Letters to Sartre Read online

  So we were in a fairly gay mood when Dullin’s niece — who lives nearby — arrived, kissed her uncle on the forehead, smiled to the company, and said: ‘Have you seen what the Russians have done, then?’ We had no idea. She informed us that they’d gone into Poland, which was a dirty trick.97 Thereupon, Dullin obligingly launched into a detailed description of the fate of light infantry in wartime. He put all his artistry into this, and it was so unbearable that I couldn’t restrain myself and tears came to my eyes. However, I calmed down and managed to listen to quite a number of heroic stories and varied accounts of war — but inside I was trembling with all my might.

  When we left the table, Toulouse took me for a long walk. We crossed some fields and came out at the side of a road near a little station, where we had a drink in a bistro by the roadside. There were two soldiers guarding the track, and lots of cars full of soldiers went by — there was a strong smell of war. It wasn’t like Paris, it was the very picture of the French countryside in wartime. Yet the villages were peaceful, and so beautiful at the close of the day. I felt very strongly the truth of what you once said to me — at Avignon, I think — about how precious an instant can be in the midst of tragedy. I wasn’t forgetting anything, yet nothing could destroy the loveliness of the landscape. It was really powerful, that walk with the horizon blocked and dark, and then that sky and that countryside which were not part of any sad history — which were not part of any history at all — but which existed with their own meaning, with which I was imbued as though despite myself. These are the truest and best moments, better than instants of pure distraction or moments of horror either. We talked about Toulouse’s play, which I duly praised; about Kos., for whom they are full of benevolence but without being able to do anything for her at the present time; and about their plans. They say that going to America would amount to doing a shameful bunk, and that something must be attempted in France — but it strikes them as difficult. Apparently Jouvet, with his monocle, used to assume the airs of a great leader. He said: ‘What’s needed on the radio is to raise morale. We need to put on easy, entertaining things. Claudel’s The Satin Slipper or Péguy’s Joan of Arc98 — that’s the kind of thing we need.’ We arrived home at about 7 and found Dullin rather downcast, because his calculations and projects aren’t working out well. We listened to the news and had dinner. The old woman was wearing her glasses; she was calmer than yesterday and less terrifying. At dinner we discussed Catholicism, and Dullin told me stories about priests with loose morals. He also told a charming story about the little cabaret-singer from the Vieux Colombier, who turned up in distress one day in Dullin’s and Jouvet’s dressing-room, because he said Gide and Ghéon kept cornering him with evil intentions.99 And also how, one night at the Père Tranquille in Les Halles, Gide and Ghéon had picked up two little street-arabs — and then five more had turned up, stripped them naked, and demanded a big cheque to give them their clothes back. We chatted agreeably in this way till 10 at night, and then everyone got sleepy so we went up to our rooms. That’s where I am now, finishing off my letter. I’ll add a continuation tomorrow before mailing it in Paris. My love, shall we have to go on for a very long time not living together? Even after three years, though, we’d be just the same. Only for all that time I wouldn’t really have had a life. It would be just a period of waiting — waiting for you. My love, how I long to squeeze your little arm in mine. I’m remembering — that platform in Marseilles at 5 in the morning, when I saw you appear and you smiled at me. Your love is ever-present to me, my beloved, and with it I feel strong.

  Monday

  This morning at 9 I was brought a cup of coffee. I got up and wrote a long letter to Kosakiewitch. Then I went downstairs and sat by the stove to read the first part of Shakespeare’s Henry IV, where Falstaff appears. It’s an excellent play and I enjoyed it. Dullin, with the diligence of a schoolboy, was drawing up endless projects, while Toulouse was wandering round the house in her dressing-gown. She’s wearing mourning — a pretty stylish kind of mourning, but mourning nonetheless. It was all very agreeable, but through the open window you could hear officers’ voices and whistle blasts. And I found it odd being on the side of the ‘resident’ on whom troops are billeted, whereas I picture you as a soldier in some resident’s home. We had lunch, I talked to Toulouse for quite a while, then she drove me to the station. I caught a train and it took me 2½ hours to get back to Paris. But I was reading The Hound of the Baskervilles, which was entertaining, and anyway I’m never in a hurry any more. Yet I felt rather as though I were expected in Paris, because of the letters: I found an enormous packet of them. Two were from you, dated the 13th and 14th — it’s more or less regular, you have to reckon 4 days. But I’m terribly upset that you haven’t got my letters — they’re like a real journal. Bost has received them all. There were 3 little notes from him, including one written on Saturday that has restored me to life. He isn’t yet in any danger, and he’s so humble and touching — quite astonished and embarrassed that anyone should be worried about him, and no longer even afraid of being afraid — that he brings tears to my eyes. He says he too is living from one day to the next: that he organizes a little life for himself, which works for two days out of three — or even a bit more. There was a letter from Sorokine, who’s still wiping kids, and three charming letters from Bienenfeld, who says she understands and is expecting me whenever I like. This gave me an enormous desire to see her — I’m leaving tomorrow evening.

  I came back here to write a long letter to Bost and finish off this letter for you. C. Chonez100 came up to me and asked me at length for news of you, saying that she would gladly give the lives of ten nobodies to save yours — I don’t know what the nobodies would have to say about it.

  My hand’s dropping off and I’m going to bed, my love. Till tomorrow. I’m so much with you — I want you to have my letters and feel how you’re all intermingled with me. I kiss you, my sweet little one, so tenderly and passionately.

  Your charming Beaver

  Toulouse asked for your address, so that she could write to you. And her mother gave me hundreds of messages for ‘Jean-Paul’. Toulouse was charming and nice. We’ll see something of each other this year.

  *I meant to say ‘wound’ not ‘pleasure’, but I don’t think he got any pleasure either.

  [Paris]

  Tuesday 19 September [1939]

  Most dear little being

  Just a quick note before leaving for Quimper. I’ve had a very busy day. Yesterday I was just finishing off writing to you when they ejected me brutally from the Dome. It’s odd to see how people cling on, even though the inside of the Dome is so gloomy, and how scared they are at the idea of finding themselves outside. I was a bit like that too; I didn’t like having to go home to my room, which is so inhospitable with its blue light. Yet I was gay as I walked through the streets, because of the letters I’d received. It’s beautiful — the Rue de la Gaité, pitch dark, with just a dim little blue bar here and there. I went to bed, reread my letters, and began Gogol’s Taras Bulha — which looks quite entertaining. The book fell from my hands, but I still took a long time to fall asleep. I woke at 8 feeling full of beans. I packed my bags and tidied my room — which I may not rent again, if I can find some empty flat. Then I went off to the Dome, where I read while waiting for C. Audry. The weather was wonderful -and I felt in an excellent mood. C. Audry showed up suddenly with a magnificent nickel-plated bicycle, that she’d bought on 1 September with her last few pennies. It suits her so well. She looked very sporty, with her hair in a net. She’s married to Minder — as we guessed.101 I asked her if she loved him and she said yes, but in a mild sort of way. He has been declared unfit for service and annoys her because, instead of being happy with his lot, he does nothing but moan about his luck. She couldn’t tell me anything interesting about him. Apparently your poor German teacher Katia Landau is now in a dreadful situation: she has lost her husband, who has been taken away and never set eyes on again. It also seem
s that our friend N. is very demoralized at present. C. Audry’s sister,102 on the other hand, is in fine fettle, and her husband the general knows all the right people. They’re going to stay in Paris, and perhaps J. Audry will find Kos. a job as a script-girl. I spotted Rabo, the brother of my pupil Rabinovici and admirer of Audry. It seems the preparatory classes for girls taking the École exam are being transferred to Bordeaux and Tournon, so I’ll just be having a normal Bac class. It also seems that the headmistress at C. See is complaining that she has heard nothing from me, so I’ll write to her from Quimper. C. Audry seems uneasy about what attitude to take, and is afraid of boredom and discomfort. She didn’t say anything else of interest. She told me — and Dullin had told me the same thing — that at the Hôtel Continental (where Giraudoux lives) it’s hilarious to see Jean-Pierre Aumont103 hanging about in magnificent riding-breeches. Also, some wives are apparently contriving to get right to the frontier to see their husbands. Do find out about this — after all, you’re only in the rear.

  She left me at about midday and I went to see Stépha, who’s in a state of prostration because Fernand has been having some problems — I don’t think it’s too serious. They’ve asked C. Audry and a lot of other people for help. But Stépha’s nervous — and about her mother too, who was at Lvov and of whom she has had no news. At Stépha’s I read a letter from Poupette, which painted an intriguing but gloomy picture of Saint-Germain-les-Belles and the atmosphere of baseless rumour prevailing there. I took Stépha to the Crêperie Bretonne and she told me hundreds of stories that I’ll have to repeat to you face to face. I’m noting them down so that I don’t forget anything. We had lunch, and I stayed with her for a while before calling back at the hotel, where I found a wire from Bienenfeld — who’s expecting me tomorrow morning — and a strange red letter which I’m enclosing with my own letter and which seems to be from some lunatic. There was also a note from Raoul Levy104 asking to see me, so I phoned and made an appointment with him at the Dome, to which I’m just off.

  I do so hope you’ve had my letters. Everything I live through is lived through in order to tell you about it, so that it makes a little enrichment of your own life. There was nothing from you today. I do so want you to write to me — I’ve received your letters.

  The deputy manageress of this hotel 4s hateful. I no longer like the Hôtel Mistral, and am rather thinking of moving when I get back.

  Goodbye, my love, I’ll add a note when I’ve seen Levy, in case he tells me some entertaining stories. I’m a bit apprehensive about the journey this evening, because Stépha took 30 hours to get here from Marseilles. When shall I be in Quimper? My letters will take a long time arriving from there. But if only you had all the others!

  I’ve just seen Levy, very sweet, but he told me nothing entertaining. He says that Kanapa is well, and that they’re both contemplating their future lot philosophically. Lamblin, it seems, is less satisfied. I must hurry to the station. I kiss you passionately, my love.

  Your charming Beaver

  I’ve had your little letter of the 15th. Thank you.

  [Quimper]

  Wednesday 20 September [1939]

  My love,

  I found your little letter yesterday, when I called back at the hotel to pick up my luggage. How I do hope the mail orderly has brought you my twelve letters awaiting delivery, and that you can feel me living with you. This letter will take a longtime to arrive, and from now on I shan’t have any of yours for a long while. Yet I’m glad to be here. I’m writing to you from a cafe on those quays where we used to walk together on rainy days.1051 can remember it well. I haven’t yet rediscovered that big dining-room painted by the blind painter, but I’m going to look for it. It was a real wartime journey last night, even though the train wasn’t late. I went to catch my train on that kind of big open-air terrace you climb up to through a gate on the Avenue du Maine. There were 50 carriages, all crammed with passengers and above all with suitcases, filling the racks to bursting point. I found myself a seat in a compartment containing eight women and one man. The night-light was so dim that I barely managed to read Taras Bulba for half an hour, virtually ruining my eyes in the process. Sleeping too was more or less impossible, because of the talking, the heat, and the shortage of room. Feeling quite numb, I dozed — undisturbed but a bit sickened by those women, who really were coming it strong. The two who were with the man were carrying huge bundles of silverware, and they never stopped telling fantastic stories about spies. They probably suspected the presence of hordes of spies on the roofs and axles of the train, since they were ever on the lookout for sounds and smells. ‘I saw a flash’, one would say with a shudder. ‘What’s that smell? There’s a funny smell’, would say another. And the whole compartment would hold its breath. We were next to the WC, and every time the toilet-lid was raised with a bang the people all trembled, convinced there was going to be an explosion. I don’t know whether the brakes were in a bad state or the driver incompetent, but the stops were violent and abrupt. At the first of them, a woman was almost taken ill — thinking there’d been a derailment — and had to be comforted with cold tea. A fellow in a nearby compartment actually did get a suitcase on his head and had to be taken off on a stretcher. Once an hour, a madman looking just like a schoolteacher would come and gibber away about how his mission was to comfort the world, and about how Hitler’s head would soon be cut into six pieces. I dozed, and was full of poetry despite everything. I’ve never been so accessible and poetic as since the war began — because I’m less in my life and more in things, I think. But I also thought about my life, with enormous satisfaction: it’s pleasant to have behind you. I worry much less about happiness than before. Or, at least, it strikes me that happiness was for me a privileged way of grasping the world, like a symphony performed by the best orchestra; and if the face of the world itself has changed, the importance of happiness disappears. I’m explaining rather badly, because my head’s still woozy after that sleepless night, but you can see what I mean. In the darkness I passed through Angers, where I’m hoping to stop on the way back (I’ve written to That Lady about it), and Nantes, where on a shop front I saw the words ‘House of the True Beaver’106 — I’ll unmask the imposter! Then gradually daylight came, disclosing an ugly countryside and those squat, grey Breton churchtowers we don’t much like. I was glad to see the countryside again, and to have to adapt myself to a new way of living. Glad to see B. too — albeit in a mild way. I found her on the platform, all pretty and tragic. Her mother made a dreadful scene this morning because of my arrival. She claims she has found some letter, which she’s getting ready to send to the ministry to cause trouble for me. But countless signs indicate that she hasn’t found anything. Moreover, my letters were passionate but not compromising, so I’m unworried. But B. was very much on edge. She told me how things are for her here — you already know from her letters, it’s really hateful. She has found me a charming room in an old hotel of the Petit Mouton type. I spruced myself up again somewhat, then we took a stroll through the town, which is very agreeable. It’s full of coaches and I’m counting on making lots of excursions — and first of all to the Pointe du Raz — but her mother’s going to be a damned nuisance.

  I lunched in an agreeable Breton crêperie, and am now writing to you while waiting for B. to come back from her own lunch. I really like her, the weather’s fine, Bost wrote me a charming, touching letter yesterday, and I’m happy. I don’t speak about you, because you’re not variable matter, you’re the base, which dulls the worst sorrows and makes joy so easily possible. Goodbye, my dear love, you’re my strength, my assurance, and the source of all good things — and you’re the most charming of little ones — and I love you in accordance with your merits, which are measureless.

  Your charming Beaver

  Grand Café de Bretagne

  Quimper

  Quimper, Thursday 21 [September 1939]

  My love,

  I’m having a good time at Quimper, it’s almost
like a country holiday. But in the evenings, once Bienenfeld has left me, things become quite gloomy again. It’s only 7.30, and since yesterday I’ve known what an evening in Quimper means — so it’s not without a certain trepidation that I note how I’m not in the least sleepy.

  As for Bienenfeld, my feelings are rather tender. She’s affecting and charming, and she was really pretty today in her print dress — the dress from her Annecy photograph. But I don’t know why, I’m cold. Perhaps it’s the fact of having got on so well with Kos. — that always harms Bienenfeld. Perhaps, too, I was expecting something more solid, but find just a little girl, rather lost, too pathetic, and disordered in her thoughts. What’s more, I’m not in much of a sentimental mood. She has no suspicion of this — she’s in seventh heaven — and, besides, I have no difficulty in being melting with her, I’m full of tenderness for her. But, my love, what barren nourishment — all these people who aren’t you! How I’d like something solid, something true!