Letters to Véra

by Vladimir Nabokov

  A nana S

  N avukhodonoso R

  G ost I (angulus rides)

  U ro D

  L ezvi E

  U ksu S

  You’ve solved the ‘magic words’ well. After reading your letterlet, my Fire-Beastie, I began to wash myself in the tub, and at that moment the workers burst through the window and began (after some good-natured apologies) to fix the boards outside my windowsill. I continued to sponge myself placidly, then did gymnastics. They left after five minutes. I had dinner: fried eggs and cold-cuts. I was so thirsty that after dinner, I went to a café in Victoria Louise Platz and had a beer there, while Mr Darling (by the way, he has fallen asleep now, so it’s much easier to write) composed these ‘magic words’ there. He insisted that I copied their ‘meanink’ exactly the way he pronounces it – but, between you and me, he lisps. The puzzle, however, is very difficult.

  Got back at nine, and here I am writing to you, my Fire-Beastie. I am waiting, waiting, waiting for you. I can’t keep you in St Blasia any longer. My happiness, my life … It is very muggy – I’ll get another drink of water I VOSS PREETENDINK TO SHLEEP MY GREETINKS DARL – ah, he’s unbearable: he tricked me again. My sweetheart, good night. Love you very much.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [16 July 1926]

  [To: St Blasien]

  [Berlin]

  You must find in this person

  1) another face

  2) a mouse

  3) a bunny

  4) a chick

  5) a pony

  6) Mrs Tufty in a new hat

  7) a little monkey

  16–VII–26

  My love,

  This morning I went to the Grunewald with Sh., came home (the room’s dark from the scaffolding, there’s banging non-stop, unbearable), had lunch: liver and cherry compote. I had a lie-down (luckily, the stonemasons had left for lunch) then sat down to write. I didn’t get anything done, though, because the work started up again, bits of plaster were crashing down from above, hitting the glass. The main thing’s that I can’t get them to tell me when this wretched work will be over, when they’ll take the scaffolding down – I even think about moving (of course, if this lasts two or three days more, I can stand it. I’d prefer to stay here). It’s a tiresome story all round. But the weather is wonderful, a cloud of fragrance under every linden, marvellous. And soon you’ll be here, my love (only not in this room – if these nasty boards aren’t taken off by then), you’ll be here soon – that’s such happiness I don’t even know how I’ll survive it … Dinner: the usual cold-cuts, cheese, radishes. Nine o’clock now. In ‘Sovremennye zapiski’ there is a magnificent story by Bunin and a not-bad excerpt from Aldanov’s verbiology. And an enchanting ballad by Khodasevich too. Perhaps I will send you the journal, after all – only I don’t know how. I’ll call in at Anyuta’s tomorrow and decide with her. My love, when you arrive, I’ll scold you terribly because you write to me so rarely and I’ll boast terribly that I’ve written to you every day. Have you filled out the questionnaire? I’ve already done it, and tomorrow night, at the Tatarinovs’, the answers will be disclosed. My finances are crying out. So, my love.

  Kisses, my love, from your eyebrows down to your knees and back. What do you think of Mr Darling’s work today? I don’t think much of it, but I don’t want to offend him. I badly need socks and eau-de-cologne. But I somehow always have plenty of shirts. My love, how about us going to Czechoslovakia for a week? Stars have already appeared between the boards. Good night my love. Terribly hot for sleeping. I sleep without pyjamas – and it’s still hot. Love you.

  V.

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [17 July 1926]

  TO: Sanatorium, St-Blasien, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  17–VII–26

  Pussycat,

  (the little critters seem to be repeating themselves, but I don’t have a list of those I’ve already deployed, so not much I can do about this). This morning it smelled of turps, because the painters were spreading a reddish paint, sparkling in the sun, on to the balcony railings to the left of my windows. I dressed all in white and went to my lake. The sky was cloudless and covered me with another layer of tan. There I bought and ate a large, warty, crooked pickle. A man with an arm tattooed to his elbow was toting them around in a bucket, screaming: ‘Sauer-jurken, sauer-jurken!’ I came back, had lunch: meatballs and a nameless jelly (and clotted cream, left over from yesterday’s milk). Then I wrote a letter to Mother, then sailed off to tennis. The heat was awful. I came back around six, treated myself to cold water, had a lie-down. In ‘Rul’’ there is a review of the trial performance. Raisa wrote it – and wrote it very nicely. I sailed off to Regensburg – wanted to have dinner there, so as to go to the Tartars’ straight from there, but the landlady – looking, by the way, like an old gopher – informed me that no one was home. I wandered (I am wearing today, faute de mieux, lacework dance socks) through the evening streets, smoked in a public garden and, taking my time (around half past eight) set off for the Tatarinovs’, where Gurevich was reading a long and rather entertaining paper about contemporary painting (the reading of the questionnaires will be on Saturday). The Landaus were there – she was wearing an utterly amusing dress made of a variety of patches: pink, white, lacy, with asymmetrical flower embroideries. Her little bird-like head with grey sausages of curls falling down her neck from behind was also very comical – but the most comical of all were the cape she put on when she left and the tall raspberry-coloured hat, like a layered helmet. A little old medieval fairy – take her or leave her. As for the question, ‘What is your most memorable dream?’ both Gurevich and I happened to write the same thing: Russia. Got back late – and although I’m very tired, all same (as Golubev says) I’m writing to you, my Pussycat. You’ll be back soon! You’ll be back soon! Mr Darling is already asleep, so there will be no little puzzle tonight. You’ll be back soon! I love you. I’m waiting for you. My Pussycat I love you … And why don’t you write?

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [18 July 1926]

  TO: Sanatorium, St-Blasien, Schwarzwald

  [Berlin]

  Magic Words

  Out of the seven days of the week and the words: lono, evrei, Sinay, parodiya, make 13 words with the meanings:

  1) can’t be divided in half 2) shrub 3) engine 4) rule over 5) what religion takes from entomology 6) dethrone! 7) the sun has them 8) fighter 9) undertaking 10) assistance 11) centre 12) part of the world 13) parts of a boat

  18–VII–26

  Puppykin,

  The Tatarinovs organized another outflight today, but I refused to go, called them this morning to say I couldn’t. I dressed late, I really wanted to sleep on. Had lunch: beef with green peas and Claudias – and by half past two I was already in the Grunewald, where I stayed till six. I came back, had dinner: fried eggs and cold-cuts – then put on my bathrobe and here I am writing to you, Puppykin. Raisa informed me today on the phone that she’d had a photograph from you (and was very touched by it). You seem to write to everyone except me. Is this fair, Puppykin? By the way, do you remember Baratynsky’s verse:

  I have given her, out of affection,

  a capricious name,

  the fleeting creation

  of my childish tenderness –

  – I’m not sure that the first two adjectives are correct and I can’t remember the other stanzas. Do you? Quiet today, the painters and stonemasons are not to be heard, – since it’s Sunday. They say this music will carry on for two more weeks. I really don’t know what to do. Puppykin, don’t come back without an Apollo! How is your acquaintance doing (from Moscow)? Will you be back soon? Puppykin, promise me that we will never, never, never have sausage for dinner. Promise? Thought I’d go to Anyuta’s tonight, but I didn’t – I became languid from the sun. There were so many people there today! I was lying with my eyes closed and thin
king, as I listened to the wide sound, the human hubbub: I could be in the tenth century now – the same kind of din, splashing, heat from the sun, light creaking of the pine-trees, there’s nothing in the sound around me that hasn’t always been there, from the earliest cave eras. But I was mistaken. Right next to me, some kind of steady snuffling sound started up. Without opening my eyes, I tried to decide what it was. Finally I looked: it turned out to be a child playing with a bicycle pump. The same child later approached me, considered my cross carefully, and said: ‘Christ’. It was very funny, Puppykin. It’s a quarter to nine now. I love you. There’d better be a letterlet from you tomorrow, or ‘I will have my revenge’. My beloved insecticle, today, by my count, I’m writing my hundredth page to you. And yours will make up no more than ten or so. Is this amiable? It’s twelve minutes to ten. I’ll go to bed now. I still have talcum powder, but the hair oil ran out long ago. I am waiting for replies from abroad from Bunin, Shakhovskoy, de Calry – up till now, not a single one of them has replied. And another too – from Uncle Kostya. Best wishes to you, Puppykin, kisses on your little paws.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [19 July 1926]

  [TO: St Blasien]

  [Berlin]

  19–VII–26

  My love,

  This morning I received the sweetest little letter – with a description of the ant females. If you arrive on Wednesday, then of course this letter won’t manage to get there before you leave, my love, but I am writing just in case – so you don’t remain, longer than expected, one extra – and letterless – day. I took my time getting dressed, went to ‘Rul’’, where I picked up a small advance. The heat is terrible, I walk around without a jacket. I came back on the top of the bus. Had lunch – veal (I think) and apple mousse. Then I went to Sack’s, we played tennis (by the way, the word ‘tennis’ comes from the French ‘tenez’: this is what the server of the ball would shout – in the ancient game – indoors (Henry IV had a very powerful service), as now they shout (actually, only people in Russian dachas do this now – in England this has stopped) ‘play!’). Mme Sack has come back from ‘Maria’s Estates’, she brought me as a present a very nice silver pencil (which I plan to take to a pawn shop). On the way back I bought ‘Zveno’, the ‘Observer’, and – because of some internal disorder – eight capsules of Ol[eum] Ricini – very beautiful, appetizing to look at, transparently glossy – and I can swallow them like oysters (it’s now half past nine; at six, I swallowed four – following the pharmacist’s advice – but they’ve had no effect so far). I had only an egg for dinner, and drank some tea. Spent time on chess. Elkin phoned and let me know that 1) Adamovich will still write about ‘Mary’ for ‘Zveno’ 2) He’s brought me a letter – he’ll forward it tomorrow – from ‘Sovr. zapiski’ with a request to give them a short story for the next issue. My love, are you really coming back? Will you really walk into my room if not today, then tomorrow? My love, all the little ones have gone crazy with happiness … (I don’t understand, why no effect? …) I am sending you ‘Zveno’. I love you. No stonemasons today, although the scaffolding is still all there. (Maybe I should take another one?) I love you endlessly and I am waiting for you. Send me a telegram. My love, my love, my love. My life.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [22 December 1926]

  [TO: Berlin]

  [Prague]

  Mama will write to you tomorrow. Boxy is lying on his back, his stiff lip sticking out.

  22–XII–26

  Greetings, my greenikin,

  My love and my happiness, my one-and-all. I had an excellent trip. The heater was right under my feet. They really turned our things inside out at the border. For a long time, the official couldn’t understand ‘what’s that red thing’, and it took my fellow-travellers a while to explain to him that it was ‘peayamas’. Elena and her fiancé and Kirill met me at the station. Kirill is huge and speaks, not quite in a squeaky voice and not quite in a husky basso. Pyotr Mikhaylovich is pure enchantment. (I can’t even describe what he has done for Mother …) Elena and he are awfully affectionate with each other – just a pleasure to watch. They will get married in February, and Olga and Shakhovskoy in the spring. Mother does not look bad, but she had a light asthma attack right before my arrival. Overall, they’re not living badly. They put me in Mother’s room, Mother sleeps with my sisters, and Skulyari with Kirill. They have a Czech maid, but she does not cook (the Epatievs hired her). My love and my happiness. Mother told me very interesting things about Sergey. I gave Pyotr Mikhaylovich one of the ties (the bow) as a present. They were all ecstatic about the gifts. The suit fits Kirill perfectly. And how is your dear health? I miss you so much … I need you so, my greenikin. I get back on Sunday. Will bring the chess and my butterflies. Oh, my happiness … They read my ‘Terror’ at one of the meetings here. And tonight I’ll exhibit my little long poem. Somehow everyone already knows about the play – and rumours are circulating that the emigration is portrayed in it very non-emigraciously. It’s rather chilly in our rooms. But you should write to me, my sweet. There’s a little snow on the roofs. I love you much more now than during my first visits here …

  V.

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [23 December 1926]

  TO: 12, Passauer Str., b/v. Dallwitz, Berlin

  [Prague]

  Aged, but respectable sir,

  I have just received your letterlet. We get in on Sunday. We read our long poemlet yesterday. Both fiancés were there. I played chess with Olga’s, won once, but lost the other time. Apparently, they inoculated Mother with Box’s tail, because there are cases when a dog can cause asthma (in this case, it didn’t help). P. M. calls Box ‘Botya’. He’s grown fat and old. On wet days, he crosses the street slowly-slowly. When he is wearing a coat they call him ‘pauper’, because the coat has a hole on one side (from his rubbing against the wall). Mother has mild attacks. She is very nervous. Skulyari gives her adrenalin injections. Overall the mood in Prague is not happy.

  They mentioned me with a ‘kind word’ in ‘Krasnaya nov’’. It would be nice to get this issue (the latest). Some time ago, there was an evening of my poetry here. Someone named Bers recited (he also read ‘Terror’ and ‘Beneficence’). Prof. Katkov with his son and Bobrovsky (whose wife is near her time) visited us yesterday.

  Thank you for the marks, my sweet. I will buy the ticket today. My darling, how happy I am in you, with you. And why, how has Aykhenvaldo praised the pretentious thing aborted by Landau! I am healthy and cheerful. I am conceiving (but not writing) a short story (not about Horace).

  How I hate celebrating the New Year in public! Hessen told me that he would print in ‘Rul’’ a highly unpleasant article against ‘Put’’. A response to ‘Mr Dvurogin’ (read ‘Trigorin’ = Volhkovyssky). I adore you.

  V.

  1929

  ____________________

  [AL, 1 P.]

  [18 April 1929]

  [Le Boulou, Eastern Pyrenees]

  CAUGHT A THAIS!

  ____________________

  [ALS, 1 P.]

  [TO: Berlin?]

  [undated]

  [Berlin]

  My love,

  call me at K.’s around 8.30. My gums, tongue, the whole left part of my mug are aching, and a gland on my neck has swollen up like a tumour – devil knows what it is!

  I love you.

  V.

  1930

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [c. 9 May 1930]

  [TO: Berlin]

  [Berlin]

  My sweet,

  Here’s my first letter. Old man Hessen phoned and asked me to take a package (books and a pair of – old – slippers) for his son. He will bring it to the meeting. Then the other old man (Kaminka) called and asked me to do a translation – which I will pick up between Mme Falkovsky and the meeting. Were there any letters? No, if o
ne doesn’t count the Sunday poets’ circle. Mrs Walrus came in just now, enquiring whether I was taking the trunk (delivered yesterday) with me to Russia, i.e. she had thought that I was leaving for Russia tomorrow (that Mother lived in Russia). Charming. Secondly, for her daughter, she asked for ‘one of the Ullstein books you received. My daughter likes reading Ullstein books.’ Besides, she announced that yesterday, her husband’s brother died. Give her K[ing], Q[ueen], K[nave], if we have a copy. I bought all I need. Now I will drop in on Anyuta and buy a few other things along the way. I have eaten, but not much – can’t taste anything, because of my cold – which, by the way, is better.

  So, my happiness. Kisses. I won’t be back late.

  V.

  [APCS]

  [12 May 1930]

  TO: 27, Luitpoldstr., b/ von Bardeleben, Berlin

  [Prague]

  My darling,

  I had a splendid trip, was met by Mother at the station: she looks great and is in great spirits. Boxy is old and fat, with a grey snout, and he paid no attention to me. Elenochka and E. K. have grown very pretty. I was allotted a small, very cosy little room. Elena’s drawing posters for my evening. In general, everything’s going very well. My darling, write to me.

  V.

  Dear Véra, I am very happy. Volodya is cheerful, merry, and not very thin. I am very happy, but we were all sad that you are not with us.

  Kisses.

  maman Hélène

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [12 May 1930]

  TO: 27, Luitpoldstr., b/ von Bardeleben, Berlin W.

  [Prague]

  My darling,

  I love you. I’ve just been sorting dusty books, will bring some of them, I have gorged myself on old issues of ‘The Entomologist’. I love you, my happiness. A stroke of luck – the first person who came to visit on Sunday turned out to be an entomologist: just imagine, my darling, how white hot we got; on Thursday, he will show me a famous collection of Papilio at the museum. He caught an absolutely black podalirius in Podolsk province – a pendant to the black swallowtail in Püngeler’s collection. Tonight our whole family is going to the cinema, and tomorrow I’m invited to ‘Skit Poetov’. My evening is on the 20th. I love you. Yesterday, a little old general came, who reminded me of Jan[n]ings in ‘The Last Advent’, and read his short story (‘a marble foot looked out from under a satin blanket’ and so on). Kirill is strikingly handsome and refined, reads a lot, is relatively well educated and very high-spirited. He tells me that my brother Sergey (who arrived stout, with a fat neck, looking like Shalyapin) asked where there was a café where men met and strongly advised him to sniff cocaine. Fortunately, Kirill is absolutely normal. I have not seen Olga yet, she’s at the dacha with Petkevich. Elena is charming, while Petya ‘in my presence’ is very nice (E. K. and Mother slightly dislike him, and he says ‘inflúenza’ and ‘enviáble’). I love you. Petkevich, it turns out, is one of the best local chess-players (another lucky break). My family have read ‘The Eye’ as if the hero died in the first chapter and his soul then transmigrated to Smurov. Apropos of the soul – I miss you very much, my darling. Boxikins looks at me with cloudy eyes and continues not to recognize me. Here they suppose he takes me for Seryozha come back. Mother is so full of pep I’m amazed. She’s enthusiastic about ‘Christian Science’ (not nearly as much as Mrs Bliss, of course), and her asthma has gone, and her nerves are in order, so we can only very much approve it. She and E. K. prepared everything so nicely for me: the volumes of ‘The Entomologist’ were lying on my bedside table, they specially bought stamps, new nibs, paper for my letters to you, my darling. I love you. There are two couples boarding here, and also the notorious Czech woman – a rather harmless and nice old maid. The weather is terrible, the saints are crapping. In the kitchen, Mother is asking Boxikin ‘won’t he go for a walk now with Volodya?’, but he says nothing. My happiness, kisses, my sweet, my darling. Tell Anyuta that I love her very much. Keep your little ears pricked for reviews, Cossack choirs, and so on. Write to me, write, whether you are in good health, do you have pains, and all. ‘The dog can’t wait any longer,’ I can hear from the kitchen. My happiness.