Letters to Sartre Page 13
I’ve just been brought my breakfast, with a whole set of Crapouillot129 on the horrors of war — a delicate mark of attention on the part of That Gentleman, who’s overwhelming me with little favours of the kind. I’ll read that, and also War by Ludwig Renn. When I achieve faith, I’ll have a fine assortment of concrete representations to animate, so I think I’ll be up to scratch.
Goodbye, my love. The apricot preserve awaits me. On Monday you’ll have some photos of yourself and a little one of me too. I love you. I’m hoping for a letter this morning. I kiss you most passionately.
Your charming Beaver
My love, I have your letters of the 19th and 23rd — how I do love you! What you say about Bost doesn’t reassure me at all. The other day I was making some far more accurate calculations with Raoul Levy, who specializes in probabilities. In the infantry, 1 out of every 4 gets killed (on average) and as many again are seriously wounded. But the truth is, one has absolutely no idea how this war is going to be waged.
I’ve just phoned my headmistress in Paris. School reopens on the 9th. In principle, a certificate of appointment has to be signed on the 2nd — but she told me, in veiled terms, that it could be signed later. I’ll stay here till next Friday; I’m enjoying myself so much.
I began reading the ‘History of the War’ from Crapouillot, and taking notes. The brainwashing is amazingly reminiscent of today’s press, it’s quite sinister.
Fragment
[La Pouèze, Angers]
[30 September or 1 October 1939]
I’ve had a long letter from Bost, who’s still leading the same little life. Luckily he has Amsellem130, they’re inseparable. Two little letters from Bienenfeld, whose affairs seem to be being straightened out. I didn’t leave any letters lying around, and I kept my lips sealed when I was with Kos. She merely knows that I often wrote and often received letters — but that was only normal. Besides, being what she is, she certainly hasn’t stirred up any trouble with Wanda. She wrote to me just after she’d returned to Laigle: ‘Wanda’s less agitated, and is probably going to write a novel.’ But you’ve doubtless had some letters in the meantime. At all events, Kos.’s stay in Paris can’t have anything to do with Wanda’s silence.
My love, not see you until Christmas or March! It has struck me that you could easily convince Wanda that your leave lasts only for whatever time you intend to give her. As for Bienenfeld, perhaps it would be possible not to tell her you have any? I’d so like to have a long time of our life together, and see with you the people you choose to see. But I’ll do exactly as you wish, of course. My sweet little one, it shatters me to think specifically I’ll see you at Christmas’, since then I know I shan’t see you before that.
I love you — and kiss you passionately
Your charming Beaver
[La Pouèze, Angers]
Sunday [1 October 1939]
Most dear little being
There wasn’t a letter from you today — which casts rather a shadow over me. I’ve very few things to tell you. I’m living in clover here, in a kind of bemused state that’s sometimes blissful and sometimes melancholy. I read all day. Yesterday I read or leafed through a whole set of Crapouillot on the war, and also books by Rathenau, Kautsky and Pierrefeu131 unearthed from the back of bookshelves — I find it all extremely interesting. I installed myself on the sofa in one corner of the dining-room, with a lamp lit; it was raining outside, but inside there was a big fire. I was comfortable, but so dizzy with reading that it eventually gave me a headache — it’s a long time since that happened to me. In bed at night I go for a change of mood and read detective stories — though this hasn’t prevented me from having dreams about poison gas. And also a dream about Dullin, with whom I was having the most tender relations under the stern, critical gaze of Toulouse. This morning I stayed reading in bed for quite a long time: some Pierre Very, who isn’t such a bad writer (of detective stories), and L. Renn’s War — which is worthless. Then I wrote a few letters and we had lunch. Before each lunch, That Lady takes me to the cellar and I embarrassedly choose the most delicious wines: a Chambolle-Musigny the day before yesterday, and yesterday a fantastic Meursault — but this morning a Pouilly that was too old and tasted vinegary. Yesterday I went for a little drive in the rain with That Lady, taking her letters to the post. I don’t see a lot of her, but she’s charming. When I feel like it, we talk about you. We’d like — I’d like — so desperately for you to be there, drinking that good wine and talking and smiling at me. I love you. I don’t know why I’ve chosen a moment when I’m feeling down to write to you. I don’t understand anything in the papers — I can’t imagine what’s going to happen.
I wrote to my sister to come to Paris at my expense on about 8 October, so I’ll see her for a few days. Everybody tells me that I’ll have your salary — I’ll send for the Kosakiewitch sisters immediately.
Goodbye, my love. I’m going back to my books on war and peace and so on. I find it hard to bear the idea of living any longer without you. I miss you so much, I’ll just waste away and die.
Your charming Beaver
[Angers]
Wednesday 4 October [1939]
My love
Two letters from you — how happy I am! I don’t understand why I’m denied mail every other day here: I had nothing yesterday, and today I’ve had two letters from you and two from Bost. I don’t know either why yours take such a long time: Bost’s are dated the 28th and 29th, yours only the 25th and 26th. I was really gloomy when I got up: it’s fantastic the extent to which these letters have become something alive and present for me, and how abandoned I felt without mail. Now I’ve recovered my zest for life. I’m pleased to have your salary — I think I’ll send for the Kos. sisters right away on 15 October. You don’t have any taxes to pay. That’s to say, taxes are still payable in principle by those who’ve been called up, but no measures will be taken against them if they don’t pay: that’s tantamount to saying they don’t have to pay. On the other hand, I have 3,000 F. to pay on my own account. But with all that money I’ll easily be able to pay off my debts, pay the taxes, and keep alive.
I had a letter from my mother, who’s beside herself with fury because she noticed I’d gone up to her flat with Kos. and now she’s accusing me of having burgled it! She’s grumbling because I haven’t been to see them in Paris. They’re settling down at La Grillère, and my father will try to find a bit of work in Limoges. I invited Poupette to come to Paris for a few days — it’s the least I could do. This morning for the first time I really felt like being back in Paris and moving round a bit. I’ll be there tomorrow during the afternoon, and I’ll go at once to collect some dough and see my headmistress. I’m settling in at Gégé’s, 116 Rue d’Assas. I don’t know where to put the Kos. sisters. If they need two rooms — which I think they’ll insist on — I’ll certainly have to give them more than 2,000 F. per month. I’ll let you know about all that. Yesterday they came and picked me up from that cafe in Angers from which I wrote to you. Aunt Suzanne was there, still just as venomous and angry that I should be staying such a long time at La Pouèze. We took her back to her old people’s home, then returned home ourselves since it was raining dismally. I was in bed by 9, where I read some Jack London, a good adventure novel by Curwood called The River’s End, and some bad stories by Stevenson.132 This morning I started on the history of the peace. Nothing could be more depressing to read about — it’s enough to break the heart even of your average swine.
Don’t shave off your beard, I like to think of you having a fine frill of whiskers.133
I realize that I really am going to begin a year of life in Paris, that I’m going to live as usual — and that you won’t be there. It wrings my heart. I miss you desperately. You haven’t told me whether it’s crazy to try and obtain a pass to go and see you? If it’s possible, I’ll come for 1 November. I’d so like to see you, if only for an hour — just to look at you and kiss you. I love you.
Your charming Be
aver
I’m rereading your letters. One of your subtleties had escaped me, though I’ve now noted it down carefully.134 You’re a good little one, a little far-sighted one, and I love you.
Le Dôme
Paris, Thursday [5 October 1939]
My love
I’m terribly happy, because I’m almost certain I’ll be able to leave on Monday or Tuesday to visit my sister Emma.135 I was afraid they wouldn’t let me have a safe-conduct, but they were charming at the police-station and quite understood that with her bone disease the poor creature couldn’t make the journey alone, so I’d have to go and fetch her. They duly recorded my request and told me the papers would be ready perhaps by Monday evening, and in any case on Tuesday. I don’t think there’s any possibility now of their going back on it. So I’ll get there either on Tuesday morning or evening or on Wednesday morning, and hope to stay till Sunday night — seeing that the schools don’t reopen till the 16th. You can imagine my delight. On the other hand, they’re quite dreadful to the poor wives who want to go and visit their husbands at the front. They systematically refuse passes — even for Seine-et-Marne — and the soldier’s liable for punishment (if his wife does manage to join him anyway).
I made my decision yesterday morning right away, on receipt of her last letter. Yesterday morning the calm of La Pouèze suddenly became burdensome to me, and after writing my mail I felt such a desire to leave that I opened my heart to That Lady — giving her the reasons — and she was in even more of a hurry than I was to see me on my way. We spent a feverish day, and at 7 that evening they dropped me at Angers. It was dismal weather and I felt the sorrow of being separated from you so painfully that it took my breath away. I went by bus to the outskirts of town, where The Buccaneer136 was supposed to be showing, and arrived in a neighbourhood full of barracks, with tarts accosting soldiers in the darkness and tiny blue-windowed bistros crammed with troops. It was so intimidating that I wandered for a long while along the dark avenues without daring to go in anywhere, though eventually I did sit down — surrounded by soldiers — while waiting for the cinema to open. It didn’t open. There were only daytime performances. I returned through the streets on foot, wrote a letter to Bienenfeld from the cafe of my hotel, then went to bed and slept very badly, tossing and turning. Apart from dark fear for others, I know nothing more disagreeable than a certain kind of hope. That’s my present condition, and I don’t know how I’ll be able to stand it for several days. I caught a train at 7 in the morning and arrived at noon. It was a fine day, we passed through green countryside, and on the way I saw St Cyr again, my love, and that little station where I so often left you — how I did love you in that train!137 Little Bost writes me charming letters, but I can’t really manage any longer to harbour tender feelings for him. My love for you has laid everything waste — a real tornado. I’m hard and unfeeling, with just a great blaze of passion for you. I called in at Rue Cels and Rue d’Assas, where I found shoals of letters. I’d been so farsighted regarding the instructions I left for my mail, that I didn’t miss a thing and had everything as quickly as possible: letters from Sorokine, so wretched that I’m going to let That Lady take her in — she can’t go on like that; a very nice little letter from Kosakiewitch; a letter from Bienenfeld, disappointed not to have seen me again in Paris, but very passionate and sweet; a letter from my sister, disappointed that I didn’t go to the Limousin, and who hid my trip to Brittany from Lionel because he’d have been too hurt by it; some little letters of no interest from former pupils; two letters from Bost, one written when he was plastered; and three letters from you. My love, they’re so tender, so close — like a true presence. They overwhelmed me with passion for you. We had so much happiness, passion never had any opportunity to be volcanic — but I always knew it could produce earthquakes in me.
At Rue d’Assas I found Gégé who has played a trick on me, since she’s still living there with Pardo. Even like this I prefer it to the hotel, since I’ll have a pretty, heated room. But I wonder if it won’t get on my nerves. It does save me from living with Kos., and I prefer that — I’ll put them in the hotel, in two rooms. Poupette’s closing her studio, so I don’t know how Wanda will manage.138 If you have the opportunity, tell Wanda I was boiling with anger in my letters about this Gégé business, since I think Kos. is going to be affected by it.
I barely greeted Gégé, but rushed off to have my photo taken at the Bon Marché (I’m not sending you the photo — I’m too ugly in it), where I ate, as there’s a kind of bar-cum-restaurant where you can gulp down a ‘beef with lentils’ while the photos are being developed. I had some trouble getting a residence certificate, since I’m a sub-tenant. The concierge struggled with her conscience for quarter of an hour, while a taxi waited for me. Her defeat and future services cost me 50 F. — she was quite overcome, as she’d reckoned on only half that.
After that I went to Camille Sée:139 a vast, splendid barrack of a building. The headmistress received me (there’d been an exchange of letters and telephone calls, in which I’d played a pitiful role — especially as my father had got involved). She’s an elegant woman, to the point where I took her for some chic secretary. She’s thin, the first thin headmistress I’ve ever seen, well dressed, alert, with an intelligent gleam in her eye and a thoroughly jaunty, modern little look about her: ‘I’m pretty jaunty’, she said herself with a smile, explaining how she isn’t afraid of bombs. We couldn’t have been more polite, but we shan’t get on for long. At any rate, she was afraid she couldn’t give me more than 8½ hours work — whereas they could make me do 14 — and I’d have at most only 20 pupils. I don’t think I’ll have any reduction of salary — it’s my maximum hours that have been raised by 2.
So everything’s going very well. From this point of view, I’ll have a marvellous year. I’ll get down to my novel again,140 and have dough, leisure and a good place to live. You should write to That Lady — she was quite incredibly kind. I was rather moved when I said goodbye to her, and she was too — and quite feverishly keen for my plans to succeed.
Goodbye, my love. I’m writing with the feeling of being a bit tipsy. I’m so excited my whole body’s atremble — do rejoice on my behalf — provided it’s not all in vain. I kiss you passionately
Your charming Beaver
I’ll go tomorrow to collect our salaries. That Lady wants us to pay her back a thousand francs, so I’ll do that. She very much likes your ‘factum’,141 and is savouring it before locking it away in the safe. My love, how sweet you are to share my life with me like this, and to take a keen interest in it. You’re everything in the world for me.
[Paris]
Friday 6 October [1939]
My love
After the letter I wrote yesterday, you can well imagine what a blow your little note of 3 October, which got here this morning, was for me.142 I was filled with such gloom that I felt I’d never be able to start living again. But then it all blew over almost at once — you get so immune eventually. I had perhaps half an hour of real inner revolt, after your letter and one from Bost, who seems to be being moved gradually closer and closer to the front line and is now being instructed on how to behave under fire. At Quimper and La Pouèze, I’d rediscovered a foolish unconcern and reaccustomed myself to the idea of happiness. But this morning I was forced to a fresh realization that things were just the same as a month ago; that they’d be like that for a long while, without respite; and that my fears would only grow. Now the balance has been restored — in pain, dread and emptiness — and it’s with astonishment that I contemplate the weeks of truce behind me. They’re like a slumber, a happy slumber, but one from which I’ve emerged.
What’s to be done? Do try as soon as possible to do everything you can for me, like the other time. Find a way. I’m not sure I won’t try something notwithstanding — all I risk is losing a bit of money and a few days, and for what my time is worth . . . I’ll be seeing the Audry sisters tomorrow, and I’ll ask their advice — but if yo
ur help arrives in time I think I’ll find a way. Otherwise I’ll wait till 1 November. At least it’s been clearly established that it can be done.
I’m settling in. I like my room at Gégé’s — I’ve now fetched all my things and found a place for them. I got 3,550 F. for you and the same amount for myself — it’s a fortune. Here’s my budget: I’ll send for the Kos. sisters on the 15th, and allocate them 1,500 F. for this month; 500 F. for you; 1,000 F. for That Lady. That leaves 4,000 F. I’ll take 2,000 for my rent and living expenses at 50 F. per day (since the 1st — as there’s a little arrangement with That Lady who advanced me some dough). I’ll put aside 1,000 for M. Bienenfeld. Then I’ll have 1,000 left over for myself — for books, clothing expenses, Poupette’s journey to Paris and her stay here, the Kos. sisters’ journey to Paris, etc. I’m hoping to scrape together another 500 F. out of this, which will be put aside too for M. Bienenfeld. With the money from the N.R.F., if they send it, I could pay off everything by 1 November. After that, I’ll save up for my 3,000 F. of taxes. If everything’s settled by January, I’ll try and round off the year by paying That Lady back, since she seems to wish it. How much do we owe her? I’ll give her a bit in any case, even if we do have to tap her again in the event of some disaster — it’s just as good as having money tucked away. That Lady was suggesting you make another approach to Maheu, moreoever — I think she’d quite like to have her money back.143 The real problem’s going to be housing the Kos. sisters. De Roulet’s flat has been sold, and the furniture’s being stored at Rue Sauteuil,144 so Wanda won’t be able to go there. She’ll have to work at the academy. The Boubou will look after her a bit, he tells me.145 I’m going to find them two little rooms in a hotel. I’ll keep them from 15 October to 15 December, send them off for a fortnight, then fetch them back on 1 January — how does that strike you?