Letters to Véra

by Vladimir Nabokov

  It’s now ten minutes past nine, I’ll go to bed soon. The rain has stopped, but – to judge by the puddle in the courtyard – I won’t be able to play tennis tomorrow, either. This is extremely boring. My Pussykins, today I’ve decided to kiss you again. The stock-market has been amazingly peaceful recently. Isn’t there any demand in the Schwarzwald for some kind of crockery? Write, Pussykins. I didn’t think you’d write to me so rarely. Good night, Puss.

  V.

  A trifle – a mast’s denomination, plans – trailed

  by a seagull, soars my life;

  and, on the deck, a man, lap-robed,

  inhales the radiance – it is I.

  I see, upon a glossy postcard,

  a bay’s depravity of blue

  and, white-toothed, a townlet with a retinue

  of countless palms, and the abode in which I dwell.

  At that same instant, with a cry, I’ll show you

  myself, myself – but in a different town:

  like a parrot snapping with its beak,

  I scrabble at the scrapbook with its cards.

  That one – that’s me, with phantom suitcase;

  and that’s me on a chilly street

  walking at you, as if from a screen,

  and blurring into blindness.

  Oh … I sense inside my legs, grown heavy,

  the trains that leave without me

  and what a wealth of countries have not warmed me,

  where I shan’t live, and never shall be warmed!

  And, in his armchair, the voyager from Eden

  describes, his hands behind his head,

  sucking the pipe smoke with a whistle,

  his love of loves – a tropic bay.

  V. Sirin

  18–VI 26

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [19 June 1926]

  TO: Hotel-Pension Schwarzwaldhaus,

  Todtmoos, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  19/VI–26

  Kidlet,

  This morning I began to rewrite ‘Odd’, then I gave S. K. his lesson. Back home I had lunch (veal cutlet, compote) and carried on rewriting. I finished around seven and then – for the Tartars’ soirée – listed all that makes me suffer – starting with the touch of satin and ending with the impossibility of assimilating, swallowing, all the beauty in the world. It turned out about two pages in small handwriting – and, forgive me, my Kidlet – I’ve mislaid this sheet somewhere, or I’d have sent it to you. I had dinner in the company of cold-cuts and two sausages and by nine, with the story, the poem, and the list of sufferings sailed off to Mlle Ioffe’s. There I found the Tatarinovs, Mme Falkovsky, Danechka, Rusina, Kadish with his wife, Trotsky with his wife, Grif, the repulsive Zvezdich, Aykhenvald. I read them the story. An absolutely deafening success. I promptly read them the poem. They made me read it three times. They discussed it for about an hour. Zvezdich and Aykhenvald almost had a fight. Then Mme Tatarinov gathered all the written aphorisms about ‘suffering and pleasure’ (Aykhenvald, Mme Tatarinov, Mlle Ioffe, Mme Falkovsky, and Grif had all had a go) and read them. One was not bad: ‘A man cannot achieve pleasure single-handed.’ Finally, she read my little list too – and again, there was a burst of inexplicable excitement. All in all, the whole soirée turned into a celebration of the present writer – and he, in order to put, so to speak, the proper full-stop, to crown the soirée – when we got out on the street (Passauer Strasse), when everyone was saying good-bye to one other, turned a somersault right there, on the pavement.

  And when I got home, I landed like a rooster in soup, at a grand gala in the landlady’s dining-room. Everybody there was completely drunk: some German actors (friends of the son), employees of the American consulate (friends of the daughter), and a professor Poletika (the Korostovets couple should have been there, too, but they did not come). I drank some vodka, a cup of hock, ate a sandwich, danced one fox-trot with the landlady’s daughter (a very unattractive lady) and retired unnoticed. It’s now almost two, and here I am writing to you, Kidlet. My Kidlet, I’m so sorry that you weren’t the first to hear my story and all in all that the whole soirée went on without you … I’ll give the story to ‘Rul’’ on Monday, they’ll type it up there, and I’ll send you the little manuscript straight away. ‘They say that misfortune is a good school. Yes, true. But happiness is the best university.’ Isn’t this great? That’s Pushkin. And here is an émigré-political aphorism: ‘The zeros realized that in order to become something they had to stand on the right.’ And do you know the German translation of this line from the Chekhov story: ‘I walk on a carpet, you walk on false talk’? ‘Teppich, tepst du.’ My Kidlet, my happiness, where are you? I love you so much now, my sweet … I am going to bed, I’m rather tired. I put everything away neatly in the wardrobe, there’s nothing lying about the room. Love you infinitely.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [20 June 1926]

  TO: Hotel-Pension Schwarzwaldhaus,

  Todtmoos, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  20/VI–26

  My life,

  It’s been raining all day. This morning I wrote a letter to Mother and sent the poem to ‘Zveno’. I thanked them for placing the translation and added: ‘My brother writes me from Paris that the author of the review of my “Mary” thinks that I have “taken offence”. Be so kind as to tell him that this is not so. I was only surprised by the factual inaccuracies in the review, which convey a wrong impression about the book’s very plot and style.’ Short and caustic. By the way: Aykhenvald told me yesterday that Elkin (who’d gone to Paris) wrote to him that Mochulsky was ‘remorseful’. This whole story is rather stupid. I had lunch (good meat, strawberries with whipped cream), read after lunch, and then slept for two hours. I looked out of the window and felt sorry that I had not added to my letter to ‘Zveno’: ‘Blaming a critic is like blaming the rain.’ I had a good yawn, my thoughts were dawdling, I didn’t want either to read or write. They brought me dinner (an egg and cold-cuts), I ate it, lit the lamp, and here I am writing to you, my life. You know, I’ll have nothing to tell you when you come back – you’ll know everything, down to the details, from my letters! But you’ll have such a heap … My sweet life, I love you. I love your little dachshund paws and the little pink lines around your eyes. I got another epistle from the Catholic Church. Let it sit for a while. I didn’t understand a thing. It’s now a quarter to nine, the maid’s making my bed. I’ll finish the letter and step out for a stroll, in the light drizzle. I have to buy some cigarettes – I’ve run out. The little man will come tomorrow. Today I sat at home the whole day – I only nipped out before lunch to post the letters. In the mornings, if I’m not going to Sack’s, I do gymnastics – I’ve got a grand headstand! – and then bathe in my tub. (I don’t bathe in the bathroom – there’s a bleeding red rug there – and everything would turn a bright raspberry colour: my heels, the edges of my bath towel, the heels of my socks.) How are you, my life? How does the morning sleepyhead stretch? How is my happiness, my long, warm happiness? I’m wearing the blue suit today – and, of course, the speckled, which I’ve got to like more than all the other jumpers and sweaters I’ve ever had. There’s a strange friendship between my neighbour (a young Dutch artist) and my wrinkled landlady … But, let me repeat, I’m very happy with the boarding-house – and they feed us really well. I’ve got used to the sausage and sometimes eat it without disgust. But you, my love, take care that you eat well, too … We love you so. We adore you. Please forgive us for writing so seldom. I’ve put in a new nib today. My life …

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [21 June 1926]

  TO: Sanatorium, St Blasien, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  21/VI–26

  Skunky,

  This morning about half past ten I went to ‘Rul’’ and handed Hessen my story (I still don’t know whether I’ll call it simply �
�A Fairy-Tale’ or ‘Odd’. It’s rather large – eighteen pages; in fact, it’s unclear all in all whether it will suit. If it does, then by Wednesday they’ll type it out and I’ll check it. If it doesn’t suit, then I’ll send it to ‘Slovo’ on this condition: 30 marks by the 1st. Not a pfennig less and not a day later. Good?). I returned to my neighbourhood and when I saw I had a whole hour till my lesson with Mme Kaplan, I first called at Berta Gavr.’s (according to Shura, she’s doing much better), but no one opened up for me, and since I had nothing to do, I sat for a while in an open café on the corner of Bavarian square and drank a glass of dark beer. Then I gave my lesson (it’s very warm here today, but raining from time to time. I’m wearing the new grey pair). I had lunch (excellent cutlet and strawberries) and after a lie-down on the little couch (my joy, I am in the same room – I think I wrote to you that I had refused to move to the other), went, by four, Sackwards. I played ball with him. On the way back (I bought the ‘Observer’), I stopped by at Regensburg. I saw them all, stayed half an hour, picked up clean laundry and returned home for dinner (excellent fried eggs and cold-cuts). Today in ‘Rul’’ there’s an article by Konoplin about Taboritsky and Shabelsky-Borg. It’s strange to read. They have eight years hard labour left. I found your dear little skunky letter. I’m happy that you’re better. Stay, Skunky, in Saint Blasia. You can’t describe butterflies that way. What does ‘yellow’ mean? There are a million shades of yellow. That little one, with black speckles, must be not simply yellow, but orangey-russet, rather like yellow wax for boots. If that’s the case, then it belongs to the genus Brenthis or Melithea (butterflies with a motley, often nacreous underside). The other one, you write, is white with a yellow piping? I don’t know. Describe it in more detail – and in general note a few others too. Yesterday I went out for a stroll in the evening – and watched with a crowd (on Nollendorfplatz) a wonderful illuminated advertisement – a ribbon of words passing by like a well-lit train: the news on voting and simply the news – a whole newspaper of lights. Amazingly beautiful. And now it’s a quarter past nine. I won’t go out again tonight. What can I write you about the Regensburgers? They are all well, comfortable, I sat down in the dusk with E. L., telling him about the soirée at Ioffe’s, then I read him my poem – he liked it. As he spoke he’d get up, thrust his hands in trouser pockets, bend his head a little to the side; he’d slowly walk across the room, turn around on a heel, walk again, just lowering his head. I love all of this and I feel very good around him.

  Well, Skunky, good night. You will never guess (I am kissing you) what exactly I am kissing.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 5 PP.]

  [22 June 1926]

  TO: Sanatorium, St Blasien, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  22/VI–26

  Mymousch,

  (The critter I’ve chosen today isn’t handsome – but very furry) this morning I met (my handwriting is so small because I’ve just rewritten the poem in small script, and my hand hasn’t yet got out of the habit. Well, here I’m getting bigger) with Sack and – since the weather was wanly sunny and very hot – we set out (now at last it has evened out – not Sack, my handwriting) to the Grunewald, where we had a splendid time swimming. We were lying on the sand, when the rain suddenly burst, thunder broke out a huge purple chunk of sky and little silver arrows began to dance on the lake. A thick oak shielded us from the rain. I came back via Roseneck (I’m in the old grey suit today) and had a rather dense lunch (good meat, cherry compote). Simultaneously, I continued composing a poem that arose overnight. I went to the Kaplans (not on foot, by car – since it was raining deafeningly). On the way home (by five o’clock the weather had become heavenly) I continued to compose, bought a razor blade, exchanged a book, bought new garters (the old pair is torn) as well as … a nice grey neck-tie (a long one), and having completely gone on a spree, I ruined myself further with a Nestlé chocolate bar with nuts. Getting home, I found, Mymousch, your little letter, nice and warm, like you yourself, and was quite overjoyed that you seem in better spirits. But, my happiness, don’t come back on the first! You must get still better – remember. Come back no earlier than the 20th, Mymousch … Later, lying on the divan (oh yes, I paid 52 marks on the bill today and 5 to the cigarette man) I composed, meanwhile a terrible thunderstorm broke out, and I finished the poem to claps of thunder. I enclose it for you. I am also forwarding Mother’s letter to you. There were cold-cuts for dinner (veal and ham). It’s now ten o’clock. The roses, now completely faded, are still standing on my table. I am curious whether you’ll like my little poem … And the tie is the colour of one little dress which I cannot think of without a sob (it greeted me with its little wool-wisps!), darker barely noticeable rhombi, silk. The house was noisy today: our landlady leaves tomorrow morning. The servants are exulting. Mymousch, hello!. … love you. Good that you’re taking lots of pictures. I would also like to take a lot off … My joy, floridithy, owlthy, lovethy, my love … The other day, as I was falling asleep, tiny word nightmares tormented me. Here’s one: ‘Popes pounced on poplars, the port where Rappoport rapped out a report.’ I could not get rid of it. It sounds somehow … ritual. Well, my happiness, time for bed. For some reason, I’m tired tonight. This poem will go to ‘Rul’’. I love you, my life.

  V.

  THE ROOM

  Here’s the room. Still half-alive,

  but it will recover by tomorrow.

  The mirrored wardrobe looks at me

  without recognition, like lucid madness.

  For the nth time I unpack my things,

  get used once more to the keys’ caprices,

  and slowly the whole room quivers,

  and slowly it becomes mine.

  Done. All has been summoned

  into my existence – every sound:

  the squeak of the drawer that takes layers of linen

  from my hands in its kindly maw;

  and the badly locking window frame’s

  bang in the night – revenge for a draught;

  the bustle of mice, their dwarfish din;

  and someone’s approaching step:

  he’ll never get entirely close –

  like circle after circle on water, he moves

  and falls away – and again I hear

  how he sighed and moved on.

  I turn on the light. All’s quiet. On the quilt

  falls a scarlet mound of light.

  All’s well. And soon I’ll abandon

  this room too, this house too.

  I’ve known many such submissive rooms,

  but if I look closer, I feel sad:

  no one here will fall in love with, or remember,

  the painstaking patterns on the wall.

  This dry watercolour and this lamp,

  in its old, see-through summer frock,

  I too’ll forget when I leave

  this room too, this house too.

  I will enter another: again the monotony

  of wallpaper, the same armchair by the window …

  But I’m sad … The less the difference seems,

  perhaps the more divine it is.

  And perhaps when we grow cold

  and cross from life into a bare heaven,

  we’ll regret our earthly forgetfulness,

  not knowing how to furnish our new home.

  V. Sirin 22–VI–26

  18–VI–26

  Dear Véra,

  How annoying that you have had such bad luck with the weather! It’s just terrible! How can one get better this way. I am awfully sad, it’s such a pity, I was really counting on this rest time for you. It’s very hard on you. Our weather is also vile, we are bathing in mud everywhere. But I feel well in such damp weather; my asthma is completely gone. My daughters are starting their exams now, and Olga is very nervous. Her stomach is better, and she has recovered. Kirill’s finishing his classes soon. At the start of July Ev. K. is going to France for 3 months. I am very hap
py for her, although it will be very hard to be separated from her for so long. But overall our life is hard, we still can’t pay out our debts. We are all terribly worn out. E. K. and the girls send many thanks for the stockings, and K. for the trousers. They fit him perfectly and are very elegant. Our life here is monotonous, especially in such weather. All three of us sleep together, which is, of course, rather cramping for me. We haven’t yet let out the rooms in Prague, but I am not losing hope. How is Slava Borisovna’s health? How long will you be away? I was happy with Volodya’s successes, but even more with his beautiful poems. It’s a pity I was not there. If you can write, let me know how you’re feeling.

  I am kissing you lots.

  With love, E. N.

  Tender regards from E. K. and the girls.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [23 June 1926]

  TO: Sanatorium, St Blasien, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  23/VI–26

  Long bird of paradise with the precious tail,

  In the morning I rode to the Grunewald and had a splendid swim there. I lay on the sand for an hour. (The sun is milky, but hot.) From there, for one, I went to the lesson with Mme K. She is trying very hard to convince you and me to go to Biarritz (they are going there on July 1st for five weeks). She says – rather sensibly – that, first of all, those 15 marks a month that I’d get there for the lessons with her and Sergey would be almost enough (given the franc’s low conduct) for one person’s keep – and that, secondly, along with expensive hotels they have very, very cheap boarding-houses there. Moreover I dare say I can convince Sack (whose school vacation begins on July 20th) to come along. All in all the only expensive thing is the trip (around one hundred twenty marks for two). So, if we have 150 (the trip) + 150 (your board) + 50 (miscellaneous expenses) + 150 (return trip) = 500 marks, then we could head off boldly, let’s say, on the 20th (I could pick you up from St Blasien) and stay till the day when our money dries up. Of course as soon as the Kaplans arrive in Biarritz, they’ll try to find a cheap little shelter for us. A journey like this could finish off your recovery wonderfully. The question is, how can we get 500 marks? Of course we could borrow them. In any event, my long bird of paradise, please ask Lena (if she gets back soon to Paris) if she could go to a little trouble for a visa for us (I don’t know – maybe she can?); from my side, I will procure the passports, talk to F. and – even if we have to get in touch with Paris – we can manage this by the 20th. You know, the Tatarinovs have around 500 marks a month, 200 of which they give to the mother-in-law – and, all the same, they’re borrowing money and travelling (to Italy). Why can’t we as well? Meatballs and rhubarb for lunch. The landlady has left. I read after lunch, then went to play tennis – hit around for two hours. Came back and read some more. There were cold-cuts for dinner. It’s now half past eight. My heavenly, please think about Biarritz. It seems possible to me. If I get the money for the translation of ‘Mary’, or if Sack agrees to go, too – then, of course, everything will work out. Write to Anyuta and E. L. for advice. Try not to look at this as if it were myth. My swimming trunks are drying on the windowsill. I forgot to find out from ‘Rul’’ today whether they are buying ‘Odd’. Tomorrow I will call them before leaving for Sack’s. The sky is ashy-blue, the gramophone is scorching out a foxtrot from the next window. Yes, it’d be nice in Biarritz … Such a sea! And a Basque selling waffles on the beach. Huge waffles, like corsets. My love, I could finally feel the sun today. Off to bed soon. Will write to Mother too. I have fifty pfennigs left. I love you very much. Goodbye, my heavenly, my long one, with the dazzling tail and the little dachshund paws.