Letters to Sartre Read online

  You don’t tell me whether you’ve written to him again, nor whether you’ve sent him the books, which would save me one parcel.

  It’s not Barnahy Rudge I liked, but Great Expectations — I’ll send you both of them.

  I met Kos., had lunch with her at the Milk Bar, then we did some shopping. I found your letter on my return to the hotel and it transformed my whole being. If only they start arriving properly again — I need them so much! As far as the shopping went, we ordered a lovely coat pattern for me and bought some splendid material: it will look like that beige coat of Bienenfeld’s that was so beautiful Then we went to the Marignan, where I’d arranged to meet Poupette at 4. It’s already past 5, but she’s at the doctor’s. He already gave her insides a dreadful working over the other day, and is going to have another bash today.

  I’ll add a note this evening, once I have the letters I’m hoping for from you.

  Dear little being, my love, here’s your letter of the 18th — it’s so tender, how it warms my heart! I’ll reread it this evening when I go to bed, since I have Poupette and Gégé here with me. So you’ve now had all my letters, I think, and for my part I’m missing only yours of the 12th. From tomorrow on, things should proceed normally. So you did send the books to Bost — that was well done. As for the questions you ask about how much help Kos. has been, etc. you now have the answers: it’s only your letters that are of any help to me. It’s fantastic how having them changes my whole being, so that I become almost happy again. I love you, passionately.

  [...]

  Your charming Beaver

  Chez Dupont [Paris]

  Tuesday 24 October [1939]

  Dear little being

  I didn’t have school this morning — Henri IV’s on vacation for the Bac exams — but in an hour (it’s midday) I’ll be at C. See. I’m at the Dupont, where I’ll have lunch while writing something to you. I’ve reread the two letters I received from you yesterday and am full of love for you. I’m in a bad mood this morning, because of my life these days with Poupette and because of a letter from Bienenfeld that annoyed me. She reproaches me with seeing too much of Kos. and Sorokine; tells me I shouldn’t allow myself to be taken over like that; and at the same time informs me that, after the war, she’ll be seeing much more of us (you and me) than before. At the same time Kos. is complaining of not seeing enough of me, and intends to make up for it once Poupette has left — though this doesn’t annoy me so much, since it involves only myself. But I shudder somewhat when I think about your return, and how Wanda and Bienenfeld will have rights over you — and I become like Bienenfeld myself and would like to be the only one to monopolize you. We won’t let our life together be eaten into, will we, my love? I hate it when Bienenfeld is full of blind, authoritarian advice. I didn’t hide the fact from her that I was glad to see Kos. again. It’s a bit spiteful to speak of her as though she were some boring company I put up with out of pity — B.’s simply jealous of her. She’s talking about going to see you — should I advise her to do so, or dissuade her from it? She expatiates upon my ‘ruined life’ (because I see Kos. every day) in a way that greatly puts me out. What’s more, I’m supposed to send for her once Poupette has left — there’s one whom I shan’t be in any hurry to bring back!

  [...]

  This morning I arose from 9 hours of good sleep, dressed, then went off for a couple of eggs with Kos. Wanda turned up wrapped in a thick robe — still ugly, but agreeable. We talked at length and I was terribly nice, offering her my room — which, alas!, she accepted — making plans for joint outings, and telling stories. Kos. is reading Spanish Testament, but when she finds certain episodes too dreadful, she simply refuses to believe them. I had a go at persuading her that it was all real, but it’s her way of denying anything that might trouble her. I say this without hostility, since I like the Kos. sisters and spent an agreeable time with them this morning. After that, I went to the Dupont to eat a big helping of calves’ sweetbreads and write to you. I’m now off to teach, but I’ll add a note this evening once I’ve been to pick up your letter — I do hope there’ll be one. I love you, my beloved. Tell me, will you really still go on being in no danger, even when your division goes into action?

  I’m glad you’ve eventually had all my letters. I’ll send you the books you ask for — do send Bost some, and write to him.

  Le Sélect

  99 Bd Montparnasse

  Paris VI

  Evening

  My love, I’ve had your little letter of the 20th. How glad I am they’re arriving properly again: it’s just like picking up a conversation, you’re with me again, and my sadness has melted away — almost — though it did in fact flare up this evening when P. informed me she’d be staying on till Sunday, but that’s all over now. I told her I’d see her only in the evenings, and tomorrow I’m going to start working again. I taught for 3 hours on psychoanalysis, which my pupils enjoyed enormously. Then I spent a tender little hour at the Select with Sorokine, who’s still incredibly charming. I took her to the Dôme, where we met Poupette and a Russian girl friend of Sorokine’s fresh out of school. For the past month she’d been exploited by some dentist — just like Sorokine at her day nursery. And my star pupil from last year spends her days washing the floors of an American hospital. The fate of those girls is a hard one. I took Poupette to the Champs Elysées to see As You Desire Me with Stroheim and Greta Garbo — it wasn’t bad. Do you recall, my love, that poetic evening at the Theatre Montparnasse when we saw the play?

  We came back to have onion soup at the Select and write for a while — now we’re off to bed.

  The N.R.F. isn’t sending any money — perhaps one should write again. Poupette cost me 1,000 F., so although I’ll get through the month I shan’t have anything for M. Bienenfeld. Davy hasn’t been called up, but he has been evacuated — to Bordeaux, I think. Monod’s now inspector-general, and has his office at the Academy (what they call the ‘Academy’ at the Sorbonne). I’m furious that Mauriac should have taken our word querencia.

  Kos. was gloomy, because she had a headache. Stopping work and Bost’s absence have naturally cast her down, but not exaggeratedly — she’s being terribly nice to me at the moment. I’ll tell you more about that another time, now I’m going to stop. My love, how it moves me that you should be so interested in everything that happens to me, down to the route I take to school. You’re within me, as the social is said to be within the individual — in every thought, every word, every act. My sweet little one, I love you so passionately, and with such tenderness! How thirsty I am to see you — I feel as though I’ll faint away from happiness! I kiss you, my love. I’m calm, in the certain knowledge that nothing and nobody will sap our life, and nothing — no cataclysm, no absence — will wear down our love. I so wish that in a moment I could fall asleep beside you and see your eyes all rosy with slumber, your face all tender and blurred. I love you so intensely, my beloved.

  Your charming Beaver

  If Wanda makes any comments to you about me, do tell me them. I want to know if my charm offensive will succeed.

  [Paris]

  Wednesday 25 October [1939]

  Sweet little being

  I’m feeling blissful this morning, because I’ve got back to my work. I rose at 8.30, dressed at high speed and hurried down to instal myself at the back of the Dôme. I drank coffee while reading Marie-Claire and Le Canard — and the papers, of course — to get myself in the mood. Then from 9.30 till 12.30 I worked like a saint. I’ve got the whole novel so clearly in my head now that stopping at each chapter irritates me. I can’t decide whether or not to work on larger chunks, and proceed as quickly as possible right to the end, then go back over everything in detail. The weather’s fine. I was completely undisturbed, but at the same time could see shapes in the street, which I found delightful. I called in at Gégé’s, but Poupette had carried off your letter — she’s too stupid! She’s not seeing me till this evening, so I’ll have to wait all day for it. Then I wen
t back to the hotel, where I’ve just seen Kos. She’s getting dressed, we’ll go for lunch and a walk round together, then I’ll come back to work. She’s terribly happy because the Atelier’s going to start up its classes again — that will really change her life. Wanda’s apparently complaining about the Lunar Woman, because when W. told her about how I was going to give up my room to her, the Lunar Woman said: ‘Oh! so you’re driving that poor Beaver out of her room now, are you?’ — with an air of wishing to protect me from oppression. She’ll end up making me take a dislike to myself! Kos. is still just as angelic — I really enjoy her company and am glad she’s in Paris. Once Poupette has left, my life will become quite decent again.

  [...]

  They’re saying there’ll be leave for everybody over the coming four months — ten days of it. So I’ll see you really properly, my love, in Paris. I’m just afraid that since it’s being trumpeted in the papers, it may be terribly hard to hide the fact that you’ve got ten days from your family, Wanda, and Bienenfeld. I find that terribly unnerving. This ability to be unnerved by something in the future is a characteristic I have in common with Bienenfeld, which is why it so annoys me in her. I think there’ll be almost no way for me to see Bost. I’d be able to invent alibis for my own part, but he’d be too scared. And you — how will it be possible to see you almost all the time, with just a little time for W. as you said? Yet I do want you to myself with all my might, my love. Well, I’m sure you’ll manage things.

  I went and had lunch with Kos. at the Milk Bar, then we did a few little bits of shopping on foot. We went to buy her a coat, which her mother was prepared to shell out for and which she’d seen in a shop-window on Bd St Germain and found ravishing. But the saleswoman laughed in our faces — it was a soldier’s cape. I did think too that the cut was a bit austere. We went home and, just as I was starting to write to you, Wanda came into my room bringing all her things — so with her help I moved out my own. I’m now underneath Kos.’s room. It’s infinitely less nice, but adequate for me to be able to work there with pleasure, and I’ll have more independence.

  I worked for another two hours. Now I’m off to the cinema with Poupette and the Gerassis. I’m going to get your letter — that’s what I’m waiting for anxiously. I’m sad, as I often am in the evening. I’m transfixed by the obvious fact: ‘I’m going to remain like this without him for a long while’ — and feel like having a good cry. I go through much of my life with a kind of belief in miracles, and have never yet seriously thought that you wouldn’t be here at Easter — or, if so, only at moments of crisis. My love, I miss you quite desperately.

  I haven’t told you that the Lunar Woman interprets the war as follows: it’s a plot by state leaders to assert their power domestically. Daladier says to Hitler: ‘All right, you begin’. ‘O.K.’, says Hitler — or something like that. And that’s how matters proceed.

  Here’s my sister, who has just come up to my room with your letter of the 21st. Thank you, my love, for writing so well, and for being so close. Of course, I’ve long ago collected your friends together. I’m so happy about what you tell me regarding Emma, but for my own part I can’t do anything except wait. On Saturday or Monday I’ll know. I’ll cable you in the event of success, and tell you the day of any definite acceptance.

  I love you. I’m not in a bad mood, because my work’s going well. But I’m sad and feverish. I’d so like to see you!

  I kiss you with all my might, my dear little one

  Your charming Beaver

  [Paris]

  Thursday 26 October [1939]

  Most dear little being

  I have your long letter of the 22nd. Dear little support, salt and joy of my life, I’m ashamed to have moaned so much in my letters. Don’t worry, my love, it’s only a superficial bad mood. Basically you write about things more than they exist, and that’s always because, at the moment of writing, you’re trying to describe an object — the gloomy world, or the wretchedness of life, etc. But if you try instead to make an hourly summary, there turns out to be not so much difference between the days and you’re neither as sad nor as unfortunate as all that. At any rate, now that I’ve gone back to my work, I’m happy. Since this afternoon, I’ve also had something to hope for. Forms were handed round at school, encouraging teachers to have themselves seconded to correspondence tuition. I asked to keep C. See, but in place of Fénelon for my hours of duty to be made up by correspondence lessons. As I correct papers so fast, and work very fast in general, I’m sure I’d save a tremendous amount of time. At all events, it would be work at home and so much more relaxing. I think I’ll go and see Monod again tomorrow, in order to back up my application.

  As for Emma, I’m neither hoping nor despairing — just waiting. I’ve told you — haven’t I? — that I’ll wire you as soon as I know if it’s success or failure. And I’ll let you know the day of definite acceptance. But I certainly shan’t know anything before Monday.

  I find what you say about your novel very interesting. It’s rather the same with me. Like you I don’t yet have the impression of finitude, but I do already have the impression of limited matter — and it’s not a very agreeable moment: one has neither the pleasure of infinite wealth, as at the outset, nor that of a well-articulated mechanism. All the same, I’m really enjoying writing.

  [...]

  Goodbye, my love. I feel your love so strongly. My life is still happiness, an immense happiness, because you exist and I love you. You haven’t taken the least step away from me, you’re with me, and your letters bring you so strongly back to life each day, my dear, dear love! How lovely it would be to see you, what strength I’d have for ages after that! But I shan’t be disappointed, because I’m not counting on anything.

  I kiss you, my sweet little one, my life

  Your charming Beaver

  Café-Restaurant de Versailles

  3 Place de Rennes

  Paris VI

  Thursday midnight [26 October 1939]

  My love

  We’re just back from the Jockey and I’m going to write you a little letter till I fall asleep — I so need to feel myself in your company, my sweet little one. When I’d finished writing to you earlier on, Poupette and I went to a pleasant little pancake house (another one) in Rue Pauline. We ate some delicious dumplings and some pancakes with jam, and drank cider. The weather was warm, and on the walls there were ugly blue nets intended to remind you of Douarnenez (which they did in fact do), while at the tables there were some rather amusing people. Then we went up to see the Kos. sisters. Real Kos. was wrapped in her beautiful orange-hemmed robe, with a splendid orange ‘K’ on the pocket. She seemed tired and downcast, and said she didn’t want to come because of a headache. She made a strong impression on me — of disgust, pity, hostility, tenderness (in me), of poetry and squalor — you can see the kind of thing. She’s so mundane to me — and yet transfigured by so many things (your former love, that of Bost) — that it makes a strange mixture. Wanda showed up too, spruce as could be and all ready for an outing. She was charming this evening, with her hair straight and pale like two years ago, a black pullover setting off her neck, a light complexion, and a young, ungainly look — rather pathetic. I found her engaging, though in her eager display of frantic amiability all she could keep saying was ‘It’s funny’ — to Poupette and me indiscriminately — with an air of false sprightliness. Strange evening! I was somewhat concerned about Real Kos., intrigued by Young Kos. — intrigued above all to discover what it was about her that could attract you — and annoyed by a letter from Bienenfeld, who wants to go and see you. As I’ve already told you, I’m not jealous of your feelings for people. But I am jealous of people’s feelings for you (it’s not just a theme for a novel!). Wanda doesn’t bother me, because in her little consciousness you’re such an odd being, so different from the one I love. But Bienenfeld irritates me because it’s a more serious version of you, and because she’s so restless, and because she theorizes her love for you wi
th such self-importance — it has its own solid violence, moreover. When you’re there, I know quite well our love is the truest; but from afar I find it a burden to see you trailing round in other hearts. At present — as is sometimes the case — I’d so like to be alone with you, without Kosakiewitch, without Bienenfeld, just you and me. I know it’s foolish — since if you were there there’d be nothing but you and me, despite all the others - but you’re far away.

  O yourself, I love you so, love you in the real sense of the word. I have a passionate need for you. O little shadow, do become flesh and blood — I so need your little arms around me!

  The Jockey was crowded this evening and agreeable. People were having dinner and drinking. There were lots of tarts, a sprinkling of soldiers, the beautiful panther-woman from the Dôme with her frizzy hair, and one of the Negresses — and some young couples. There were the two singers from the other day and a new one too. We took a table on the stage, right by the bar. Poupette and Wanda drank whisky and I drank Calvados. We didn’t talk much, especially as Poupette always interrupted me into the bargain. But I felt there was a current of good will between Wanda and me. We watched all the people, and it couldn’t have been more friendly. At 11 we were thrown out, so we went home. I went up to see Kos., who was in bed; she’d already been asleep and I wished her goodnight tenderly — I’m not quite sure if it was weariness or repentance that made her sweet and compliant. I went back down to my own room, and began this letter before going to sleep. I’ll finish it off tomorrow.