Letters to Véra

by Vladimir Nabokov

  My love, my triumph, elder-bush means not ‘a bush that is older’ but elder; but still, have it your way, we will send from Berlin as soon as I get back (on the 23rd au plus tard); I will write to him – to Long, that is, as you advise. Around fifty tickets for the French evening in Brussels have already been sold at ten Belgian Semyon Lyudvigoviches each, and the evening at the club will also bring in something – so for our dear Grigory Abramovich it’s very much worth it to go there. And here Grigory will read in French on the 21st – Doussia and Marcel and du Boz have been corralled by the energetic Raisa, while I have Supervielle and Jaloux. I am waiting for a letter from Struve, about the London performance: the ‘Society of Northerners’ wants to organize it – very cultured gentlemen. After numerous unsuccessful attempts I’ve finally arranged a meeting with Lyusya (on Friday). There, I think, are all the answers to the questions in your last little letter.

  On the ninth I had lunch at Rudnev’s with Kerensky and Vishnyak, and in the afternoon met with Roche – we drank chocolate at the hotel – I think he is a little gaga. He wants ‘Despair’ for some new magazine, and is asking me to translate into Russian his own novella which he, for family reasons, cannot publish in French! But first of all I will give (tonight – today is Wednesday, I think – yes, Wednesday – so, today) ‘Despair’, which has just arrived, to Marcel, and on Friday I’ll give Roche a Russian copy. At the evening here there was a good crowd (the writers were represented by Bunin, Aldanov, Berberova), and I read ‘Lips to Lips’ and then poems. We split up late – and automatically all gathered again at a café, so that we got home God knows when. We had quite an entertaining argument with B. about Tolstoy. How he, Bunin, looks like a wasted old tortoise, stretching its old sinewy grey neck with a fold of skin instead of an Adam’s apple and chewing something and waving its dull-eyed ancient head!

  On the tenth I was with the Fierenses at the Jalouxs’: crystal, a whippet, a Negro maid, parquets, champagne for lunch. He is rather plumpish, amusing, fell off the chair trying to smash a nut with the chair leg – tu va te tuer, Edmond – his wife quietly said to this: beautiful, blue-eyed, half his age and half-Russian. The conversation was very dazzling – and in general it was thoroughly pleasant. He wants to write about ‘Camera’ and asked me to give it to him. In the afternoon I was – not for long – at Berta Grigor.’s. In the evening Sherman gave his talk about me. Adamovich (with sweet little eyes) and Terapiano (very repulsive to look at) directed devoted speeches at me. The overall tone was a mood of apotheosis, reconciliation. Sherman spoke with much wit, but overdid it a bit – too much of the good thing. Weidle is extremely agreeable. There were about twenty poets there. Varshavsky found that I resembled Stendhal. I will add him to the list of my imaginary teachers. Yesterday I had lunch at the Shklyavers’ (see my description in 1932 – it was the same, point for point – even the appetizers), in the afternoon I corrected the French ‘Pilgram’ (the translation, overall, is beautiful, but there are lots of imprecisions, although they did try very hard. It was done by Slonim and Campaux), and in the evening I went to see Vava – learned that the old man had left very insulted because neither Sovr. zap, nor Posl. nov. had asked him for his memoirs. I will talk about this with Ilya and Aldanov. Today I was at Maklakov’s; he’s almost totally deaf but very charmant (Falkovsky imitates him). I am writing four, no, in fact five screenplays for Shifr. – incidentally, Dastakiyan and I will go in a day or two to register them – against theft. Aunt Nina brought three lovely little jackets and left a note: ‘Let these little jackets warm your boy as you warmed my old heart that evening on February 8th.’ I miss you madly (and my Miten’ka) and love you, my little darling, little darling mine. I will obtain Aguet from him – from Roche – and thanks to you for the corrections and shipments. You know who called me: Eva! ‘How I regretted that I could not attend your paper (sic!).’ I declined a meeting – although it’d be very curious. I kiss my little boy. I love you, write to me soon. Greetings to Anyuta.

  V.

  ____________________

  [APCS]

  [postmarked 16 February 1936]

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

  [Paris]

  3 p.m.

  My love, I have been so rushed off my feet – a terrible mess getting a return visa here from Belgium, I wasted nearly ten hours on all kinds of prefectures. Now I am leaving for Belgium and will return here on the 18th. The evening here is on the 21st. Then I’ll return to Berlin at once. I am writing to you so briefly because I’m out of time – I’ll describe the last few days in detail from Brussels.

  I can’t tell you how I have missed you [and] my little one.

  Had lunch with Lyusya.

  Kisses, my love.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [postmarked 17 February 1936]

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

  [Brussels]

  My love, my darling, the last days in Paris were dedicated mostly to arranging my French evening. Ergaz (who has filled out a little and divorced her husband) took to this very actively and introduced me to the lady (S. Ridel) at whose home it will all take place (the little hall has room for 80). And there are also great hopes of finding a French publisher for ‘Despair’. I asked Supervielle to introduce my reading, but he said no, citing his workload and his shyness. They are now looking for another Frenchman (maybe Marcel). I was also at Roche’s. He is still charming, but awfully lacking in sense. He is ready to translate ‘Despair’ if some literary newspaper he contributes to takes it (but I’m not worried: they won’t take it, judging by the issue of the paper I was shown). But if Stock takes it, as Ergaz promises, I’d have to give it to her to translate – she wants to very much. I’m not all that keen. Now imagine me twice visiting government departments, twice waiting there for three hours each time, then putting together a request with Raisa’s help, then twice visiting (an hour each time) the prefecture and finally receiving the return visa to Paris. I was twice at the Belgian consulate, too, where at long last they gave me only a transit visa, so at the risk of being late for the reading I had to get off at Charleroi (the train didn’t go through Brussels) and switch to the electric train – anyway, I will tell you the details in person. The evening at the Fierenses’ (‘Pilgram’ and ‘Aguet’) was very stylish and successful, about 50 there, and they proposed I send the king a copy of ‘Pilgram’, since he’s interested in butterflies. Yesterday I had dinner at Masui’s (where there was an 1872 Burgundy lying fast asleep in its bottle), and then I read at the Club – first ‘Mlle O’ and then ‘A Russian Beauty’ – to a full hall. Today lunch at the Hellenses’, then tea at Auntie Fierens’, the most intelligent and sweet little old lady, who has seriously decided to tackle our moving here. Now (Monday, 8 p.m.) the twenty people Zina invited will start to flow in. Elle est plus ange que jamais. Kirill is preparing for a chemistry exam and behaving well. It’s very hard for me to write on this paper – especially with nothing to put underneath. I will do all you write me about, my dear joy! I dreamt that my little boy was sick and stepped out of the dream as if out of hot salted water. I love you. Thousands of little trifles are getting through the holes in this sweep-net letter, I’m writing to you only about what’s more or less important; I’ll tell you about the ambience of good will, to put it modestly, after I come back. You would have liked Hellens awfully! He’s Belgium’s leading writer, but his books earn him nothing.

  I think that my little darling is already sleeping. I love you. Tomorrow (18th) I return to Paris and right after the evening there, to Berlin. I received an offer to come back at Easter to give a lecture here about Russian literature, with my trip paid for first class. I do not doubt that either in Paris or here Grishen’ka and his family could settle down, but one has to decide on the move. I love you very much. The little puppy has grown up a bit, chews everything, adorable. What would I have done without my wonderful brunette – the black su
it. But I could have left the blue jacket behind. I love you madly and miss you madly.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [postmarked 19 February 1936]

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

  [Paris]

  My sweet love, my happiness, you know, the novel will have a different name – I am adding one letter to its original title and from now on it will be called ‘The Gift’. Good, isn’t it? I am having a terrible muse itch; I could plunge now into my private abyss – not to mention how much I want to work my way through ‘It is me’ and ‘Despair’ again. Last night I had a good trip back to Paris. The gathering at Zinochka’s (two days ago) was very jovial – by the way, I got lots of addresses to send tickets to (here). Yesterday morning Zinochka and I went to buy a few little things – I am afraid someone’s going to scold me. Grigory Abramovich has left the excess with her too, but Kirill does not know about this. I like him more and more – Grigory Abramovich. Sharp, businesslike, good-looking. I confess, I came second class, but I am old, my rump’s bony, I’m tired from travelling. Again I saw the Eiffel Tower standing in lacy bloomers, with lit-up goosebumps running up her spine. And all this against the background of a marvellous sunset, addressed to God knows who and by and large utterly lost. My French reading threatens to be quite grand. The introductory speech, in front of ninety, will be delivered by Marcel (who is now busy reading ‘Despair’). My darling, this will be only on the 25th of this month, and on the 26th there is the same kind of reading, but in Russian, at the Kyandzhuntsevs’, with an admixture of Bunins and Shik, so I’ll get back on the 27th. I called Lyusya and told him this, because mon premier mouvement was to turn this all down since my visit here has now been extended, but apparently it is worth staying. Please write to me 1) Heath’s address (I have written to Long) 2) shall I give copies of ‘Despair’ to good acquaintances or should I perhaps try to sell them off at the Russian evening 3) whether you still love me.

  I have received copies of ‘Glory’ from Kovarsky. There is a fiancé for Mlle Peltenburg – arriving from the Congo, a Belgian man of Russian descent, Zina’s cousin, well-to-do and decent. I get a little annoyed by Hellens’s wife (Marsya Markovna) persistently drawing a parallel between her husband and me, right to the point that the wives are of the same nationality. But it’s true that in his wonderful ‘Naif’, which I am reading now, there is a paragraph almost literally corresponding to the place in ‘Mlle O’ where I talk about ‘fente’ or ‘barre lumineuse’ (he has ‘perche lumineuse’, which is much better!). And he, with his protruding eyes which seem to pop out from the sockets because his (morbidly sunken) cheeks are pressing on them, is very sweet.

  Irina Kyandzhu Brunst (there’s a rather banal slip of the pen) is trying with all her might to arrange an evening. She’s zealously taking German language lessons – not from a Hellene, which pleased me, while Saba keeps asking about Kirill – without realizing, by the way, his boorishness then. Zenzinov was sick for the three days I was away and is still in bed, looking terribly like (since he is entirely surrounded by books and papers and is writing something with his bony knees propped up under the blanket) the German painting ‘Arme Dichter’. There is a medallion under his pillow – Amalia’s.

  My darling, au fond we could have moved now. In a few days I think the fate of ‘Mlle O’ will become clear – I do not know whether to call Paulhan or wait for news from him. Have a look whether the middle eyelash is still longer than all the rest, as it used to be – we haven’t been looking lately. You write to Zina about his new words, but I don’t know them. My little paws. I might have lost the knack of dressing him up!

  Balmont used to wander through the streets at night, curse Frenchmen as ‘cochons’, try to find a rosette to pick, get beaten up – and his friends would go around all the police stations looking for him. Now he is in a madhouse – and shows visitors a tree in which a yellow angel sits and sings. It’s warm, drizzling, Nikolay the cat is asleep on my couch, his face buried in his tail, chewing something in his sleep, stirring a silvery whisker.

  Somehow this letter has turned out uninteresting, but I love you very much, my sweet creature, my priceless, my little darling. I would like you to come in just now. I will overstay my visa.

  My darling, Dastakiyan has come in, so I’m finishing.

  I love you.

  V.

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [postmarked 21 February 1936]

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

  130 av. de Versailles

  [Paris]

  My love,

  nothing will come of the Russian evening, so I will get out of here myself on the evening of the 26th or the morning of the 27th – I’ll let you know beforehand (for some smallish and warmish considerations of the meeting and greeting kind, I’d like to arrive in the afternoon!). The heart of the venture was Rabinovich, who turned out to be a sheer charlatan. He fussily set things spinning, directed everything, summoned the ladies, set up a ladies’ tea at the Kyandzhuntsevs’ – to which neither he nor the ladies, apart from two whom Ira knew personally, showed up. When they called him, he cited a swollen cheek and a muddled head. He even had the nerve to phone me and, without saying a word about his caddishness, invite me over. I politely declined. I have to say I had a feeling that he was a charlatan – and discouraged the Kyandzhuntsevs. Stupid.

  But the preparations for the French evening are in full swing. I enclose a ticket. The whole après-midi yesterday went on the addresses given me in Belgium. I spoke with Sofa on the phone (set up a meeting) and offered her a ticket, but she said, ‘you see, I still don’t know, the thing is I have such a bad cold (?), and besides my director …’ In the evening, when I dropped in at home to change and go to the Kyandzhuntsevs’ for dinner (Elizaveta Samoylovna’s birthday, I brought her carnations), I found a note – with traces of the excitement conveyed over the phone – that, lo, my sister-in-law asked me to call her urgently on very important business. I called, she was not there, I left the Kyand[zhuntsevs’] number, she then called there to say I must not interfere in the situation with a certain Ratner whom Sofa is going to put in prison for her debts and who ‘intends to appeal to me to influence her’. All terribly uninteresting, but so charmingly characteristic I had to describe it.

  Long writes to me today that my intention to look through the manuscript once more ‘is very wise’. About a few other points in his letter I’ll seek the advice of Lyusya, whom I’m meeting today at three. Don’t forget: Heath’s address! (I have re-read all of your letters, my love, because I thought you had already sent it to me – but no.)

  There is a virtual parade-allée of my past passions here: Katherine Berlin called, whom I will see tomorrow at Léon’s dinner. Two evenings ago (after I’d got free, with difficulty, of the very sweet, very kind, but rather importunate Dastakiyan, – having finally led him away, – … – and led him back to my place, since he accompanied me to all the shops I went into – and even to the elevator in a house I didn’t know, which I entered in desperation so as to go up to see a non-existent acquaintance, who had to be urgently abolished, when Dastakiyan, beaming through golden glasses, ascended with me), Bunin phoned inviting me to dinner – together with Ald. and Zayts. to honour Küfferle, but I declined – and am very glad that I did so.

  Oh my darling, I’ll soon see you and my tiny one – show   this to him you know, I’m already having trouble imagining him, because I demand too much from imagination, which does not yield such high interest, and I myself reject lower rates, so, for example, I cannot reproduce my little boy on the inner velvet of my eyelid – as I can successfully do with you.

  Ilyusha’s household is badly run, – I try to use it as little as I can, since each meal is an untimely and accidental product of collective fantasy – itself collected casually – so that the most modest of dinners seems an inspired improvisation. Rain today – all the netting on the cast
-iron lattice of the garden next door has identical pearls of rain, and somewhere sparrows are holding very sonorous and excited discussions. Today I will be at Khodasevich’s, and this evening at Mme Kokoshkin’s. Tomorrow, Fierens. I slept poorly after champagne at the Kyandzhun.s’, my brows ache. I’ll write to the old man now – this is an idea, isn’t it? He thought that ‘Sovr. zap.’ (which by the way will be out in a few days) or ‘P.N.’ would be interested in his memoirs, – I spoke about this with Ilyusha, but to no effect, I think. I’d have to rewrite the French ‘Pilgram’ thoroughly for the Belgian king – I like this rather silly undertaking – the grassy lawn of tradition – nice to walk on, all the same, as it was for the Shakespeares and the Horaces and the Pushkins.

  I am kissing you lots and very tenderly, my darling. Tell Anyuta to write to me! I’ve missed our home habits. But I don’t know what to say to my little one – my little darling, he’s now on his way back from his walk – he has probably grown up, just like Elli’s belly. My sweet joy.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [postmarked 24 February 1936]

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

  [Paris]

  My darling, I am happy that our boysie is well, because somehow my thoughts about him were with a dot-dot-dot of worry. The life of my German visa – that lichen on the dilapidating wall of my passport – will last till May – if it hasn’t completely disintegrated by then – I have glued it up, after they asked me at the Ministry with pained surprise (since it had split in two): ‘c’est avec ça que vous voyagez?’ I am forwarding two letters to you – the American one is very important, for, as those in the know tell me, it’s a good publisher, and generous; the Matveev proposal is a joke to which I should have replied: ‘Unfortunately this does not suit us at all. By the way – which acquaintances do you mean?’ (or maybe, indeed, I should send Matusevich to them? Think about that.) I think that we must immediately (McBride’s letter of 10-XII!) send a copy of ‘Despair’ with my Berlin address on it to America – do it, my sweetheart.