Letters to Véra

by Vladimir Nabokov

  Well, my love, time for bed – almost nine … What are you doing now? Lowering the shutters, maybe … I’ve come to love their tense clatter. Good night, my happiness. Have to get to bed. The pooch has already started.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [24 August 1924]

  TO: 41, Landhausstr., Berlin

  24–VIII–24

  Prague

  My love, your letters – four letters so far – are simply wonderful, – they’re almost touches, and that is the greatest thing you can say about a letter. I adore you.

  Yesterday Mother and I returned to Prague from the country, where the whole time it was damp and sunny, where alongside the paths coloured stripes are daubed on beech and oak trunks, and sometimes simply on the rocks, like little flags to show the way to this or that hamlet. I noticed too that peasants put red ear-flaps on their percherons and are cruel with their geese, of whom they have plenty: they pluck off their breast feathers when the geese are still alive, so that the poor bird walks around as if in a décolleté. I have seen a lot of the Chirikov family (he has two charming daughters and a son, who’s chasing after my youngest sister), and the old man and I thought up scenarios and tried to guess what our ‘pictures’ will look like in the Riga newspaper. And on the eve of my departure the Directorate of Western and Eastern Skies treated us to a monstrously beautiful sunset. Above, the sky was deep blue, and an enormous cloud stood, only in the west, in the shape of a mauve wing spreading wide its orange ribs. The river was pink, as if someone had dribbled port into the water – and beside it the express train from Prague to Paris flew past. And right at the horizon under that violet cloud, trimmed with orange down, a strip of sky shone like light-green turquoise – and little fiery islands were melting in it. It all reminded me of Vrubel, the Bible, the bird Alkonost.

  Have you found a room, my sweet love? Can you simply set up in my boarding house – they have an extra room, don’t they? Arrange it so it’ll be easy for us to meet. I’ll have to see you forty-eight hours a day, after this week of faithlessness (is this witty?). I am leaving on Thursday, at 9 a.m. – can’t do it earlier because of various family combinations. Don’t be angry with me, my love, for this delay – don’t say ‘I knew it’d be like this …’ And if I don’t arrive even on Thursday, you can consider me an indecent man and a talentless writer. It’s cold today, drizzling, at seven a.m. the orchestra of the butchers’ guild played right under our windows – the Sunday custom.

  And last night I read my father’s notes and diaries, and his letters to Mother from Kresty, where he spent three months after the Vyborg Appeal. I remember his return so vividly, how in all the villages from the station to our estate arches of pine and flowers were set up – and crowds of peasants with bread-and-salt surrounded his carriage – and how I ran out onto the road to meet him – I was running and crying with excitement. And Mother was wearing a large light-coloured hat, and a week later she and father left for Italy.

  I will see you soon, my happiness. I don’t think there’ll be more separations like this. This whole year has passed by like a sail swollen by the sun – and now nothing can interfere with this smoothness, with my heavenly gliding through the air of happiness … You understand my every thought, – and my every hour is full of your presence – and I am all a song about you … See, I am talking to you like King Solomon.

  But let’s leave Berlin, my love. It’s a city of misfortunes and mishaps. That I met you precisely there is an incredible blunder on the part of a fate so badly disposed towards me. And I think with dread that once again we’ll have to hide from the people I know – and the thought irritates me that the unavoidable will happen – and my dear friends will raise a predatory chatter about the most marvellous, divine, inexpressible thing I have in life. You understand, my love?

  My love, oh, my love, there’s nothing to dread when you’re with me – so I am writing this in vain, am I not? Everything will be all right, won’t it, my life?

  V.

  1925

  ____________________

  [AL, 1 p.]

  [19 January 1925]

  TO: Luitpoltdstr 13, bei Rilcke, Berlin W.

  [Berlin?]

  I love you. Infinitely and inexpressibly. I’ve woken up in the middle of the night and here I am writing this. My love, my happiness.

  ____________________

  [ALS, I P.]

  [c. March–April 1925?]

  TO: 13, Luitpoldstr., Berlin W.

  [Berlin]

  My sweet, sweet love, my joy, my sunny rainbow,

  I seem to have eaten the entire little triangle of cheese, but I really was so very hungry … But now I’m full. I’m walking out now into the soft light, the cooling hum of evening, and I will love you tonight, and tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and still many more, so very many more tomorrows.

  That’s all, my tender one, my inexpressible delight.

  Oh yes: I forgot to say that I love you.

  V.

  ____________________

  P.S. Love you.

  [AL, 1 p.]

  [14 June 1925]

  [TO: Berlin?]

  [Berlin?]

  I Love you

  I Adore you very much

  My Joy

  My dear love.

  [ALS, 4 PP.]

  [postmarked 19 August 1925]

  TO: 29, Neue Winterfeldtstr., Berlin – Schöneberg

  [Zoppot]

  My sweetheart, my love, my love, my love – do you know what – all the happiness of the world, the riches, power and adventures, all the promises of religions, all the enchantment of nature and even human fame are not worth your two letters. It was a night of horror, terrible anguish, when I imagined that your undelivered letter, stuck at some unknown post office, was being destroyed like a sick little stray dog … But today it arrived – and now it seems to me that in the mailbox where it was lying, in the sack where it was shaking, all the other letters absorbed, just by touching it, your unique charm and that that day all Germans received strange wonderful letters – letters that had gone mad because they had touched your handwriting. The thought that you exist is so divinely blissful in itself that it is ridiculous to talk about the everyday sadness of separation – a week’s, ten days’ – what does it matter? since my whole life belongs to you. I wake at night and know that you are together with me, – I sense your sweet long legs, your neck through your hair, your trembling eyelashes – and then such happiness, such simmering bliss follows me in my dreams that I simply suffocate … I love you, I love you, I can’t stand it any longer, imagination won’t replace you – come … I am perfectly healthy, feel magnificently well, come and we will swim – the waves here are like at home. We are planning to return on Sunday – but these last days I must spend with you, do you hear? And you know what: I think we had exactly the same illness. Even on the day before I left I’d been hurting all over inside – somehow sharp-edged – it hurt even to laugh – and then here the fever started. Now I feel wonderful. I am afraid that here at the hotel they thought that I had simply gone on a drinking binge. The weather is cool, but no rain. Shura doesn’t swim much, today I will write to S. A. Really I don’t know what to do next. Go to Bavaria, perhaps?

  Will you come, my love? Why don’t you take off the day after tomorrow (21st) – we’ll spend two or three days here. The trip costs 12 marks, the room 1½ marks (you can move in with me), lunches and dinners – barely anything.

  My little kitten, my joy, how happily I love you today … I kiss you – but won’t say where, there are no words for that.

  V.

  ____________________

  [APC]

  [27 August 1925]

  TO: Postlagernd, Konstanz i. / Baden

  [Hotel Römischer Kaiser]

  Freiburg

  27–VIII–25

  Hello, my kitty, my dear love,

  We had an excellent journey, climbed the neares
t hill today, tonight went to the cinema. Tomorrow at 9 we’re leaving for Döggingen, will arrive there at noon, have lunch and set out on foot to Bol[l], where we’ll spend the night. I’ll send you a card from there. It’s lots of fun. F. is a wonderful town, somehow like Cambridge. In the centre is the old cathedral, the colour of raw strawberries, stained glass inside – all sorts of ornaments, wheels of paradise, as well as a black jackboot on a golden background, very sweet, in the vicinity of saints’ little faces. I love you, my poochums. Our hotel is good. I love you, my K.

  [APC]

  [28 August 1925]

  TO: Postlagernd, Konstanz i / Baden

  [Freiburg]

  28–VIII–25

  Hello, my darling, we walked about 20 versts today (from 1 p.m. till 8), walked through Bad-Bol[l], and are now waiting at the Reiselfingen station for a train to Titisee, where we will spend the day tomorrow. A murky evening, a flock of crows is flying over black firs, their wings rustling. We’ve had a wonderful stroll, romantic spots. Rather dark for writing here, on a bench at a local train stop. The flock of crows is cawing, I can hear the silky rainy murmur as they fly low and spread out among the firs. It’s very beautiful. But the walking was muddy in places, so I was happy I’d put on the black boots. Have just changed into the other pair. The moon is shining yellow; the crows have settled, gone silent. I love you, my happiness; our train’s coming.

  ____________________

  [APC]

  [29 August 1925]

  TO: Postlagernd, Konstanz

  [Titisee]

  29–VIII–25

  Hello, poochums,

  I am writing to you from the shore of the Titisee, where we are now sucking on chocolate ice. We’ll spend the night here and tomorrow climb up Feldberg. We had a wonderful time today swimming and lying in the heat.

  I love you. Very much.

  We passed through here.

  ____________________

  [APC]

  TO: Postlagernd, Konstanz

  [postmarked 30 August 1925]

  [Feldberg]

  On the way here, to the summit of Feldberg, I composed and kept repeating to myself this little ditty: ‘I love noittything except one kittything’. The weather is dampish, beads of rain on the wires and between them the lacy wheels of cobwebs. The view is covered in fog. I love you.

  We’ll spend the night here, and tomorrow move to St Blasien.

  ____________________

  [APCS]

  [31 August 1925]

  TO: Postlagernd, Konstanz am Bodensee in Baden

  [St Blasien]

  31–VIII–25

  Shura suggests calling this poem: what I thought upon walking through the Schwarzwald and meeting a familiar plant.

  Hello, my sun,

  We have walked from Feldberg to the very lovely St-Blasien. Tomorrow we walk to Wehr and probably on Friday will be in Konstanz. Retype this poem exactly and send it to ‘Rul’’ with a request (‘my husband …’) to publish it. The weather is wonderfully hot. I love you. V.

  THE SUMMIT

  I like that mountain in its black pelisse

  of fir forests – because

  in the gloom of a strange mountain country

  I am closer to home.

  How should I not know those dense needles

  and how should I not lose my mind

  at the mere sight of that peatbog berry

  showing blue along my way?

  The higher the dark and damp

  trails twist upward, the clearer

  grow the tokens, treasured since childhood,

  of my northern plain.

  Shall we not climb thus

  the slopes of paradise, at the hour of death,

  meeting all the loved things

  that in life elevated us?

  V. Sirin

  Schwarzwald

  [APCS]

  [31 August 1925]

  TO: 14, Neuhausenstr., Pension Zeiss, Konstanz

  31–VIII–25

  St Blasien

  Hello, my lovely,

  I have just mailed you (poste restante) a postcard with a poem, but, stopping at the post office, I found the little card from you, my happiness. I had to get the black half-boots repaired here – the rubber sole had come unstuck; I seldom walk in the grey ones and they’re still intact. All in all, the trip has turned out wonderfully well, we walk through entrancing spots. The musical stream of cowbells on the slopes is melodious and delightful. Up to tonight, we’ve spent exactly 100 marks (500 left). I adore you.

  V.

  [APCS]

  [1 September 1925]

  TO: 14, Neuhausenstr., Pension Zeiss, Konstanz

  [Todtmoos]

  Tomorrow we walk through Wehr to Säckingen on the Rhine. I love, love, love you.

  1–IX–25

  Hello, my life,

  You can follow the route we covered today. It’s now 4 o’clock. We are sitting in a café in Todtmoos. The day is cloudless, I walked without a shirt on, and rolled about on heather slopes. Todtmoos is a charming little place, they give you a good shave here. Two Russian girls at the hotel (!).   V.

  ____________________

  [APC]

  [2 September 1925]

  TO: 14, Neuhausenstr., Pension Zeiss, Konstanz a/ Bodensee

  2–IX–25

  Wehr

  Hello, my dear life, we arrive on Friday, take two rooms for us at your boarding-house.

  Here in Wehr I have found a delightful letter from Véra. I’ll send you a telegram about the train we arrive on (on Friday). We won’t stay in your namesake (we’ll just drink some milk) and will walk on to Säckingen (about 30 versts in all from Todtmoos). I love you.

  [APC]

  [2 September 1925]

  TO: 14, Neuhausenstr, Pension Zeiss, Konstanz

  [Säckingen]

  2–IX–25

  Hello, my song,

  We are in Säckingen, on the shore of the Rhine, and on the other side is Switzerland. Tomorrow we walk to Waldshut and the morning after we’ll come to Konstanz. The weather is delightful. Enjoy the charming postcard.

  [ALS, 1 PP.]

  [1925? No date]

  [TO: Berlin]

  [Berlin, probably in early marriage]

  I called there, and, fortunately, it turns out that the room is already taken, so we have to find something else. I went to look for it. If you’re not too late getting back, go and have a wander around yourself.

  V.

  1926

  ____________________

  [HOLOGRAPH MANUSCRIPT, 1 P.]

  [26 April 1926]

  Ivan Vernykh

  1.

  Electric lights lit up, at oblique angles, the dark-blue night snow, the huge snowdrifts coming up to the house. All was strange and somehow, not artificially, bright in those dips in the glimmering lustre, and black shadows from the lamps, breaking over the snowdrifts, cut the sheer, fine patterns across the snow, the shadows of bare lindens. Ivan Vernykh, after stamping a little in his soft felt boots around the inner porch and pulling on his leather mittens, pushed the glass door, which did not yield at once – from the frost – and then suddenly, tightly shot out into the snowy gloom of the garden. The Chernyshevs’ dog, shaggy and senile, like old man Chernyshev himself, quickly tumbled out after, but you’ve just gone out and I won’t write any more, my joy. Now you’ve moved a chair in the bedroom, and now you’ve walked back in, clinked a little plate, given a dog-like yawn, and a little whimper, asked me do I want some milk. Pupuss, my kittykin.

  26–IV–26

  [ALS, 4 PP.]

  [2 June 1926]

  TO: b/ Frau Doktor Slonim,

  Sankt Blasien, Sanatorium Pr. Backmeister, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  2/VI–26

  Puss, my p-pus-ss,

  There, I’ve lived through my first you-less day. It’s now a quarter to nine. I have just had supper. I’ll always write at this time. Every time, there will be a different
salutation – only I don’t know whether there will be enough little critters. Maybe I’ll have to create a few more. Little epistolaries. Oh, my darling, I don’t even know where you are now – in St Blasien or Todtmoos or Gotter-knows-where … They took you away by car. I came here (the hall-boy did not give me a stamp, since he’d disappeared somewhere, after abandoning the little trunk in the middle of the room), read ‘Zveno’ for a while, but soon gave up because the lamp cord would not reach the couch (but today I’ve already asked the landlady to fix it for me. She promised – tomorrow). I crawled into bed around ten, had a smoke, extinguished it. Someone was flailing away on the piano but soon stopped. I’ll get up now to mix myself a drink – water with some sugar. I found it. I thought it was in a little bag. I rattled things about in the cabinet for quite some time, squatting. Had a drink, put everything back in place. Now the maid’s come in, she’s making the bed. She’s left. I had a very good sleep. In the morning, about eight, I could hear the schoolgirls thundering up the stairs. At nine I got an egg (I have to write very small, or my whole day won’t fit on the page), hot chocolate, and three rolls; I got up, had a cold shower and as I got dressed, looked out into the yard where a gym class was going on. The teacher was clapping her hands, and the schoolgirls – really tiny – were running around and jumping in time. One girl, the littlest one, was always left behind, getting muddled and coughing thinly. After that (still obeying the claps), they sang a song: my dress is blue, blue, and everything I have is blue as well. They repeated this several times, replacing ‘blue’ with ‘red’ then ‘green’ and so on. They also played cat-and-mouse, then another game, which I did not understand, with refrains – and then collected their little bags piled in the corner and left. The shadows of leaves were moving about so nicely on the wall of the yard. I read (Albertine, then a rather vulgar Soviet short story) and without waiting till the tailor’s man came I went (no, now I can see I’ll definitely need to take another sheet) to Kaplan’s, but it turned out that Maman Kaplan had gone to the dentist. In a dark-blue suit, a cream shirt and a bow tie with white polka dots, I sailed off to Regensburger Str., where, however, no one was at home. But I did meet Sofa on the stairs, and she gave me your address. From there (it was windy, dullish-sunny; beneath the trees nets of shadow were sliding over the passers-by, but couldn’t hold them, they slipped without catching, turning coats into moving spotted skins) I went to the butterfly shop, received my wonderful Arctia hebe and argued with the owner about this and that (he thought Daphnis nerii doesn’t occur in Sicily, and I told him that not only does nerii occur there, but so do livornica and celerio and even niceae. He showed me such wonderful Aporia crataegi-augusta!). I came back home and asked to have lunch in my room. Broth with vermicelli, meat stew, lots of vegetables, and a wobbly thing in sweet juice (I didn’t eat it). While I was having lunch my little grey trousers arrived: excellently done. I changed twice – first the grey pair, then the white one – and went – for three – to Shura’s. I met the landlady in the hallway (no, it was earlier, before lunch, when I was re-pinning my butterflies to free space for the hebe and then went out to the hallway, after hearing the landlady’s voice and deciding to ask her for a longer lamp cord), and she told me that she thought of me like a son – and ‘if you have any burden on your heart, come and we’ll talk it over’. (Right there, before lunch, the maid brought the register with tenants’ names in it – and I wrote – Nabokoff-Sirin). I had a cup of tea at Shura’s and talked to Sofia Ad. about B. G. She thinks things are going really badly. Tuberculosis. Fortunately, B. G.’s sister arrives on the fifteenth. After tea, Shura and I played tennis. On the way there, we saw where a fire had been: a barn had burned down that had served as a warehouse for some sort of theatrical accoutrements. It was very beautiful to see, among the charred rubbish, chunks of carpets and mattresses showing red and blue. We played for a while, I walked Sh. home and rode to my own club, where I hit around again (windy, clouds of dust, bells ringing on the kirk) till half-past seven. I came back (oh, forgot again: when I was leaving for Shura’s, I met not the landlady (I remembered I’d met someone!), but the man with the other trousers – from cleaning. I paid one mark fifteen), read a little more of the Soviet rubbish as well as ‘Rul’’, where there’s a note about my reading on the eighth. I’ll keep it. On the table, I found the little sheet that arrived by mail from the Finanzamt. (I’m forwarding it to you. Answer them that in fact, I’m not a Catholic but a Russian Orthodox and that they should stop bothering me.) Around half past eight they brought me dinner (same as yesterday except macaroni and cheese instead of the egg). I ate and sat down to write to you. And there’s my whole day, my puss. I’m off to bed now – it’s already a quarter past ten. I’ve been writing to you a long time! Oh, my sweet, oh, my darling, don’t worry and don’t mope … You know, it’s so strange not to hear trams and cars when I lie in bed. Good-bye, my puss, my pusschen. You’ll never guess the little critter at the start of my letter tomorrow.