Letters to Véra

by Vladimir Nabokov

  MY DARLING, I ADORE AND EMBRACE YOU. HOW’S THE CAPTAIN?

  V.

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [8 June 1939]

  TO: 59, rue Boileau, Paris XVI

  20, Hornton str.

  [London]

  8–VI–39

  8.30 a.m.

  My darling, I did not like your letter, it is quite off the point. I want to go on the 17th. The 20th at the latest – it’s the final limit – since I want to get hold of some first generations. Write to her. Next: 1) if I am ‘having fun’, then it’s obviously because I have time: one cannot do any special business in London on a Sunday morning. 2) Lub[r]zynsky is taking care of the play. When there’s only one copy, it is generally hard to ‘do’ anything. I’ve asked him in any case to get it copied 3) Mme Tyrkov was away – I couldn’t see her before today, although I’ve already talked to her on the phone 4) Grinberg gave £30. I didn’t tell you that it was for our settling permanently mais c’est toujours quelque chose. Foolish and annoying. 5) Collins didn’t need any letters from Paris, since what they wanted was precisely a personal meeting. For Englishmen, the colour of an author’s eyes can sometimes play a decisive role. 6) I wrote to Hill on Saturday – but this does not matter much 7) We should have excused ourselves from the Churches’ absolutely meaningless invitation – you don’t know what those parties are – I do. But I did write to them that ‘my wife and I will be delighted to come, if only business doesn’t keep me in London’.

  11 a.m.

  I began the letter before breakfast and was angry. Now it’s over. So, my happiness, this is what my day was like yesterday. Mme Tsetlin apparently has already talked to some people. I have to call on her again on Monday. Then I will know for sure how much we can count on when we get here (besides Grinberg’s, which of course I’ve not told anyone about). At 3.30 I was already at Victoria, where I drank lemonade with Molly. She said she was willing to check all my work in future too and so on, which is very sweet, vu that nothing has yet come of the play. At 5.45 I called in at Otto’s and together with him went to Lovat Dickson (I suddenly realized – it was his magazine that once published ‘The Passenger’). There were lots of people there – I was on form – this sounds silly, but that’s how I felt – spoke with Lovat for more than an hour (he’s reading Sebast. for Macmillan), and everything went very well, the final response will come in a day or two. A new theory of literary creation flashed into my mind, which I immediately developed to him (however, I had already somehow thought about this: we don’t look at a painting from left to right, but we take in everything at once; that’s the principle a novel should be built upon, but because of the peculiarities of a book (pages, lines, and so on), it is necessary to read it through twice, and the second time is the real one). I had dinner with the Yakobsons. Serg. Iosif. suggested I see Thomson (in the committee for protection of Science and Learning), who has brought from America ‘8 places for Arians’. I’ll see him. I hope I shan[’]t get into a mess because Collins and Macmillan are both interested in ‘Sebastian’ at the same time. I’m asking Haskell for advice on this. I had lunch at Mme Chernavin’s and this afternoon probably will go to Fox Film Co., where as I was told they need readers; dinner at home, then to Mme Tyrkov’s. This is beginning to bore me – especially after your letter. But I love you tremendously.

  I KISS MY MITEN’KA.

  V.

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [9 June 1939]

  TO: 59, rue Boileau, Paris XVI

  [London]

  9–VI

  My darling, my love, so, five more days and I’ll be back. The more I think about it, the more I want to leave Paris on the 17th. Please let us not go to the Churches’! It’s insanely far! It’ll be wildly boring! It’ll rain. I won’t establish any ‘contacts’ there anyway. I implore you! This morning I was awoken by an unusually lively dream: Ilyusha (I think it was he) walks in and says that he’d been informed by phone that Khodasevich ‘has ended his earthly existence’ – word for word. Yesterday morning I was at (and then had lunch there) Mme Chernavin’s. Got a translation, – a scientific article about determining the age of the mouse Mus flavicollis from its bones – 30 pages of small print. I took it, because, after all, it works out at 7 and a half pounds, but I have to finish it in four days. I sat down to work around two in Kensington Park and then (when the sky clouded over) continued at home – I did almost a third – wildly hard and painfully written 5+10+30+7½ ... . Then I went to Fox Film Co., a very nice lady said that they constantly need readers in Russian and French, she took down my address, etc. I continued the mouse, had dinner at home, then went to see Mme Tyrkov. As she’d already told me, she went to inspect cottages rented for refugees’ needs 5 hours from London, but she says it’s horrible there, earthen floors, damp, everything is beggarly – she wouldn’t dare place E. K. and Rostik there. Now she’ll make efforts to settle them in a Russian dorm here, where conditions are much better. She thinks something will come of this and overall she was very cordial.

  Today I got letters from Hill (nothing useful), from Birch (I’ll see him). I’ll occupy myself with the mouse till 1, then lunch at Eva’s, at 3 – no, Gubsky is tomorrow – it’s Struve today. At 8 I’ll have dinner at Politzer’s. I have had enough, I want my work. Vera Markovna is enchantingly sweet, meticulously attentive – charming! Two days ago, in a wild rush between Lee and Lovat, in fierce heat, I sweated so much that in despair I walked into a chemist’s, asked for talc-powder and an old lady there said: you are the third gentleman today who wants me to sprinkle his back – she sat me down on a chair and began to sprinkle talc down my collar. My darling, I am afraid I’ll find you very tired and stressed. Let’s send the Churches to the chort – please! It’s quite cool today. I keep thinking what to bring you. Would you like gloves? Size? Or shorts? Waist? Or does none of this make any difference?

  I hope to bring around 60 p. total. I adore you, I kiss you so.

  DO YOU MISS ME, MY HAPPINESS? I WILL BRING A WONDERFUL AIR BALLOON ... JUST KIDDING!

  V.

  Thank you, my life, for your marvellous little letter, I will reply to the little boy tomorrow.

  I beg you to leave no later than the 20th. I wrote to her I think on the 23rd, but write to her again. I love, I love, I love.

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [10 June 1939]

  TO: 59, rue Boileau, Paris XVI

  22, Hornton str.

  [London]

  10–VI–39

  10 a.m.

  My beloved darling,

  Yesterday morning I worked on my mouse – tortuous work, I am sorry I took it, but I have to finish by Tuesday. Then had lunch at the Lutyens’; he is the subtlest and nicest of men, and in intelligence and flair many heads taller than his wife. She believes that the grant problem will be resolved before my departure – but I don’t think so. In any case I finally reached the ‘literary fund’. From there, I went to Struve’s, who had written about me to Thomson to that very same Union for Protection I’d applied to before; but now after my candidacy at Leeds and Pares’s efforts, I have a chance of getting the same kind of loan there as the young wooden Frank. From there, I went to have dinner at the Politzers’, where there were the Haskells, Waldman and his wife, and the well-known bookseller Buchanan (who got plastered in the course of the evening and talked utter poppycock). Waldman (Collins’s partner) invited me to the final discussions on Tuesday. Apparently we are talking about a contract. He very much liked La Course du Fou; it seems to me they want both books, the second in my translation. Politzer begged me to have nothing to do with baroness Bugbear or Bedbug (as he calls her), since her reputation sinks the books that he places. Haskell has composed a letter, which je suis sensé to send to Otto Theis (her partner). And in fact my discussion with her had only been about offering the book to Chatto and Windus (and I thought that Otto had introduced them). That he would simply go on placing the book and is now already offering it to Macmillan (Lovat Dickson) wasn’t envisaged at all. Al
l this isn’t very pleasant – although everyone consoles me that all writers find themselves in such situations.

  This morning I am going to Frank Birch, a rather famous man, about the Foreign Office. Then lunch with guests at the Haskells’, and then I’ll go to the Gubskys’. In the evening, the theatre. Between the Gubskys and the theatre I’ll translate. My love, how I adore you today, and my little one, my little one ... Get your little teeth seen to, I don’t want to postpone our departure. Overall, the horizon’s got a bit rosier – a delayed shade ... Well, three more days, and I’ll be back. By the 20th I can perhaps write the essay for Rudnev, it’s ready in my head. And it’s time to start the new book. And to kiss you, my enchantment.

  THANK YOU FOR THE BUTTERFLIES, MY DARLING, AND FOR YOUR LETTER. I WILL BE BACK SOON!

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 2 PP.]

  [11 June 1939]

  TO: 59, r. Boileau, Paris 16

  [London]

  11–VI

  midnight

  My love, when the value determines the actuality or non-actuality of the difference between the average of 2 samples ... etc., etc. – thirty thickly-packed pages of that stuff. I have only five left to do.

  Yesterday morning I called on Frank Birch, whom, it turned out, I had met more than once in Cambridge! He took a copy of my papers, proposed to make more and send them out to a list of persons he composed right away – so I could get a job at the Foreign Office. He was awfully sweet and said about my papers that they are ‘quite formidable’. I had lunch with six people at Haskell’s, then went to see the Gubskys, spent an hour there and by four had already sat down to this thrice-cursed translation, working till half-past eight, when we went to the theatre – an idiotic revue, very topical, terrible poshlost, and then we had supper at home. I played tennis at the club this whole morning, it was very jolly and pleasant, lunched there too, then visited Lourie and at five again glued myself to the translation. I worked without a break till 9.30, when they called me to supper. Vera Mark. was not there, but Haskell brought over ‘a little dancer’ – very pretty, with heavy legs and awfully shy. He was very proud at the theatre last night, because he was mentioned in one of the sketches: ‘our Arnold’. Straight after supper, I carried on working and am now totally exhausted. I hope to finish this tomorrow morning, then go to Aunt Baby, then lunch at Mme Tsetlin’s, then Thomson, then dinner at the Harrises’. I am very, very tired. It seems that two letters are flowing into one, since I usually write in the morning, but today I’ve already described two days, my happiness. Tomorrow evening will be the last letter from here. One of my tennis partners was Fulda’s son, the old man lives in Merana. I adore you and I can’t wait to return. There’s a lot that has to get resolved over the last two days, although it’s already clear that 1) we can get through the summer no trouble and 2) we come here in October. Lots of kisses, my sweet darling.

  AND HOW IS YOUR LITTLE SCHOOL, MY LITTLE ONE? I AM COMING ON WEDNESDAY. IT’S A RHYME. I LOVE YOU AND YOUR MUMMY.

  V.

  [ALS, 1 p.]

  [12 June 1939]

  TO: 59, rue Boileau, Paris XVI

  [London]

  12–VI–39

  7 p.m.

  My love, I’ve been so overburdened with work and errands today that I’ll have time to write you only a few words. I’ve spoken about Rostik to many people, but it is impossible in many cases to mix these two plans, i.e. searching simultaneously for a job, etc., and asking to settle a nephew. Two people told me: ‘Set up your son first’. In any case the question of our (first my, then your) move here has been settled. Mme Tsetlin promises to find the £100 needed for the first three months. I’ve just finished my translation and am taking it to Mme Chernavin tomorrow; Collins is tomorrow as well. No later than the 25th, my joy, remember! Or I’ll go alone (Oh? So. Please – you can go completely on your own …) I am kidding, my dear happiness, and I love you very very much.

  AND YOU, MY DARLING, MEET ME AT THE STATION ON WEDNESDAY AT FIVE FORTY-FIVE.

  V.

  1941

  ____________________

  [ALS, 4 PP.]

  [postmarked 18 March 1941]

  TO: 35 West 87th Street, New York City

  WELLESLEY COLLEGE

  WELLESLEY, MASSACHUSETTS

  My darling,

  I’ve just received yours with the sweet postscripts from miss W. and L. and with Miten’ka’s Chinese scribbles. Mansvetov is a fool and a scoundrel. I had a feeling that he, the philistine, would take fright. I love you. Boris Vasilyevich knows Borodin well, says that his face is rather like a swarthy backside and that he is a dark, pitch-dark character, all but a Communist provocateur, and for his boorishness was given a sharp kick out of the firm where they’d both been working. But how will you do without that 50 from Mansvetov? Any day now the editor of the ‘Antlantic’ should get in touch with me, maybe he will take a piece, and then I’ll immediately send you something. If there’s a reply from New Rep., send it on, I’d like to write an article here, lots of free time and a wonderful quiet room. At the Bogoslavskys’ I found an ebbing wave of people (two or three American couples and a, rather pretty, Russian girl, whom Boris obviously fancies), played chess with him and thoroughly prepared my first two lectures. Went to bed early, took Bellofolit and almost immediately something unbelievable began in my stomach (all day till then I had had something weighing on my stomach, although I hadn’t eaten any rich food) – and on top of that, wild shivering, fever, a temperature of forty to judge by the pulse, and nausea. The house was asleep, the rising wind bursting through the chinks in the window (so that the curtain was behaving as if the window were wide open), and my condition was such that I was already thinking with horror how tomorrow I would telegraph to Wellesley that I couldn’t come. Piled on myself everything warm that I could get hold of and having finished the lectures (which already seemed nightmarishly useless) went to sleep around four a.m. In the morning woke up in soaked-through pyjamas ideally healthy, with a long-forgotten lightness in my stomach, which I still have. What was the matter? I think it was a real crisis, since the contrast between the night and the morning was utterly stunning – so stunning that I’ve got from it a rather marvellous thing that will go to fertilize one place in the new ‘Gift’. And besides I love you, my darling, I’m kissing your little liver, and want so much for you to get well soon. Yesterday, as soon as I was ready, Boris Vas., who of course could not drive me in his car, informed me that actually in ten minutes the most, and the only, convenient train to Boston was leaving – and how I made it, I don’t know. It took five hours or so, with many nonchalant transfers (Wellesley is one of the stations forming the idea of Boston), but I was feeling so wonderfully well that I just enjoyed the trip. Here the landscape is lovely, with hills and a lake, and college buildings reminiscent of Cambridge. B r e a k f a s t at 7.30, in a no-smoking common room. I sit at a separate table with five old-maid professors, and – what was her name, the owner of the Antibes house – with Miss Kelly who looks a lot like her, but who is very sweet. All utterly charming and comfortable.

  Between today’s two morning lectures (Russian Novel, XIX century and Short Story Gorky-Chek[h]ov) they hauled me off, naturally, to look over the treasures of their library, all sorts of first editions and tattered folios, which always make me queasy. But the very round little holes made by a worm in the first translation of Euclid, tiny holes as it were illustrating the rather less perfectly presented theorems, pleased me by their subtle mockery: ‘can do better’. The lady librarian rather misunderstood my delight and dragged me off to the department of Italian manuscripts.

  The lectures went very well. Miss Perkins (whom I twice called Miss Pinkley), a roundish, slightly Jewish-looking spinster, was there and was, I think, satisfied. The girls are all sporty-looking, down gloves everywhere, lots of pimples and lip colour, very pleasant all in all. Karpovich called, will go to see him on Saturday.

  Am kissing you my d
ear love, be fit and strong, as my exile used to write.

  V.

  ____________________

  [ALS, 4 PP.]

  [19 March 1941]

  TO: 35 W 87, New York City

  19 III 41

  My beloved darling,

  Good news: today, the editor of the ‘Antlantic’ called me from Boston – We are enchanted with your story, it is just what we have been looking for, we want to print it at once, and much more sweet talk. He asked for more and more. On Monday I’ll have lunch with him in Boston. I wrote to Pertzov about this. It’s made an impression here – a very lucky break.

  And that’s not even mentioning the lectures. Every time (‘The Proletarian Novel’ yesterday, and today was ‘The Soviet Drama’) there are more people and applause, and praise, and invitations, and so on. Both of my chaperones, Perkins and the very sweet Kelly, beam. How are you, my love? Write. I do not know yet how much the Antlantides will fork out – but the preliminary compliments should somehow be reflected in the lengthening of the figures on the lake of the price. I love you very much. Tomorrow’s a free day, I’ll polish the next lectures, on Saturday at 2 I am going to Karpovich’s, will be back on Monday by 6. It’s warmer today, the snow more sugary, the sky has a Menton tone, and everywhere in the building the sun is trying to draw circles or squares. Et je t’aime. I feel onderful (I had the cigarette holder between my teeth) – I feel wonderful, smoking less, because it’s not allowed in most rooms here. I have written to Miss Ward, Chekhov, Dasha, Natasha, Lisbetsha. Today, I lectured in an especially large and full hall with an organ and a pulpit.