Letters to Véra

by Vladimir Nabokov

  V.

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [24 June 1926]

  TO: Sanatorium, St Blasien, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  24/VI

  Bushms,

  This morning I met Sack at the Charlottenburg station. We wanted to go to the Dog Show – but it turned out it had closed. We strolled about in the thickets of Westend. I came back and called ‘Rul’’. The story will appear in the Sunday issue (the day after tomorrow). On Saturday morning I’ll go to the ‘Editorial Office’ to correct the proofs. Hessen is delighted. The weather is cloudy, but dry (morning and afternoon). After lunch (liver and gooseberry jelly – a sort of frog caviar), I lay down and re-read ‘Mary’ (I liked it), and near four went to play tennis. I forgot to tell you yesterday that five strings broke as a result of a powerful serve. Fixed today. I played well. A charming borzoi with ashblue (like yesterday’s evening sky) specks on her forehead was walking near the pavilion. She was playing with a russet dachshund, and these two long tender snouts, prodding each other, were wonderful. At six, it began to rain (and it’s still raining). On the way home, I changed a book at the library: I am reading two French novels at once, both in several volumes – according to Proust’s system – but how petty and dull compared to his perfect artistry, depth, divine tongue-tiedness … I get home – open the door – go in – look at the table – see – a little letter. What is it – where from – from whom? – I take it – open it up – and suddenly – something falls out! O, my sweet! Such a wonderful, wonderful picture … I keep looking at it, and chuckling, and keep repeating: ‘What a sweet beastie … What a funny beastie …’ And how nicely your legs are standing there. And some little bushes in the background. And for dinner, my Bushms, I had: fried eggs with potatoes and spinach, two pieces of ham, Swiss cheese and so on.

  Before dinner, I read Martin du Gard. It’s now half past eight. The rain is sprinkling at full force. My Bushms between bushes stands propped up by the cigarette carton in which two weeks ago I brought from the entomological shop a Berlin Hebe and a couple of Lapland Brenthis borealis (a variety of pales or aphirape – I do not know exactly). Bushms, it is too early to discharge you … Wait a little, Bushms … And a terrible thing you should think about Biarritz anyway has happened do think about it to the skiing pictures: they have warped from dampness (after all, they were on the dressing table by the open window), and won’t stand up … I have moved them it would be so marvellous on the beach there to the little yellow briefcase where your letters pile up. The Finnish president came to visit the Latvian one, and on this occasion, the ‘Slovo’ editorial repeats eight times within forty-six lines the words ‘distinguished guests’, ‘our distinguished guests’. The toadies! It’s a quarter to nine now – time for bed soon. Now it’s ten to. Now five to. Nine. Good night, my Bushms. The little skirt is very nice – which one is that? I love you, my own darling, my sweetheart, my life …

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [25 June 1926]

  TO: Sanatorium, St Blasien, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  25/VI–26

  My tenderness,

  This morning Shura and I went to the Grunewald – since the weather is sunny; we swam there, ran around the lake just in bathing trunks, blissed out on the sand. A little old Russian lady came by and asked: ‘Excuse me, this is not a male beach, is it?’ (beach!). I came back for lunch (incomprehensible meat and a tart with wild strawberries) and hauled myself off to the Kaplans. They were still having lunch. Kaplan will advise Sack tonight to send his son with me to Biarritz. There was no lesson today because Sergey was having a tooth taken out. I went to tennis, played till half past six. On the way back, I exchanged a book and stopped by at Regensburger. They have your letters; Anyuta says: ‘I am pleased with the letter. That’s all I can say: I am pleased with the letter.’ I consulted with E. L. about the trip to Biarritz: he’s against it: the sea is not good for your health. I think, my tenderness, he’s right. And he’s right when he says you must stay in St Blasien till the first of August. I know how hard it is. But you need to get better … He advised me to go to B. anyway – but I don’t know, really. Without you, I don’t want to. On the other hand, here, too, I’m not with you. What do you think about all this, my tenderness? Cold-cuts for supper as always – and macaroni too – and, too – one little letter. My softness, what a delicious sunset! I read your description, and – straight away – began to drool. As for the money … I borrowed 5 more marks from Anyuta today, and borrowed more money so I can extend S. B.’s subscription tomorrow, when I’m at ‘Rul’’. They brought back my laundry yesterday (no, what am I saying: today), and it cost 3.85. I gave them another batch. I left my white sweater with Anyuta – to have the elbow darned. It’s now half past nine. The sky is clear. Thank God. Oh, my tenderness, I keep looking at the photographie … Did I write you that Bushms had sent me a photographie? It looks very like her. I will show you, when you come back. In today’s ‘Rul’’ they say that Uncle Kostya has received an honorary degree from Cambridge Univ. I don’t know whether he has received anything else, ‘Mary’, for example. In any case, his copy and Bunin’s are lying very cosily next to each other in my bedside table. Sweet, no? I’m all tanned from the bathing. Only the places covered with trunks – i.e. the upper legs and the loins – are pale. Not pretty, but it’s original. And has my softness also got a tan? What a suntansch met me – in a terrible checkered coat – at the railroad station in Konstanz once! . . And here I am kissing you, my tenderness. I am kissing everything that could be called you, yours … Don’t miss me, my tenderness. Do you want me to write twice a day?

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [26 June 1926]

  TO: Sanatorium, St-Blasien, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  26/VI–26

  Pupuss (a little cross between a puppy and a kitten),

  I went to ‘Rul’’ this morning, corrected proofs. Hessen invited me to dinner. (The first half came out today; the second will come out on Monday, and then I’ll send you both issues, my Pupuss. I have renewed the subscription for S. B. Maybe they will hold the delivery for these three days. But I have arranged for them to send every issue from the day (probably the 23rd) when ‘Rul’’ stopped reaching you. All the same, just in case, I’ll send you the issues with ‘A Fairy-Tale’.) While at ‘Rul’’, I have also agreed with Ludwiga that on Monday (when I come to proofread the second part (by the way, there are quite a lot of typos in the first one, since I made corrections in a very pale pencil)) I’ll drop off the books for Bunin and Uncle K, to be sent to each of them. I returned home with a little book of poems by Shakhovskoy (he’d sent it to me via ‘Rul’’), read it: not bad at all – lucid darkness, coolness, excitement. I wrote exactly this to him and mailed the letter at once (to ‘Blagonamerenny’). Then I replaced the inscription (I had to tear a page off) on the book intended for Uncle K, and instead of the idiotic inscription that had been there, wrote congratulations on the receipt of the honorary degree. Pupuss, I love you. Then I had lunch (rather good meat, plum compote), and sailed to Kaplan’s lesson by three. Got back by five (rather chilly today; I am wearing the new grey trousers, the Norfolk, and the new tie) and, after a shave, took the underground to Hessen. Dinner there was absolutely delicious. Hessen flashed his bald spot, the golden rims of his pince-nez, and talked a lot, palpating the air with one hand. From their place, at nine, I took off to the Tatarinovs, where there was a rather boring lecture on Pirandello. Then I recited ‘The Room’, and … well, the usual consequences. Next time, Volkovyssky will talk on émigré literature. We broke up late, I accompanied Aykhenvald, we talked about Russia. Pupuss, Pupuss, when will we return? It is quarter past two now, I’m a little tired. I forgot to tell you that I received a very puppypuppish letter. Puss, I beg you to stay longer in St Blasien … You must understand, your health is more important than anything els
e. Pupuss, my sweet, my lightness, you really must … Your father insists on it – and he’s absolutely right. Pupuss, my joy, since you are there, make the most of it … You must gain some weight too – to become at least like Anyuta. At least. If you love me – you will understand all of this. And I have decided not to go anywhere: I am closer to you here, after all. And I don’t feel like travelling without you. Will you stay, Pupuss? And I have set up a dictatorship: Showen’ka and all the rest of the little ones have no right to vote … Pupuss, the ‘list of sufferings’ has disappeared. And this, you know, is letter number twenty-five. I love you, my little one, my happiness. Good night. The day seems to be breaking. The sky is green.

  V.

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [27 June 1926]

  TO: Sanatorium, St Blasien, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  27/VI–26

  Mothling,

  I got up late, took my time dressing, did lots of gymnastics. Veal and wild strawberries with cream for lunch. Then had a stroll. I looked over old lithographs and books in antique shops on Schillstrasse. Here’s what I thought: what enchantment there will be in antique photographs! In 2126, let’s say. A photograph two hundred years old – a photograph of a street with people in jackets and with automobiles (‘jacket’ will sound like ‘jerkin’ for us, and ‘automobile’, like, for instance, ‘pyroscaphe’). There’ll be terribly expensive photographs. There’ll be collections of photographs costing millions. ‘Will you come over to look at my collections of photographs from the beginning of the twentieth century?’ ‘With great pleasure.’ ‘Here, look: a street, automobiles, motorcycles.’ ‘Yes, but Mr X has an even older photograph: you can see a horse in it!’ Composing such little conversations, I walked, my Mothling, past the splendid fountain near the Lukashes’ old place, and admired the wet, glossy backs of the stone Tritons smiling through the gleam and quiver of the water trickling down. On the Hercules bridge I felt sorry for the poor lion, the restored part of whose tail was pale, naked, like a poodle’s. I roamed on, deep into an alley in the Tiergarten, where now and again shadows lost consciousness whenever the sun vanished. After sitting on a bench for a while, I walked back along the same way, and on Schillstrasse a stout old woman all in black stopped me and asked me to help her across the street. I put my arm in hers, and with slow steps we crossed to the other side. I felt like a painting: ‘The Boy-Scout or One Good Deed Every Day’. When I got home, I read for an hour – while the ‘loudspeaker’ in the yard played wonderful dancing music. The violin-like languor of the saxophone, reedy pirouettes, the even beat of strings … And then I dozed off – when I woke up it was already half past seven. The sky is pale-blue now, in melting little clouds – like on a ceiling with an allegorical apotheosis. And the jazz-band on the radio keeps playing – an idolized doggy-whining. Dinner: cold-cuts. And now I’m writing to you, my Mothling … How are your wings and antennae, and all their little spots and their silky fluff? I’ll go out again today to post the letterlet. My Mothling, my happiness, love … How do you like this definition: a dream that one person has is a dream, a dream that two people have is semi-reality, the dream which dreams all this is reality. By the way, I have a wonderful title for a newspaper or magazine: ‘Real’. You like? Mothling, what’s it like settling on the flowers of St Blasien? My love …

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [28 June 1926]

  TO: Sanatorium, St Blasien, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  28/VI

  My Rollikins,

  In the morning, I washed, shaved, put on the new grey trousers and the dark-blue jacket and went to ‘Rul’’ to correct the second part of the little story. How do you like it? Not bad, to me. By the way, it turns out that there really is a Hoffmann street (Shura, of course, was the one who told me), only not ‘past Kaiserdamm’ but in Treptow. The books have been sent (a huge relief). From ‘Rul’’ I went to my lesson at the Kaplans, then came home, had lunch: a roulade and plum compote (not good …). Before three I went off to Dernburgstr., played ball with Sh., ate wild strawberries and gooseberries in the garden, then – around six – we went to Zoo together, where I bought the ‘Observer’. There, your little sister fluttered up to me. What she was doing there I don’t know. I left Sack, came home on foot, my Rollikins, read the newspapers. I am sending you a clipping from ‘Slovo’: an absolutely charming poem, the form and the substance are absolutely exceptional. I also bought ‘Zveno’, but they don’t have my poems in it. On the other hand, Adamovich has given Mrs Papoushek a thorough scolding. Dinner: fried eggs and ham. Now it is five past nine. Rollikins, Rollikins, my heavenly creature, what’s new with you? Will you be sensible and stay in St Blasien for twenty or thirty more letters? You know, sometimes it seems to me that only now do I understand how I love you and how happy we are together … My Rollikinsie. Save Perts’ poem. It is so – fresh and Russian. Send me a letter in cipher one day (numbers instead of letters), I will enjoy deciphering it. Here you are, for example (in old orthography):

  The apostrophes separate letters, the slashes, words. I am curious whether you will guess this (a specific number always corresponds to the same letter, of course). We’ll see, my Rollikins. If you are good, I’ll send you a new little game in every letter. And have another picture taken of yourself! There is a great demand for such goods here. My sweet, I love you … I am going to write a little story. Or maybe a poem. Will I get a letterlet tomorrow? Is it sitting now in a railroad car, in the heat, between a letter from Mrs Müller to her cook and a letter from Mr Schwarz to his debtor? The subject for a poem: we all are letters going to God. Or is that no good? Rollik, my little one, so long unkissed …   V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [29 June 1926]

  TO: Sanatorium, St Blasien, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  29/VI–26

  My darling,

  You haven’t written for ages. You haven’t written for ages. You haven’t written for ages. My darling …

  In the morning I went with Sh. to the Grunewald; I swam and ran. Very warm and nice. On the way back, crossing that segment of the roadway on the corner of Luther and Kleist, where there’s an orgy of repairs going on, I met the effeminate Prof. Gogel, who said to me: ‘and you will play Pozdnyshev. Yes-yes-yes …’ Thinking that he had taken me for someone else, I smiled, bowed and went on. Lunch: meatballs with stuffed tomatoes, and excellent blueberry jam. Paid the bill (54.80 – with milk). Suddenly the maid comes in: ‘A lady to see you.’ Enter a lady with a briefcase. ‘Gräger sent me to you. I sell cigarettes. My husband, an officer, was killed by a firing squad in Kiev.’ I took a hundred – feeling that I was terribly betraying our little man. Before three I went off to the lesson with Kaplan. Around five went to tennis. On the way, my darling, I bought some stamps, sent you the newspapers with the story, and bought tennis shoes as well (4.45). Tomorrow, I’ll pay Anyuta back thirty marks. I played well. I returned at half past seven, had some cold-cuts. Found a letter from Aykhenvald. The Board of the Journalists’ Union is organizing a ‘Pozdnyshev Trial’. They are asking me to play Pozdnyshev. I have just written to Aykhenvald, accepting. This will happen at the end of July. Comment tu regardes sur ça? Rien à soi? (‘Good grief!’) My darling, when you stop writing to me, I begin to panic a little. Maybe you are angry that I asked you to keep putting on weight in St Blasien? All the same – I implore you. As for these cigarettes, they are all right. The tobacco, I think, is better than the Maykapar kind. I will buy a hundred less from the little man. My darling, I am the only Russian émigré in Berlin who writes to his wife every day. But I won’t send you a little game today – because you’ve been bad. It is half past nine. I will go out to post the letters – to Dubnyak and to you; and then I’ll go to bed. In the mornings, the acacia by the wall in the courtyard bathes in its own lacy shadow, which rocks back and forth behind it on the wall and through its leaves, a
nd interferes with the movement of the leaves: acacia in a shady peignoir. But now, the window’s reflecting only my head in a Rembrandtesque light and the orange lamp. I love, I love you, my darling, my happiness … I am afraid to write that there will be a letter tomorrow, because every time when I write this, it doesn’t happen. My darling, I love you. My flight, my flutter …