Letters to Véra

by Vladimir Nabokov

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [postmarked 4 February 1936]

  TO: Nestor Str. 22, Berlin – Halensee, Allemagne

  130 av. de Versailles

  [Paris]

  Pussykins, and here is my reply to your dear letter of the 2nd.

  I beg you, send the translation to Long without delay (enclosing or not, as you wish, the little letter I enclose here). The things noted and corrected – all of that means absolutely nothing – any Russian reader can find just as many birthmarks on any page of any of my Russian novels, and as your Englishwoman remarked, any (good) English writer allows himself just the same grammatical inaccuracies. Please, don’t upset British majors and old maids, but send to England the copy I prepared, without inserting a single one of the corrections others have made (for example: she corrected ‘compared with’ to ‘compared to’, but Douglas always writes ‘with’; and I don’t even want to talk about her prettifications). For this there’ll be an exchange of letters (and improvements suggested and finally approved by me) between their reviser and myself. Please send it right away. I am writing to Long.

  Now here’s something for you: I have a great hope of placing ‘Despair’ here, and Marcel would like to read the English translation – this would greatly speed up and simplify everything. Maybe, my sweet, with Zyoka’s help you could transfer the corrections from mine (except those five pages that I am keeping) to the copy and send it to me as soon as possible (and I could send this copy from here, after Marcel has acquainted himself with it, to Alta Gracia). This is very important I think.

  Don’t forget to send me a copy of ‘Mlle O’, since I have arranged to meet Supervielle on Friday and would like to give it to him then. Raisa on the other hand is energetically trying to arrange a permanent job for me with a French newspaper (literary and theatre criticism).

  My darling, how I miss you. My happy love. The little boy is now taking his bath (how do you manage?), my little darling. I saw a very red-haired B.G. yesterday and went for a walk with her along the boulevard, and in a day or two will visit her in the evening. Then I went to Editeurs Réunis (not on editorial business, but to see Parchevsky). Then I met with Mme Tatarinov and we discussed all sorts of things. In the evening there was a poets’ meeting here: I think I made a mistake – Sherman’s talk is next Monday – and yesterday Berdyaev gave a talk, interrupted by his own tongue. Alfyorov, Sofiev, Knut are very sweet and young. (The last of these looks more like a Hindu – small and crooked-legged – than a Jew.) Terapiano, greying, with a dark puffy face. Weidle, looking like Chichikov. Fedotov, quiet, slightly Asiatic. Sharshun, inarticulate, a chatterbox, – talked terrible drivel in a conversation with me. Yanovsky – curly, blond-haired, a belated enfant terrible. Mother Maria with two teeth. The poetess Chervinsky, a lippy, white-faced, painfully long girl with dark eyes and a lace collar over her entire bosom. Mochulsky – smiling, like Hepner in looks. Zenzinov was there, like Pushkin’s nanny, Ilya was the chair, and Sherman the secretary. The talk was ‘dedicated’ to a philosophical analysis of the line: ‘a thought once uttered is untrue’, but it turned out that a thought once uttered is prattle. I had a busy and boisterous day today, but I’ll describe it next time. Oh my joy, my sweet enchantment, my angel.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [postmarked 6 February 1936]

  TO: Nestor Str. 22,

  Berlin – Halensee, Allemagne

  130 av. de Versailles

  [Paris]

  My life, my joy, I have had a very warm and high-powered talk with Marcel – he’s cheerful, dancing, but also clumsy, with the faux air of Aykhenvald– and I can’t wait to give him the English ‘Despair’ to read; what’s more, he is terribly alléché, as he sweetly puts it, by the epigraph to ‘Invitation’. He won’t keep ‘Despair’ for long. I will talk about the translation itself with Roche on Sunday (although another, livelier, translator would have suited me much better). The Fierenses arrive tomorrow, I will have dinner with them, but in the morning I’ll talk with Jules Supervielle about ‘Mlle O’. In Brussels the French evening is on the 15th or the 17th, and the Russian on the 16th. My darling, I am very sorry to pile postal duties on to you, but I really need ‘The Eye’ in French, so that if you could send to Zina straight away that volume of Œuvres libres, that would be great (but hold on – I’ll try to get one from Roche on Sunday, so wait, I’ll write on Sunday), and yet I absolutely need a copy of ‘Mlle O’ here – and ‘Despair’. I’ll give Shklyaver a call, I hope to get Sofa’s address from him, but first I’ll look over your letters, maybe you wrote it down for me. I think not.

  I went to Nina’s. Plus belle – osait-on dire. Her husband is stocky, with big ears, of the ‘Russian American’ type, they live in a marvellous studio-like apartment. She says that all the pederasts were up in arms when they found out she’s writing a life of Chaikovsky, their bum-buddy. She flashed her teeth, her eyes, her legs; but, all in all, something was not right – perhaps because her husband was present (one Makeev, the first husband of Osorgin’s first wife). From there, having a free après-midi, I went to Le Cerf at the museum. There, that is, in the wonderfully cosy and for me agonizingly agitating entomological laboratory, they received me with the kind of warmth, to tell the truth, I’d only dreamt of. Le Cerf showed me his latest discovery – still unpublished (the muscle moving the unusual jaws, already noted by Chapman, of a Micropteryx pupa and in front the rudimentary third pair of little wings – their tiny casings – a very ancient thing, from Carboniferous times). And a new species of Ornithoptera, just received, the male of which has on its yellow (hind) wings a remarkable aquamarine sheen, not encountered in a single one of the known species … And an aberration of rumina – a unique specimen from Algiers, without the red spots and laughably like a Melitaea … And a collection of Parnassians … It was great, and if I lived here, I’d come every day and perhaps be set up there like Kardakov in Dahlem. Just think – Le Cerf worked with Oberthür.

  Sarah photographed me (revoltingly, it seems), and then, with the old man, we set off for Aldanov’s. There by the way I spoke with an Englishman (I don’t know, rather lispy– but also rather funny), Haskell – remember, he wrote a book about ballet. Gubsky is his secretary; and there is also one Malcolm Burr, who apparently loves my work, a great connoisseur of Russian literature. I took careful note of all of this – and generally secured the ‘connection’ (nothing of real value, I think). He was with a pretty ballerina, a complete nincompoop. Loads of people showed up at the Aldanovs’; and again I had a longish – and rather laboured – conversation with a gloomy (Galina has left him!) Bunin. You know whom I liked much better than last time: Zaytsev. Unfortunate, jolly, red from wine, defenceless, tormented by Khodasevich.

  Yesterday I had lunch with Shifrin at Dastakiyan’s – very nice, large family – and today at five I’ll meet with Shifrin again. Then I went to Marcel’s with Raisa. Then out to the Kolomeytsevs’ and found them the same as always, although she’s already past 75. Nika had an affair with Grunelius in his youth. Aunt Nina is au courant with my writings, in detail, through Léon (whom I plan to see). At Aldanov’s soirée and in general no matter where I am – the boy’s photograph does the rounds of everyone there. I will probably get back in the afternoon of the 20th. My darling, do you remember me? And he, my little one? I just physically miss certain sensations, the wool of the breeches’ straps, when I unbutton and button them up, the little ligaments, the silk of the crown at my lips when I hold him over the potty, carrying him up the stairs, the circuits of a current of happiness when he throws his arm across my shoulder. Don’t forget to tell me whether I should send the books to Mother. I have written to the publisher. It is such a pleasure to hear how Sherman ‘interprets’ ‘Invit. to a Beheading’ – after all, interpreters usually only irritate me. I love you, my joy. Don’t forget all my requests. I will arrange a rest for you when I get back.
Kiss the teeny weeny one. I still want to write Anyuta a long letter, I have lots especially for her.

  I kiss you, my adorable one.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [postmarked 8 February 1936]

  TO: Nestor Str. 22, Berlin – Halensee, Allemagne

  130 av. de Versailles

  [Paris]

  My love, what is this, why don’t you write?

  Today I have a reading and a cold. It’ll be hard to read, I think. I called Lyusya, didn’t get him, told them to pass on my telephone number Aut. 19-42. I spoke with Sofa [dear Anyutochka, this is for you. Here’s how the conversation went. I’d begun by writing to her, and the telephone conversation too started from there – that she has, so to speak, a complimentary ticket. And then, embellishing her voice with a slight nasality and other tracery she took to explaining to me at length that, ‘you see’, she has important business with the director on Saturday evening and so does not know ‘whether she can get out of it’, but could I, ‘just in case’, leave the ticket for her, as she would be very happy, of course, to come, if ‘she can after all’. I said: Sofa, decide now, because there are plenty of takers for a free seat. She suddenly got flustered, pretended she’d just remembered something, and said: anyway, I’ll most likely be there. You know what, leave it for me at the ticket office.] I phoned Shklyaver, too, will call on them on Tuesday. Spoke for a whole hour with Shifrin in his office (huge nose, white eyelashes, puny, a pearl in his tie), and we agreed that I’ll prepare a screenplay for him; he has explained his requirements to me in detail. I’ve already thought up something: the story of a boy, a king’s son; his father is killed, just like in Marseilles, and he becomes a king – a Swiss tutor, et tout ce qui s’en suit. Then there is a revolution and he returns to his toys and his radio – it sounds rather flat, but one can make it very entertaining. Generally there’s such a wild stirring in the portion of my brain in charge of muses, music and museums, such an itch, that I think I’ll just write a story if I have even a single free day. My happiness, I love you. Zyoka writes that my little boy is talking a lot. I don’t believe he exists, maybe it was all a dream, it’s torture how much I want to feel him. Yesterday morning I was at Supervielle’s, he’s aged a lot, his nose has winey veins; we had a very friendly talk and he immediately got in touch with Paulhan about Mlle O. It turns out that Hellens – he’s so kind – had already written to him about the same thing. At three I was already at the N.R.F. with my manuscript (having transferred the corrections to a separate page, so that I could write them in again when you send me another copy. Now I am left without everything, but I need to read it in Brussels). When I came, he wasn’t there yet, but when he appeared he came in with Remizov, who had caught him on the stairs. Remizov looks like a eunuch and also like a chess figure already captured (do you see my point: it stands barely askew on the edge of a little table, immobile and sharply outlined). Fattish, short, in a tightly buttoned-up coat. He was very sweet with me. I explained to Paulhan everything I needed to about ‘Mlle O’ and gave him the manuscript. If he doesn’t take it (we agreed that he would give me an answer by the 14th), I’ll pass it on to Fayard. From him I went to Slonim’s and there got the manuscript of ‘Pilgram’ in French. If you also send me ‘The Eye’ in French, I’ll have ‘rich material’ for the evening in Brussels. I had dinner yesterday (and what a dinner!) with the saintly Fierenses who had already sold forty tickets. We had a very genial conversation, he told wonderful stories. Today we met again at du Bos’s, and on Monday will have lunch at Jaloux’s. The conversation with Slonim was long, affectionate, but rather pointless. He introduced me to a man called Wallace from a Zurich newspaper. So, as things stand now: on Saturday the 15th the French reading in Brussels, on Sunday the 16th lunch at the critic Melo du d’y’s (there’s a name for you!), and the Russian reading in the evening. Zina rushed it a little in terms of time, I myself wanted to stay here till the 18th, since Mme Bataud (through Mme Tatarinov) is ready to organize a French evening for me here, and meanwhile the hall in Brussels is already booked and so on (but whether anything will happen after all with Bataud we don’t know). I’m much less tired than on my last visit, since I’m living in wonderful comfort. They are such darlings, Zen-Zin and Nikolay. Elena Aleksandrovna talks to them in Amalia’s voice. Write, my joy! Thank you for the two books – they have just arrived. Don’t forget to reply to me about Mother and in general (shall I bring any books from Belgium?). My darling, I kiss you again and again. I’ve been dreaming of you, my darling. Tell me what to bring for Anyuta, any little thing. My little boy is taking a walk now. The old man has been tirelessly trying to place his memoirs here.

  I love you, my happiness, my tired little one. You’ll rest when I’m back, you’ll see.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [postmarked 10 February 1936]

  TO: Nestor Str. 22, Berlin – Halensee, Allemagne

  130 av. de Versailles

  [Paris]

  My dear happiness, – so I don’t forget, for God’s sake send me ‘Despair’, I’ve set everything in motion, have to give it to Marcel as soon as possible. Forgive me, darling, for pressing you. And besides I will probably have to start getting ready for London, I’ve just received a letter from Gleb, they’re offering to pay for my trip (so far he’s only asking ‘in principle’ will I agree to come, – I’ve just replied Yes, but prefer to go at Easter, from Berlin), there will be an English-Russian appearance there. To get business over with: here they’re trying hard to organize a reading of ‘Mlle O’, but if it works out, it would be about the twentieth or twenty-first, so I will have to return here from Brussels, where I’m going on the morning of the 15th.

  Yesterday afternoon I was at du Bos’s (très catholique) and we discussed literature. He is emphatically affectionate; half English. All in all it was rather pleasant. The evening itself went perhaps even better than last time, a big crowd jammed the place (incidentally, they were jamming in while Khodasevich read, and he read a charming thing – a subtle concoction with a historical air and adorned with pseudo-antique poems). I was sitting with Bunin (in a coat and a cap, nose in his collar, he is insanely afraid of colds) and a plumper, powdered Adamovich (qui m’a fait un compliment de pédéraste ‘you look even younger than before’). After the intermission I read: 1) A Russian Beauty 2) Terra Incognita 3) Breaking the News. For me it was all a huge pleasure, a treat. I gorged myself on candy, treated my cold with ointment and my voice generally behaved itself. The old man will tell you about the applause. Then a great crowd of us went to the café Les Fontaines and drank champagne there. The writers drinking: Aldanov, Bunin, Khodasevich, Weidle, Berberova, and others. All drank to Miten’ka’s health. Across the table from Vladislav, sitting next to Nina, sat her husband, and across from Nina, his wife. Ça m’a fait rêver. It was all very jolly and lively (somehow this smacks of a schoolboy’s essay about the holidays, but I didn’t get a good sleep). Aldanov cried out that 1) ‘you despise us all, I can see through you’ 2) ‘you’re our leading writer’ 3) ‘Ivan Alekseevich, give him your ring.’ Ivan, however, stood his ground, ‘No, there’s still some life left in us,’ and addressed Khodasevich across the table thus: Hey you, Pole. Their nimbi still on, Ilyusha and Zenzinov sat quietly at another table. We got home after three a.m. My darling, what a pity you weren’t at La Skaz – my darling, my love. The unavoidable Novotvortsev woman slithered over to me (having first sent me a note ending ‘sans rancune’. Isn’t that splendid!). Sofa sat, I think, with the old man (who was darker than a cloud). Lots of ghosts from the past – you know, that not quite sure expression in their eyes – will the present accept me? Somehow I didn’t notice Kalashnikov. Gave Denis a hug. Tenishev old boys. Ladies. V. Lolly. Poets. Khodasevich, who read first was in such a hurry (so as not to hold me up, very sweet of him) that Fondik sent him a note – slower. A full house. My love, I keep walking around in th
e letter you wrote on, on every side, I wander over it like a fly, with my head down, my love! Will write to Heath – yes, that’s correct. Berta has put the squeeze on me, I can’t wriggle out, will have to call on her. I saw Anna at the reading and had a long phone call with her. Haven’t seen Lyusya yet. Now am going for lunch at Rudnev’s. Then to Roche. Another performance in the evening, I’ll read ‘Lips to Lips’ for the ‘chosen’. My joy, how is my boy? My sweetie! This is for him.

  Kisses, my love.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [postmarked 13 February 1936]

  TO: Nestor Str. 22, Berlin – Halensee, Allemagne

  130 av. de Versailles

  [Paris]

  Sherman implores you to send him the little snapshot of the boy (the one without a coat).