Would you like me to send you the typescript of "Sebastian Knight", the English "Despair" or the French "Lujin Defense"?
Yours sincerely
V. Nabokov
TO: ELIZABETH MARINEL ALLAN AND MARUSSYA MARINEL
ALS, 2pp. M. Juliar.
26 January, 1941
35 West 87th Street
NYC
My dear and unforgettable friends,
Now we have also received your preceding letter and the newspapers; I answered immediately. Perhaps by now my letter, too, has limped to its destination; medieval landscapes remain undisturbed by the passing of airplanes. In mind and spirit we are constantly with you, and it is most distressing to realize that we cannot manage to give your fate the proper nudge. I wrote twice to Pyatigorsky. Besides that I asked an influential person to write him, and that was done too. I shall still try to act through my cousin, whom I shall visit in a few days. The silence of this man who could, of course, have helped you, is completely repellent. Another great friend of mine is faced with a similar situation. It is terrible to think that, not getting any help from here, people who are dear to me might think my concern for them is scattered by the wind of my own worries. For some time now it has been amazingly difficult to obtain results in matters of this kind here. But please believe me—I am trying and shall continue trying. Everything you write about your existence, about its Neanderthal hardships, about your poor mother, is so frightening that I am ashamed to write you about our life here. I shall only say that never before have I had to work so much as this winter over here—translations, preparation of lectures, magazine articles—and all of it in English, nothing but English, so that the demon of my own language sits, enveloped in his wings, and only yawns from time to time, with its dear black gullet gaping. Véra and Dmitri have both been ill these past months. As I wrote you, he has acquired some English and is happy at the excellent school he is attending.
I don't lose hope that we shall soon see you here.
Love,
V. Nabokov1
TO: JAMES LAUGHLIN
ALS, 2 pp.
10-II-41
35 W 87
Dear Mr. Laughlin,
I am sending you in a few days "Despair" and "Sebastian Knight." I think the second is more amusing.
I liked your list. Kafka and Rimbaud—that's the stuff. Yes, Pasternak is a real permanent poet; his verse is hard to translate so as to retain both music and suggestion (and association of images), but it can be done. There are not many other poets or poems in Russia now worth the trouble: I recall only one poem by Maiakovsky which is really good (i.e. transcending propaganda), only one by Bagritsky, several by Zabolotsky and Mandelshtam. There's also Essenin and Selvinsky. By far the best poets of recent times are Pasternak and Khodassevich: a collection of Russian modern poems ought to be based, I think, on the work of these two and though "politically" the latter was an emigre (he died two years ago) the best in poetry produced in Soviet Russia is closely linked with (and influenced by) his work. The same connection exists between, say, Selvinsky and a brilliant young poet (who died recently, in Paris) Poplavsky.
The most representative kind of collection would be io Khodassevich, io Pasternak and 20 The Rest.
I am dreadfully busy these days with lectures etc so please excuse me for the hastiness of these suggestions. My own impression is that, inspite of political distress, the best poetry produced in Europe (—and the worst fiction) during these last twenty years has been in the Russian language, so that a volume of Russian poetry would be a very good thing.
Yours sincerely
V. Nabokov (Sirin)
TO: JAMES LAUGHLIN
TLS, 1 p.
19 Appleby Road
Wellesley
Mass.
Sept. 29th 41
Dear Laughlin,
Thanks for your two letters. I am translating Hodassevich and will send you a sample very soon. I was also very much interested by your other suggestion and think it so kind of Wilson1 to have praised my painful efforts. I have, as a matter of fact, numerous translations of Pushkin, Lermontov, Tyutchev and Fet. I am looking forward to see The Poet of the Month2 as I don't know what form my work must take.
I am a little worried about not getting the proofs of Sebastian Knight as it is almost October already. I lunched with Weeks3 the other day and he assured me they would mention Sebastian in their book notice column. My Aurelian4 will appear in their Christmas number. But generally speaking you are quite right, I have never been able to push my books—even gently.
Is there any chance of our seeing each other soon? I have such a pleasant memory of our meeting.
Yours truly
V. Nabokov
TO: JAMES LAUGHLIN
TLS, 1 p.
19 Appleby Road
Wellesley, Mass
November 27th, 1941
Dear Laughlin,
I have received a letter from Doubleday Doran & Co., presumably a publishing firm, who write that after seeing my story in the Atlantic they "certainly don't want to intrude if I am all tied up for my book ideas but that if I should have some free they would be most interested in hearing about them".
Before answering them I would like to know whether you are interested in the following three books (which are best suited for translation purposes):
La Course du Fou, Fayard Publ., Paris., the story of a chess player who was crushed by his genius.
Despair, John Long Publ., London, the story of a queer fellow who thought he had found his double, who was not, and
my longest novel the untranslated "Dar" (Gift) which is the story of a great writer in the making. (Nothing to do with Sebastian).
The translation of Invitation to a Beheading is progressing at a very slow pace. Should you care to start with La Course du Fou I would need a good translator from the Russian (under my supervision, of course). I would like you to read the book in French (bearing in mind that the translation is hideous) and if you like it inspite of those garbled passages, maybe you could find a good translator.
I hope you had a pleasant trip back West.
Yours very truly
V. Nabokov
TO: JAMES LAUGHLIN
TL, 2 pp.
19 Appleby Road
Wellesley, Mass.
April 9th 1942
Dear Laughlin,
I have been wanting to write to you for quite a long time, but I have been working hard these last weeks (both as an author and as an entomologist, and my correspondence has been rather neglected. I think I did not even thank you for the plump and juicy anthology. Some of the translations (Maiakovsky especially) are very good, so is the story about the Soviet Bureaucrat, and I particularly liked your own verse which you so modestly printed in diamond. The author of the letter you sent to me is quite right about Hodassevich who was strongly anti-Soviet and lived abroad. But his influence on the best Soviet poets was tremendous. Yes, I am looking forward to that chess match provided Mr. Z. comes to Wellesley. (Incidentally: Bunny Wilson1 has a very cute but absolutely erroneous theory that "Sebastian" is composed on the lines of a chess-game).
I am rather in low spirits lately because I have not the vaguest idea what is going to happen to my family and me next. My Wellesley year ends practically in June and I have not been able to find any academic post for the next season. I do not know what plans to make for Summer or indeed what kind of Summer we can afford. I feel a little tired because I seem to be doing too many things at once—my new English novel, two short stories, translations for my lectures, some Russian stuff and a huge scientific paper about certain butterflies I have discovered. I think I told you that the Atlantic has finally acquired "Mile O".2 I have also sold two poems to the New Yorker.
When would you like to get my book of translations?
There are rumors that you are going to get married. If so I congratulate you most cordially—it is a very pleasant state as far as my own experience goes.
Whe
n shall I see you?
Sincerely
TO: JAMES LAUGHLIN
TLS, 1 p.
V. Nabokov c/o Prof. M. Karpovich
West Wardsboro, Vermont.
July 16th 1942
Dear Laughlin,
Vermont is very pleasant and beautiful—although beautiful in a kind of gobelin way, and of course lacking the floral versatility of the West. The other day I got a butterfly here which has never been recorded yet from this state: Colias interior Scudder which was first found by Agassiz on the North shore of Lake Superior.
I have turned part of the attic into a most comfortable studio; but although I devote to Gogol from eight to ten hours a day of solid work, I now see that I shall never have the book ready before the Fall.1 I shall probably need two months more and then at least a fortnight to dictate it. What causes this irritating delay is the fact that I have to translate every scrap of quotation myself: most of the Gogol material (letters, articles etc.) is not translated at all, and the rest is so abominably botched that I cannot use it. I have lost a week already translating passages I need in the "Inspector General" as I can do nothing with Constance Garnett's dry shit. I have a bad habit (not really bad, just being coy) of choosing the most difficult path in my literary adventures. This book on Gogol will be something new from beginning to end: I disagree with the bulk of Russian critics of Gogol and use no sources except Gogol himself. My book will make the Oliver Allstons2 very mad, I hope. It is a pity that I cannot publish it in Russian as well. The emigre book market is not worth the trouble and, as you know, my works are banned in Russia.
A propos: I have made up my mind to get my best Russian novel (The Gift) translated and published. It is about 500 pages long. What I would like you to supply me with first of all is a good translator as I have no time to do the job myself. I need a man who knows English better than Russian—and a man, not a woman. I am frankly homosexual on the subject of translators. I would revise every sentence myself and keep in touch with him all the time, but I must have somebody to do the basic work and then to polish my corrections. The Gift was published serially in the "Annales Contemporaines" (the great Russian review that appeared in Paris during 20 years, since 1920), but the war, or rather the complete destruction of Russian intellectual life in Paris by the German invasion, has made its appearance in book form impossible—naturally.
To be quite frank with you, both as a publisher and as a friend, I cannot help feeling that the intense and rather devastating work which Gogol is giving me is worth more than the remuneration you suggested. I have had to postpone writing an essay which Weeks asked me to do, and other things too. The enervating part is that the translations of Gogol I have to make require another section of the brain than the text of my book and switching from one to another by means of spasmodic jumps causes a kind of mental asthma.
Yours cordially
V. Nabokov
TO: JAMES LAUGHLIN
ALS, 1 p.
8-VIII-42
West Wardsboro
C/o Prof. Karpovich
Vermont
Dear Laughlin,
I have seen Yarmolinsky's1 and his wife's translations of Pushkin: their work is conscientious, reasonably exact and careful but they lack my main desiderata: style and a rich vocabulary. Without a good deal of linguistic and poetical imagination it is useless tackling my stuff. I shall control the translation as to the precise meaning and nuance, but my English is not up to my Russian, so that even had I the necessary time I would not be able to do the thing alone. I know it is difficult to find a man who has enough Russian to understand my writings and at the same time can turn his English inside out and slice, chop, twist, volley, smash, kill, drive, half-volley, lob and place perfectly every word; Yarmolinsky will gently pat the ball into the net—or send it sailing into the neighbour's garden. But difficult though it is, I think that such a person can be found. What about inserting an advertisement in some literary or professional review?
I am eager—viciously eager—to see "Home Life."2 It is like calling a version of "Fleurs du Mai"—"The Daisychain."
Yours very cordially
V. Nabokov
TO: JAMES LAUGHLIN
ALS, 2 pp.
Nov. 13th, 42
car 522
My dear Laughlin,
I am writing this in a train somewhere in Illinois. I want to tell you how dreadfully sorry I am for the Gogol delay. This lecturing tour (which financial discomfort forced me to undertake) has greatly interfered with the completion of my book. I have been travelling since the first days of October and shall go on doing so well into December. At this moment I am going for a couple of days to Cambridge before resuming my peregrinations.
I still hope to be able to send you the MS by Christmas. The book is almost finished. Had I a quiet fortnight for a final spurt and another ten days to dictate the thing to my wife (I cannot type) then I would be quite sure of having it ready by that time. I have read one of its passages to Wilson and his reaction was highly satisfactory.
A hasty perusal of the new edition of "Dead Souls" ("Home Life"!) disclosed that—apart from Fadiman's idiotic introduction and the rather self-conscious slang occurring here and there in the translation—the latter is far better than anything that has been published before. True, it lacks the poetic and musical (and nightmarish!) qualities of the original, but it is fairly exact and is the work of an honest mind. In fact it might be a good idea to try and get him to translate my "Gift"—with my assistance.
I have had another poem in the "New Yorker" and Weeks is publishing "Mile O" soon. I apologize for this wobbly handwriting.
Yours very cordially
V. Nabokov
TO: LIFE1
CC, 1 p.
8 Craigie Circle
Cambridge, Mass.
31st March 1943
Sir,
I have just seen your Russian issue.2 It would be unfair both to Russia and to your readers if the following corrections were not made.
Pushkin, the greatest Russian poet (and not merely a "poet-aristocrat") never "joined officers' conspiracy against Tsar", was not "exiled to Caucasus" and did not write the abominable libretto of the opera "Eugene Onegin". Tsar Alexander Ill's death was not due to "terror". Ambassador Davies' ridiculous collection is not Russian art but solely an exhibition of Ambassador Davies' bourgeois taste ("Snow and Revolution"). People might be puzzled too by the queer confusion of limbs suggested by the activity you attribute to the fellow in the part of Tsar Peter who "s i n g l e h a n d e d, b o o t e d Russia towards progress".
Incidentally I do wish you had not published the picture on P. 106;3 it is the kind of thing which is apt to make Americans shake with profane laughter instead of leading to the "sympathy and understanding" which optimism and ignorance so honestly advocate.
Yours faithfully
TO: JAMES LAUGHLIN
TLS, 1 p.
Cambridge, Mass.
26th May 1943.
Dear Laughlin,
I have just mailed you my "Gogol through the Looking-Glass".
This little book has cost me more trouble than any other I have composed. The reason is clear: I had first to create Gogol (translate him) and then discuss him (translate my Russian ideas about him). The recurrent jerk of switching from one rhythm of work to the other has quite exhausted me. The book has taken me exactly one year to write. I never would have accepted your suggestion to do it had I known how many gallons of brain-blood it would absorb; nor would you have made the suggestion had you known how long you would have to wait (I think that your patience has been that of a true artist).
There are probably some slight slips of the pen here and there. I would like to see the Englishman who could write a book on Shakespeare in Russian. I am very weak, smiling a weak smile, as I lie in my private maternity ward, and expect roses.
Thanks for your delightful note about the cook. We are planning to start on the 16th.
I got a letter f
rom Guerney in reply to mine. He could begin in September.1 What is the next move?
Yours cordially
V. Nabokov
TO: BERNARD GUILBERT GUERNEY1
CC, 1 p.
8 Craigie Circle
Cambridge 38, Mass.
8th February 1944
Dear Mr. Guerney,
Thanks for your long and delightful letter. If your translation of IGOR2 had been supplied with scholia then your choice in this or that case would have been at least explained to the inquisitive reader. In spite of the references you give in lit. I think "linnet" is wrong and that either a cuckoo or a swallow is meant. It is also extremely improbable that the bard would have used the rather local and inconspicuous flying squirrel in a sequence containing the traditional grey wolf and eagle. "Dove-blue" is not so bad as it looks and is employed by ornithologists to define the color of a certain species of hawk. "Tawny" suggests to me the color of a lion or a dingo-dog and not of the Russian wolf. I still emphatically object to a flying squirrel being able to "soar": what it executes is at best a long gliding hop.
This is what I am going to answer if you challenge me to a rencontre in the New Republic and shall also add that all this is of little importance, the important thing being that you have put so much creative thought and poetical care into your admirable translations.
Vladimir Nabokov: Selected Letters 1940-1977 Page 5