I was thinking about a day and a country scene: a picture of love most beautiful.
Russian émigré poet Vladimir Nabokov had gained attention in the literary community of 1920s Berlin and caught the eye of fiercely intellectual Véra Slonim, the daughter of a publisher, who admired his work. At a spring gala, a masked Véra stalked the writer whose words had so drawn her, reciting them back to him and astonishing him with how in tune she was with his sensibilities. Two months later, in his first letter to her, he confessed, “I’m so unused to being understood…that in the first few minutes of our meeting I thought: this is a joke…” Within two years they were married, and for the next 52 Véra was his partner, lover, editor, translator, chauffeur and even bodyguard, carrying a pistol in her purse when his fame grew to infamy. Consumed with an unbearable need for her, he seemed to sense their destiny on that first meeting: “You came into my life not as one who comes to visit…but as one comes to a kingdom where all the rivers have been waiting for your reflection…”