Letters to Véra
Page 46
V.
____________________
[ALS, 2 PP.]
[11 October 1942]
[TO: Cambridge, MA]
Saturday
11-X-42
Atlanta
My dear love,
too few butterflies here (about 1,000 feet above sea level), I hope that in Valdosta there will be more. As before, I haven’t been spending a cent. My lecture about Pushkin (Negro blood!) was greeted with almost comical enthusiasm. I decided to end it with a reading of ‘Mozart and Salieri’, and since here not only Pushkin but music is also held in high regard I had the somewhat mischievous idea of sandwiching the violin and later the piano into those three places where Mozart (and the beggar musician) produces music. The desired effect – again, a rather comical one – was achieved with the help of a gramophone disc and a lady pianist. Apart from that I have been to a biology class, talked about mimicry, and two days ago rode with a lady professor and a group of very black young ladies, very intensely chewing mint bubblegum, in a wooden char-a-banc-cum-automobile to collect insects about twenty miles from here. Miss Read, the college headmistress, is a very likeable woman, round, with a wart by her nostril, but too ideological: every morning I breakfast at her place (with conversations about the Negro problem and telepathy) and every morning at 9 I am obliged to visit the chapel with her and sit with her on stage in an academic cloak facing four hundred maidens singing hymns amid the organ tempest. I have asked for mercy – saying that I am a heretic, that I hate any kind of singing and music, but she replied sternly: that’s all right, you’ll get to like it here. In my honour they choose prayers thanking God for ‘poetry and the little things of nature; for a train thundering in the night; for craftsmen and poets; for those who take delight in making things and who make them well’; as well as Lvov’s music – God save the Tsar – arranged like an English hymn. This is all rather touching but difficult. Every evening there are dinners with various leading Negro figures – and no alcoholic drinks. I have two large rooms, and it is very strange to wake up around eight in the semi-darkness – for geographically here we are already in the West, but the time is Atlantic, so in reality it is not half past seven but rather five a.m. A couple of times I played tennis with a local lady professional. Am working on Gogol. Cloudless hot weather; and when I go after butterflies my trousers and shirt get covered with a green armour: clingy seeds like tiny burdocks. I am sad to have no letters from you, my darling. A hug to Anyuta. How IS MY PRICELESS ONE DOING? I HAVE LOOKED FOR POSTCARDS WITH TRAINS, BUT THERE AREN’T ANY. KISSING YOU, MY MITYUSHEN’KA.
It’s four o’clock now, I am lying naked on the bed after a long walk. It’s very difficult without you – in every sense. Stuff the boxes that are ready where my Lycaenids are – but to the left of them. I’ve caught several interesting flies for Banks, and will write him soon. Send a Russian magazine to me in Valdosta. The local Negro expert on Russian literature asked me – was it acceptable in Russia to talk about – and in general to admit – that Pushkin had Negro blood? I leave here on Tuesday morning. Have still to talk about ‘tragedy’ – on Monday. My sweetheart, how is your little hip? Please write. Am kissing you lots.
V.
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[ALS, 1 P.]
[12 October 1942]
TO: 8 Craigie Circle, ap 35, Cambridge Mass.
Atlanta, Spelman Coll.
Monday night
My dear darling,
I am sending Mityushen’ka a wonderful longtailed Hesperid, and you a cheque for a hundred dollars, which they rather unexpectedly gave me here in Spelman, although it was agreed that my eloquence would earn only room and board. In general I am surrounded here with the most touching respect, artists show me their purple canvases, sculptors their thick-lipped Madonnas, and musicians sing ‘spirituals’ for me. Miss President pays me a thousand charming kindnesses, she bought me tickets herself, sent a telegram to Valdosta, drove me around endlessly in her car when I needed cigarettes or razors – a very intelligent and refined old lady, we’ve become great friends. And, of course, all of my three daily meals with her featured special dishes and her endless endeavours to surround me with interesting people.
Thank you for your very dear little letter (its little financial wails notwithstanding). I will be done with Gogol in a day or two and want to write a short story. I assure you, all the fuss about the play will be hopeless, but if Bunny does turn up, give it to him to read, explaining that I didn’t translate it myself, and that a lot of nuances have vanished. I’ll write from Valdosta to Miss Kelly and Miss Perkins in the spirit you suggest. Most of all I want to be at Wellesley. I am ideally healthy but tired today after thousands of receptions, and I have to pack. I adore you.
V.
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[ALS, 2 PP.]
[postmarked 14 October 1942]
TO: 8, Craigie Circle, apt 35, Cambridge, Mass
Valdosta
Wednesday
My love,
yesterday I sent you the Spelman cheque. Arrived here, on the Florida border, yesterday around seven p.m. and will leave for Tennessy on Monday morning. (I also stop overnight on the way at Spelman – Miss Read set this up.)
A lady professor who met me at the station drove me to the hotel, where the college has booked a beautiful room for me as well as paid for all my meals, so that here too I won’t be spending anything before I go. They gave me a car, too, but I only look at it, not daring to drive it. The college, with a charming campus among pines and palms, is a mile out of town. It’s very southern here. I took a walk down the only big street, in the velvet of the twilight and the azure of neon lamps, and came back, overcome by a southern yawn. Some gent, in the room next door, having climbed the stairs with me, suggested that I stop by for a cognac. He turned out to be a sugar producer from Florida and the conversation went accordingly. Completely by accident, looking for matches, I took out the box I carry with me in case of moths. Breaking off in mid-word (the conversation had been about the difficulties of finding workers – imagine how cross I was with myself for accepting the invitation) he remarked that in such boxes he puts, on excursions ... butterflies. In short, he turned out to be a passionate entomologist, a correspondent of Comstock’s, and so on. It’s the second time this has happened to me.
In the morning they came for me and drove me to the lecture. I talked on ‘commonsense’. The usual result. Then the corpulent and very likeable president took me to look over the library, the swimming pool, the stables, and so on. At one they drove me to lunch at the Rotary Club, where I also spoke (about the war-novel). After lunch I asked the president to drive me into the countryside, which he did. I collected charming butterflies for an hour and a half, and then he picked me up and brought me back to the hotel. I changed in a hurry and at four o’clock was delivered to a very funny and very vulgar Ladies’ club where I read several verse translations. I’m just back; lying on the bed; have asked a boy to extract numerous thorns out of my trousers; I love you very much.
At seven they’ll take me to a grand faculty dinner, but there should be no speeches on my part. All in all it is very pleasant here. I got your little letter that had wandered to Virginia. Where’s Bunny’s letter? I think that after my howl Fisher will either cut the tour short (I have asked him to free me in mid-November if he couldn’t get more frequent lectures) or find me a large number of profitable talks. Tomorrow I’ll write lots of letters. Oho, it is six o’clock now.
MITYUSHONOK, MY LITTLE MOUSE, IN MY ROOM THERE IS A ROCKER AND AN ELECTRICAL FAN (ON THE LAMP) R-R-R-R-R-R-R
By the way, a small experiment in telepathy. Focus and try to tell me which two pictures are hanging in my room? Do it right away because I will tell you in my next letter. Give Anyuta my best. Part of the underwear has been left to be washed in Spelman, and I left the coat and hat too. Thank you for going to the museum, my sweetheart. Take up the Pieridae (Pieris, Colias, Euchloe, and so on – ask Banks) after you ha
ve repinned all the Satyridae. Love you, love you
V.
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[ALS, 2 PP.]
[17–18 October 1942]
TO: 8, Craigie Circle, Cambridge, Mass.
17–18.X.42
Valdosta
My priceless darling,
I’m sending you a cheque for the lectures here. 150 all up (plus more than 80 in my wallet).
Your little letters, my love, keep coming from different places. I have filled in all the forms, had them retyped, and have sent them off already – it was a rather laborious procedure. I have described my future novel and referred to Bunny, Mikh. Mikh., and Miss Perkins. Yesterday I read Mlle O, and in the evening told biology students about mimicry. Today there was a meeting of the Readers’ Forum, and I read Mozart and Salieri. Collected butterflies. Played tennis with President Reade. He’s a perfectly brilliant man with Wilson’s irrationality and Thompson’s knowledge – today he analysed for an hour a short poem by Browning, and it was a delight to listen. He has evidently been sick for a listener, for here the level of professorship as well as maidenship is rather low. A huge gent looking – physically – like Kadish.
It’s now 6 o’clock. The rewriting and so on of the documents has taken me three hours. At 8 there will be a grand dinner, tuxedoes. Tomorrow is a con ... here my pen ran out and I set the letter aside. After dinner was a concert, and today (it’s now 11 p.m. Sunday) I was taken by the biologist (when the women biologists are mentioned always remember MacCosh’s looks) to marvellous palmetto wilds and pine groves where I collected butterflies from ten till two. It was entrancing – flowers never seen before (one of which I am sending to Mityushen’ka), purple berries Calocarpa americana, Myrica bushes, palmettos, cypresses, scorching sun, enormous crickets and a multitude of the most interesting butterflies (among them one Neonympha). I got lost in those sunny thickets and am not sure how I got back to the road where the biologist was standing by the car knee-deep in the ditch water and collecting some sort of small water fry of her own. The only torture is all sorts of thorns that tear up the net and pierce my legs. We are right on the Florida border and the flora and fauna are the same, but I would very much like to get (about 150 miles) to the Gulf of Mexico, where it’s even warmer. This was my best collecting.
Then I was taken to the Reades’ cottage, where I lunched, rested, amused the guests, and had dinner – after which I was delivered back to the hotel. Tomorrow at 11.35 a.m. I am going to Atlanta, spending the night at Spelman and the next day go to Tennessee.
In spite of the butterflies, I’m missing you horribly; my dear joy. The hospitality in all three colleges I’ve been in so far amounts to their trying to afford me pleasure from morning till night, so that very little time is left for solitary work. I feel fine, but tired. Just now I asked for a sandwich to be brought, and it’s full of little ants that have crawled over the room. One picture shows white cottages with red roofs across a river, the other a little girl looking at a little bird in the garden.
I am kissing you lots, my enchantment.
V.
Don’t forget to pass my regards to Anyuta. You say that T. was looking at him with hatred?
____________________
[ALS, 2 PP.]
[20 October 1942]
TO: 8, Craigie Circle, Cambridge, Mass
THE DIXIE ROUTE
CHICAGO-FLORIDA
[Atlanta]
Tuesday
20–X–42
My love,
I’m writing to you on the way from Atlanta to Cowan – the train hasn’t started yet. Please, write a few words to Miss Read – my husband has been telling me so much about you in his letters that I almost feel as if I knew you – something like that – and thank her for all the kindness that you and your wonderful college showed him. She gave me a real military compass for Mityushen’ka, and presented me with a huge print of details from an Egyptian fresco with butterflies, about which I’ll write something. All in all, it’s hard to describe how much attention she surrounded me with. She knows Moe well because previously she worked at the Rockefeller Inst.; she promised to write him about me. She is white.
I’m heading North again without much pleasure – and I still do not know where and when I will go further. The trains are packed, they are 2–3 hours late everywhere – but I get less tired than I expected. Yesterday I wrote a long letter to Miss Kelly. The train has just moved and is jolting my hand. I love you very much. I took a Pullman – only just over a dollar more, in this case.
MY MITYUSHONOK, THE TRAIN I’M ROCKING IN IS CALLED DIXIE FLYER. KISSES.
That’s all, my darling. How’re you keeping, my sweet? Good girl to have finished so many boxes. Greetings to the old man, I will write to him when I know when I’ll get back.
V.
Big hello to Anyuta. I’ll write to her separately.
[ALS, 2 PP.]
[5 November 1942]
TO: 8, Craigie Circle, app 35, Cambridge, Mass.
Chicago
station
5–XI–42
My dear love,
I had an ideal trip to Chicago and spent an ideal day at the famous local museum (Field Museum). I found my Neonymphas, showed how they could be reshuffled, chatted and lunched with a very nice entomologist (who somehow knew that I was completing a lecture tour – it seems to have been published in some museum journal). Now I’m in the very beautiful railroad station,
A VERY BEAUTIFUL RAILROAD STATION, MY MITYUSHONOK,
where I have had my hair cut, and in half an hour I leave for Springfield. I feel great. The huge cloudy-wet spaces of the lakeside part of Chicago (where the enormous, absolutely marvellous museum is) reminded me somehow of Paris, the Seine. Warm but drizzly, and the grey stone blends with the turbid sky.
They charged me 2 dollars for the cut – terrible.
Kisses, I love you, my darling.
V.
[ALS, 2 PP.]
[7 November 1942]
TO: 8, Craigie Circle, Suite 35, Cambridge Mass
Springfield
7–XI–42
My love,
At the station in Springfield I was met (and then on the next day taken to see Lincoln’s house and grave) by a secretary of the Club – a creepily silent melancholic of a somewhat clerical cast with a small stock of automatic questions which he quickly exhausted. He is an elderly bachelor and his profession consists of his doing secretarial work for several Springfield clubs. He livened up and flashed his eyes one single time – got awfully nervous having noticed that the flagpole by the Lincoln mausoleum had been replaced by a new, longer one. It turned out that his hobby – and even more, the passion of his life – is flagpoles. He breathed with relief when a watchman gave him the exact information – 70 feet – because the pole in his own garden is still 10 feet taller. He was also greatly comforted when I said that in my opinion the top of the pole inclined from the vertical. He felt it for a long time and looked up anxiously and finally came to the conviction that even 70 feet was too much and that the distortion was not an optical illusion but a fact. He’s saving money for a 100-feet flagpole. Shpon’ka, judging by his dream, had the same complex, and Dr Freud could have said something interesting on the subject.
I spoke to a huge gathering. Got on very well with the director of the State Museum McGregor (really a charming museum with a decent collection of butterflies and undescribed fossil insects which will be sent to Carpenter at my museum) and with the director of the history library Paul Angle. Now I’m waiting at the Springfield station for the train, which is an hour late. I love you very much, my darling. Yesterday I again had an attack – but very short – of fever and pain between the ribs. It’s not cold, but dampish. Lots of kisses for my Mityushonok.
V.
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[ALS, 2 PP.]
[postmarked 9 November 1942]
TO: 8, Craigie Circle, Cambridge, Mass.
Monday
St Paul
My dear darling,
Fisher was right, after all, not us: the train from Chicago to St Paul turned out to be awfully expensive (tell Miten’ka that it was all steel, magnificently furnished, and rushed along at a speed of 100 miles an hour – it’s called: The Zephyr). The very charming president Turck met me and drove me to the best (indeed very fancy) hotel. Yesterday (Sunday) I lunched with him and his elderly mother, and then he drove me out of the city to show me the countryside: a large lake looking somewhat like Annecy. The city of St Paul is big, cold, with a cathedral in the style of St Peter’s in Rome on the hill, with a stark view of the Mississippi (behind which is the other Twin Town – Minneapolis). Today I spent the whole day at the university, looking over, talking and lunching with the faculty. To my horror it turned out that I had not brought along my lecture on the Novel, which they wanted from me at 10.30 – but I decided to speak without any notes and it came out very smoothly and well. Yesterday after the trip into the country I went, having got awfully bored, to the cinema and came back on foot – I walked for more than an hour and went to bed around eight. On the way a lightning bolt of undefined inspiration ran right through me – a passionate desire to write – and to write in Russian. And yet I can’t. I don’t think anyone who has never experienced this feeling can really understand its torment, its tragedy. In this sense the English language is an illusion and an ersatz. In my usual condition, i.e. busy with butterflies, translations, or academic writing, I myself don’t fully register the whole grief and bitterness of my situation.