’d write to her friend Jules Romain[s] to have me admitted to the Paris Pen-Club. Yesterday, when I was at her place, she showed me his reply, a very obliging letter – and there and then we composed something like an application, with my curriculum added, i.e. the official declaration of my wish to join; so there you are. I turned up around half past five, she was not there yet and arrived only an hour later, so I was hopelessly late for the Grinbergs, and feeling her leonine influence, I called the visit off (I’ll see them another day). It turns out that Norman Douglas is a malicious pederast, who lives permanently in Florence. On the 20th, I will have lunch with Hugh Walpole. The reply about Sebastian will come any day. From there, I wandered off to Mme Charov’s, whose husband’s name is Shpunt, a thin gentleman in horn-rimmed glasses, constantly humming something. She is enormous and hospitable. The Sablins and Mme Vorontsov-Dashkov were there, too. Today I have another meeting with Elisabeth Hill (on the steps of the British Museum), tomorrow she is going back to Cambridge and wanted at all costs to see me again. The kitten knows well whose meat it has eaten. I’ll spend the evening at Mme Shklovsky’s.

  Now another thing: I have managed to arrange for the English evening (on the 21st) to be hosted at Harris’s, where there’s lots of room and so on. I’m drawing up my list – and I think that we’ll recruit those who can pay. I’ve written a long letter to Priel. Miss McDuggals hasn’t replied to me, for some reason. On Monday, I’m going to some sort of vernissage with Rodzyanko (who called me today). I’m less sure than you about his ability to arrange anything. Gubsky has promised to obtain a translating job for me (i.e. somebody’s book from Russian to English); it pays fairly well and is easy. Hill offered me the same thing.

  I am moving to the Tsetlins’ on the morning of the 17th. N. I. said perfectly plainly to me: ‘you’ve stayed with us for two weeks, and that’s enough.’ I suggested moving to her a while ago, but she wouldn’t let me go. I don’t want to hear any more, darling, of those dark hints of yours. I have explained everything to you about Pares. He’s not here yet. Wells is sick and not in London. After the signatures are collected (four will be quite enough – Sablin has already signed, and Mme Tyrkov too), the letter will go (probably the day after tomorrow) to Baring. It’s typed in six copies, with no addressee, so another two of these will go to Wells and Hugh Walpole (that’s not for sure, so perhaps to others). I will be at the baroness’s again on Monday. On Tuesday I’ll be at Long’s – I have more or less figured out, with the help of good people, what his report means, but a lot of it is still unclear – I’ll find out from him. I don’t want to write how much money I’ll bring because I am afraid to jinx it. I sent you 20, 10 has gone to Mother – we’ll see about the rest. Do not write to me about ‘don’t relax’ and ‘avenir’ – this only makes me nervous. I adore you, though. Lots of kisses, I want to see you madly, to kiss your eyes, I miss you and him more than ever.

  V.

  They have just called me from Pares setting up a meeting, and Miss Hill gave me several excellent bits of advice.

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [15 April 1939]

  TO: Hotel Royal Versailles, 31, rue Le Marois, Paris XVI

  [London]

  15–IV–39

  11 a.m.

  My beloved and precious darling, I spent two and a half hours in a tea-house with Elizabeth Hill yesterday, and she, with unusual energy and concern, undertook to teach me how to land the Leeds position. On Monday, I arranged to meet with a very influential lady, Mrs Curran. Besides, yesterday I also wrote a long letter to Goudy in Cambridge, to whom I may even go (on Thursday, for example; the fare is cheap, only 5 shillings there and back! but besides, I will try to have Grinberg drive me). She is not without vulgarity, but marvellously knowledgeable and intelligent. Paid for the tea hers
elf and took me home in a taxi. Pares will ‘receive’ me on Wednesday – he can’t do it sooner! Hill, by the way, sees the situation in a somewhat different light, namely: if Birkett gets Leeds, then Sheffield and Leeds will merge (?) (like Birmingham and Oxford in Konovalov’s case), and if Struve takes it, then his place will merge (?) with the ‘Serbian-Polish-Albanian’, which Morrison is currently in charge of. And still she thinks I ‘have a good chance’, in view of my lit. position and testimonials. I am ready – and you should be ready, too – to suffer defeat, but it will be a very bitter one. Remember, I’m doing all I can.

  Last night, I was at Mme Shklovsky’s, a very touching old lady, we made the final decision about the reading, and I gave Gleb 2 shillings for mailing the invitations. The reading will be at the Harrises’, and there will be about 40 people. I love you, my happiness.

  I am having lunch with Lourie, at four there will be tea here with tsar Vlad. Kir., and I’ll have dinner at the Lutyens’.

  I can feel now that there is alarm in the household because I’m in my room already, while they need to tidy it up. Nadezhda has reprimanded me twice already that I run down the stairs too fast and too noisily. In general there’s plenty to say on the subject. Starting Monday, my address will be:

  47, Grove End Gardens N. W. 8.

  I am counting the days, my love, madly want to see you both.

  Love you, love you, love you!

  V.

  By the way, Polyakov has given me a huge car for our kitten – I don’t know how I’ll transport it!

  MY LITTLE KITTEN, MY LIFE, I KISS YOU!

  DADDY

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [16 April 1939]

  TO: Hotel Royal Versailles, 31, r. Le Marois, Paris 16e

  5, Brechin Place

  [London]

  16–IV–39

  Sunday

  10.30 a.m.

  My love, my life, today, luckily, is a free day – and, by the way, wildly windy, the windows are rattling, pimply young trees are fidgeting about. Yesterday, the Lourie couple (I think, I already wrote you that she is from the Vysotsky family, i.e. a sister of that sharp lady – they are all sharp in that family – who has such a chubby little boy – you saw them at Ilyusha’s – the aunt thinks he speaks beautiful Russian) took me to the theatre – a very talentless and corny play – about how a pure soul (an ageing woman) tried to organize a school in a Welsh mining village, how there happened to be a genius among the coal children, and so on – but the old Sybil Thorndike acted amazingly well. Ah, there’s something else: on Sunday, i.e. the 23rd, the Louries are going to Paris by car and they offer to take me along. I intended, in fact, to return on the 22nd, but I am tempted by the saving. We will leave from here at five or six a.m. and get to Paris toward seven p.m. It’ll be rather exhausting, and I’ll spend three quarters of my birthday without you, but I think it’s worth doing.