Vladimir Nabokov: Selected Letters 1940-1977

by Vladimir Nabokov

  Even more important, though, are images. You compare jealousy with an octopus, but the image you give of an octopus is incorrect: you endow it with "coils" and "huge paws" and "claws" and "nails," while actually an octopus is a gray bag with two goggled eyes and elongated feelers. In other words, this octopus of yours turned up quite by chance, and on top of it there is an admixture, from God knows where, of some "quagmire" and some "chastening hand," even though we had just been talking of "huge paws." Let us go through the poem again from beginning to end and see what other flaws it contains. Here—you have "the first color will ... ripen." A fruit ripens, not a color. "A bird flies in on the wing." On what else would you expect it to fly?..."In the abandonment of the garden" is a horrid Balmontism. It should be "in the abandoned garden" (an expression, incidentally, that is often found in romances). "The fire of pozharishchi": You are mistaken if you think pozharishche means "huge conflagration." It means "a place where a conflagration has occurred." "Ring ... paws" are too far apart. "With [one's?] mouth ... to sate one's thirst": with what else are you going to drink? In the fifth stanza for some reason you have a transposition of feminine and masculine rhymes. Prevozmoch ["to overcome "]—noch ["night"] is a very shabby rhyme.

  Take all this into consideration and, if you have the urge to write, do so as conscientiously as you can and try to avoid the absurdities I have noted above.

  Keep well.

  V.2

  TO: ALTAGRACIA DE JANNELLI1

  CC, 1 p.

  V. Nabokoff

  Nestorstrasse 22

  Berlin-Halensee

  Germany

  March 23d, 1935

  Dear Mr. de Jannelli,

  I am afraid I cannot very well send you a synopsis of the EXPLOIT2 its composition entails too much labour: the quality of this novel is in the way the plot is treated and not in the plot itself. Besides I am very much against my books being judged by mere descriptions of their contents. As the EXPLOIT has not yet been translated into any language I offer you instead an option on another novel of mine KING QUEEN KNAVE, a German copy of which I am sending you by the same mail. As the option I gave you expires on the 1.V., I replace it herewith by a fresh one for KING QUEEN KNAVE to last until the 3.VII,1935.

  I trust that this is the best we can do under the present circumstances and await your consent to my present offer.

  Yours very truly

  P.S. Schuster & Simon tell me that the book (Luzhin's Defence) has indeed been offered to them, but that they have not yet quite made up their minds about it. I shall keep you informed of further developments.

  TO: Hutchinson & co.1

  CC, 1 p.

  Vladimir Nabokoff-Sirin

  Nestorstrasse 22

  Berlin-Halensee

  22nd May, 1935.

  Dear Sirs,

  Thanks for your letter of the 15th. I have noted that you are having the translation set up by your Printers and that I shall receive a set of proofs.2 I certainly don't intend to make any superfluous corrections and generally I should not like to cause any delay. My demands are very modest. From the very beginning I have been trying to obtain an exact, complete and correct translation. I wonder whether Mr. Klement3 informed you of the defects I found in the translation he sent me. It was loose, shapeless, sloppy, full of blunders and gaps, lacking vigour and spring, and plumped down in such dull, flat English that I could not read it to the end; all of which is rather hard on an author who aims in his work at absolute precision, takes the utmost trouble to attain it, and then finds the translator calmly undoing every blessed phrase. Please believe me that had the translation been in the least acceptable I would have passed it. And I am sure you will agree, in your quality of publishers, that a good translation is most important for the success of a book. So I hope that it has now been thoroughly improved and that it will not give rise to any objections of the above kind.

  There is another bit of information for which I should be most grateful to you. Did you acquire from Mr. Klement together with "Camera Obscura" another novel of mine? And if so, was it "Despair" or "Luzhin's Defence" (entitled "La Course du Fou" in the French edition)? Please excuse me for bothering you with questions, but you will surely understand in what a ridiculous position I am. Mr. Klement has for months left all my letters without any reply. Possibly the man is dead. Now my point is that, as I hear, the American publishing firm Doubleday, Doran & Co. are desirous of publishing the latter book in collaboration with the British publishers, so that I should like to know who holds the English rights of this book4

  Yours very truly

  P.S. Please do not omit "Berlin" when writing to me.

  TO: ALTAGRACIA DE JANNELLI

  CC, 1 p.

  V. Nabokoff

  Nestorstrasse 22

  Berlin-Halensee

  August 28th, 1935

  Dear Mr. de Jannelli,

  I see from what you tell me that the American publishers all prefer to deal in a book where they can find an English partner. I therefore suggest your temporarily abandoning your attempts at finding a publisher for Podvig and La Course du Fou and trying your hand at Camera Obscura and Despair, those two books having already an English publisher in the firm of Hutchinson & Co. Ltd.

  Camera Obscura, for one, is to appear this autumn under the firm of Long & Co. Its translation has already been completed, but there only exists till now one revised copy thereof.

  Perhaps you could try to work on a Russian copy which I am addressing you together with this. I am also giving you an MS copy of Despair. The latter will probably appear in England next spring.1

  Yours very truly

  TO: HUTCHINSON & CO.

  CC, 2 pp.

  Vladimir Nabokoff-Sirin

  Nestorstrasse 22

  Berlin-Halensee

  August 28th, 1936

  Dear Sirs,

  After the publication of my book "Camera Obscura", the translation of which did not satisfy me—it was inexact and full of hackneyed expressions meant to tone down all the tricky passages—Messrs. John Long suggested that I should translate myself that other novel of mine they were supposed to publish,—"Despair". Though I am pretty well acquainted with the English language I did not care to take the entire responsibility and offered to make a translation which the publishers would have revised by some expert of their own. While they accepted this condition, Messrs. J. Long declared that they did not think they could "pay more than a fee of say 10/6d per 1000 words, as we should have to pay an additional fee to the person selected to edit it." Subsequently the fee was extended to 15/- per 1000 words, and I agreed.

  They acknowledged the translation I sent them in the beginning of April 1936, but then left me for almost 2 months without any news. At length they informed me that they had not made any plans for the publication of the book as "some of our Readers' reports have not been at all enthusiastic, especially in regard to your translation". I did not point out to Messrs. J. Long the strangeness of their conduct, but simply replied by a letter part of which please allow me to quote:

  "...after careful consideration I think that perhaps your readers' perplexity was not so much caused by an imperfect translation, as by the peculiar character of the work itself and by a certain angularity of style which was part of the author's deliberate intention. As a matter of fact among the Russian reviewers of the less sophisticated type there occurred one or two who failed to penetrate beyond the "story" and were frankly puzzled,—in spite of which the book very soon won a reputation which my modesty forbids me to qualify. I quite understand that the book's "originality"—as the critics chose to put it—may cause some perplexity after a superficial perusal,—the more so as I have taken special pains to render exactly into English all that I had taken similar trouble to convey to the Russian reader, a couple of years before."

  I also suggested that your firm might get in touch with McBride1 of New York whose manager Mr. Mangione wrote to my agent that he was "enthusiastic about Despair preferring it,
of course, to Camera Obscura" and asked to consider its publication in case it should be published in England.

  To this letter of June 29th I have not yet had any answer.

  While I do not think the whole attitude of Messrs. J. Long in this matter to be beyond reproach, since they had engaged themselves to have the translation edited and declared this to be the reason why they offered me but a very moderate fee for my work, I, nevertheless, have now asked an English friend of mine (who is a professional translator) to revise my translation, so as to set things into motion again; I hope to have the revised Ms. ready within a couple of weeks.

  I should like to add that some time ago I got acquainted with the average production of Messrs. J. Long—and I feel somehow that "Despair" would be far more in its place if you could publish it under the imprint of Hutchinson instead of John Long. I am afraid that the public for which Messrs. J. Long are working might fail to appreciate "Despair" on account of its rather peculiar character as described in my letter quoted above.

  Yours faithfully

  TO: HUTCHINSON & CO.

  CC, 1 p.

  Vladimir Nabokoff

  Nestorstrasse 22

  Berlin-Halensee

  November 28th, 1936

  Dear Sirs,

  While leaving the final decision entirely with you, I think it my duty to repeat my attempt of persuading you that it is your interest as well as mine to publish "Despair" under your own imprint instead of John Long's.

  I am getting gradually acquainted with John Long's latest publications, and I am afraid that my book would look among them like a rhinoceros in a world of humming birds. These publications are doubtlessly excellent in their own way, as they fully satisfy the wants of such readers who are looking for an amusing or thrilling tale, but who could hardly be expected to appreciate a purely psychological novel the merits of which lie not in its plot, but on a wholly different plane. My book is essentially concerned with subtle dissections of a mind anything but "average" or "ordinary": nature had endowed my hero with literary genius, but at the same time there was a criminal taint in his blood; the criminal in him, prevailing over the artist, took over those very methods which nature had meant the artist to use. It is not a "detective novel".

  I cannot help feeling that "Despair", were it presented to the right sort of public, might prove quite a success for you and for me. Please believe me that I am not in the habit of praising my own work, and that if I draw your attention to some of its features (as noted by Russian critics), I do so out of business considerations only.

  I cannot imagine why, inspite of my previous letters, you avoid discussing this matter with me, and I do hope to hear from you now.

  Yours faithfull.

  TO: VÉRA NABOKOV1

  20 February 1937

  ALS, 2 pp.

  Paris

  My darling, my joy,

  Yesterday I answered you by air mail, and now send an addendum. The more I think about it and listen to other people's advice the more absurd your plan seems (at the same time it is unbearable for me to think that Mother's peace of mind is en jeu, and that, in a general sense, some higher or inner law requires that, in spite of everything, we visit her and show her our little one—and all of it is such torture, I can't bear it, it is a constant strain on my spirit, and there is no place it can lie down for a rest). So think about everything I have written you, and about all my considerations. Is it possible that, after having expended such enormous efforts to establish a vital link with London and Paris, we must suddenly abandon everything to go to the wilds of Czechoslovakia,2 where (psychologically, geographically, in every sense) I shall again be cut off from every possible source and opportunity of making a living? Just think—from there we shall never extricate ourselves to go to the south of France, and the London trip I have planned for the end of April will become impossibly complicated. I assure you that at Bormes3 you will get peace and rest, and that the doctors there are just as good. Listen to reason, my darling, and make up your mind. Because if you go on like that I shall simply take the next train to Berlin,4 i.e., I shall come to fetch you, which will certainly be neither wise nor cheap. I find it difficult to explain to you how important it is that we not lose contact with the shore to which I have managed to swim—to put it figuratively but accurately—for, after your letter, I really feel like a swimmer who has just reached a rock and is being torn from it by some whim of Neptune, a wave of unknown origin, a sudden wind or some such thing. Please take all this into account, my love. One of these days I should be getting a letter from Madame Chyorny. And on April 1 we shall meet in Toulon. Incidentally, I am not particularly interested in the butterflies of that department—Var5—for I have already collected there and am familiar with everything, so that I shall take care of my little one all day long and write in the evenings. And in May we'll find a cheaper arrangement. I think this time common sense is on my side. (To one thing I shall definitely not agree: I can no longer stay without you and the little one.)6

  Long7 writes me that Kernahan (a famous critic), to whom he showed Despair,8 wrote him: "Reviewers who like it will hail it as genius.... Those who don't like [it] will say that it is extremely unpleasant....It is meant, I assume, to be the work of a criminal maniac, and as such is very admirably done" etc.9 Silly but flattering on the whole. Besides this he forwards an inquiry from an American publisher, which I am mailing to the Old Grace.10

  My dear love, all the Irinas11 in the world are powerless (I have just seen a third one, at the Tatarinovs'12—the former Mademoiselle...). The eastern side of every minute of mine is already colored by the light of our impending meeting. All the rest is dark, boring, you-less. I want to hold you and fas you.13 I adore you.

  Don't forget the tub (or should I buy one here?). I delivered the books to Lyusia14 yesterday. Had lunch at Petit's with Aldanov, Maklakov, Kerensky, Bernatsky,15 and my two chaps.16 Write me in detail what the doctor said.

  I love you beyond words.

  V.17

  TO: VÉRA NABOKOV

  30 March 1937

  ALS, 2 pp.

  C/o Ilya Fondaminsky

  130 av. de Versailles

  Paris

  My love, what's going on? This is my fourth day without a letter. Is the little one all right? Yesterday I picked up in my arms the three-year-old, red-curled, pensive-and-naughty nephew of Baroness Budberg1 (also named Dmitri, and also addressed by a nickname), and was moved to tears by the recollection....What a marvelous toy store there is on the Champs-Elysées—no comparison with our Czech stores—what trains! ("le plus rapide train du monde des jouets," with a "streamlined" engine and wonderfully made blue cars). I know you have a thousand worries, but still do write me more often!

  Denis Roche is doing a fine translation of "Spring,"2 which will soon be finished; yesterday I discussed various tricky passages with him. Budberg, on the other hand, could not cope with "Spring,"3 so the collection will include either "The Return of Chorb," or I shall translate "Spring" myself (or Struve4 will do "Pilgram"): the story must be delivered no later than August. Putnam5 liked the autobiography6 very much, and everybody advises me to agree to their running it in a review in serial form. I probably shall. Otherwise the rhythm will be broken; moreover, the size of the thing makes it very difficult to publish as a book. The same person (Budberg) has offered to have me meet Aleksey Tolstoy7 today. I don't think I'll go. Maria Pavlovna,8 a diminutive lady with a cigarette and laryngitis, rang and rang for tea, but to no avail, since it was Easter. I discussed with her a lecture tour in America, and she promised to help. She once collected butterflies in some wild spot with Avinoff.9 Of ... and ... she said they were nice but snobs,10 and this expression coming from her acquired for me a Proustian charm and, applied to them, a fresh and frightening forcefulness. Had dinner with Vilenkin,11 who is hard at work arranging my London reading and promoting my book. (By the way, I learned quite by accident that Luzhin12 is enjoying a very great—the word used was "phenomenal"—s
uccess in Sweden.) Tomorrow I shall see Mmes. Polyakov13 and Sablin.14 Tonight I am dining, together with six authors, at the house of some Maecenas. "The Present,"15 which was published day before yesterday, turned out to be more than three hundred lines: four hundred twenty. That's fine. The next excerpt I shall entitle "The Reward," and again I'll squeeze in more lines than assigned. Oh, my darling, how I long to see you.... I'm filled with rapture when I think about May. Zyoka16 tells me the little one is now even better looking. This past month Viktor17 has gone through more than 200 francs. One of these days I shall visit Fayard, Lefèvre (Nouvelles Littéraires) and Thiebaut (Revue de Paris).18

  I adore you,19 it is very difficult for me to live without you, please write me very soon. It is three o'clock—I am off to see the doctoress, then I'll try to write for an hour or two. I love you, my life....

  V.20

  TO: VÉRA NABOKOV

  15 April 1937

  ALS, 3 pp.

  130 av. de Versailles

  Paris

  My life, my love, it is twelve years today.1 And on this very day Despair has been published, and The Gift appears in Annales Contemporaines [Sovremennye Zapiski].