Letters to Sartre Read online

  Your charming Beaver

  1938

  Hôtel du Cheval Blanc

  Spontour (Corrèze)19

  Spontour, Monday evening

  [Whit Monday 1938]

  My love,

  It’s amazing to land up in this village, when you’ve spent all day following a tiny path along the Dordogne and expected at most to find a hamlet. First, you cross a magnificent stone bridge and on your right see a huge ‘International Café-Restaurant’, to your left a huge ‘Modern Dance Hall’, both built of wood and painted green. Next, all the buildings are cafes. Finally, there’s a wedding-procession of fifty souls winding through the streets at a spanking pace. From a distance I’d seen only peaceful little houses at the water’s edge, each with a little plume of smoke rising vertically above its roof. I was quite amazed.

  The Cheval Blanc hotel is like that one in Uzerche where we had a meal and you wanted to throw toffees into the water for me. The big hotel café’s deserted and the owners eat next door, but they’ve lit up for me.

  This is how I ended up here. You should first know that I slept very badly on the train. A family settled in as far as Vierzon, but that wasn’t a problem. And there was another fellow, but he got out on the way too, so I was left on my own. But I was tossed around like mad, which destroyed any chance of sleep. Once I even found myself on the floor, and woke myself up with a shout of ‘Hey, there!’. However, I did get some sleep after Montluçon. And then I was roused by the faintest of lights, looked out of the window and saw we were in a little village, an hour away from Mauriac. There were still stars in the sky, but it was fantastically warm. I stuck my head outside for a look. It was a delightful moment, I saw the dawn and then sunrise over the prettiest landscape. The train had grown very small and was climbing slowly up the track. At 5.30 I was in Mauriac — sky overcast — I took a stroll through the town, looked at a pretty, pitch-black Romanesque church, scaled a hillock from which I gazed out across a vast, rather unappealing countryside, like a more contorted version of Périgord. At 7 I boarded a bus — a bus that stopped literally every ten metres, and took 2 hours to cover 20 km. All the people were griping like mad, but to no avail. We arrived at a village and I had a big breakfast with eggs, milk and sausage, enough not to be hungry for the rest of the day. Then I made my way up by a road and through woods towards some big mountains - but alas! the higher I went, the thicker the fog became. By the time I reached the topmost peak of the Cantal, pretty well exhausted, I was surrounded by a sea of fog; a family of motorists huddled shivering in a tiny shelter; one of the roads was blocked by firns. It was devilishly wild and bare — in fine weather it must be rather attractive, but as things were it was fairly chilling. I had to abandon the idea of a long, carefully planned ramble through the mountains and just set off down a road, since it was too cold to sit down. I walked downhill until the fog was left overhead, soon caught sight of a pretty valley and swooped down into a village, where I rested. I wouldn’t have minded eating something, but after spotting maggots in the pastries I just dried my clothes and person (the fog having changed to rain along the way). Thanks to my stout shoes and raincoat, I wasn’t soaked. When the weather brightened up a bit at about 5, I set off again like a stubborn woman; I wanted to get over a pass and then down into the valley of the Lioran, it should have taken two hours or so, but I couldn’t find the pass, the fog returned, and I decided to go back down. On the way down I thought I’d gone mad, for I’d left the village turning right, on the way up I’d been keeping to the right all the time, only to find as I walked on downhill that the village was on my left — in other words, still further to the right. I was irritated and almost worried, but then when I reached the bottom I saw that it was another village, and there was a much more comfortable hotel than in the first one, so I had an immense dinner. By 8.30 I was sleeping the sleep of the righteous.

  Today the weather was perfect. I took a bus which traced the full length of a pretty valley before taking me to Aurillac, whence another bus conveyed me to Argentat. I was so pleased to be back in the Limousin, it really is a pretty part of the country. Argentat is like Uzerche, the Dordogne gorges like those along the Vézère — to my taste, it’s thoroughly charming. I ate a real lunch at Argentat at 10 in the morning, with rabbit, chicken, etc. There was a fair in town, which was very entertaining. Furthermore, I’m very proud of myself because, in spite of certain female frailties, I did 35 km between 11 in the morning and 8 in the evening without feeling tired. I had some milk and eggs after 10 km. I arrived here half an hour ago and am now writing to you before going off to bed. I’m having a very enjoyable time — I love you - I think lots of nice things about you during the day, but I’m too tired to tell you them. Till Saturday, my love.

  Your charming Beaver

  P.S. I forgot to tell you that the novel by Mr Daly King is vaguely entertaining, but scientific.20 The novel by M. Boileau is appalling, unreadable, but contains a neat problem with an elegant solution. I’ve already lost the little guidebook — and also my soap and toothbrush. I’ll buy some more soap, but as for the guidebook I knew it by heart.

  Tuesday

  Hi, my love! I’ve just sent off the wire and am hoping for a letter at the Lioran. I did 30 km along the Dordogne gorges — pretty, but monotonous — then a kindly lorry conveyed me to Bort-les-Orgues. I saw the ‘organ-pipes’ from a distance, but didn’t bother to climb up, since I’m well acquainted with sights of that kind. Instead I went to the cafe, to drink fresh lemon and write to Bianca Bienenfeld.21 This evening I’ll write to K. and tomorrow you’ll have another little letter. I’m setting off by train for the mountains, because the weather’s fine and I’m stubborn, I’ll climb up by another route to the top of that mountain which struck me numb. I’m enjoying myself — I love you.

  Beaver

  La Flégère

  Les Praz de Chamonix

  [Haute-Savoie]

  Friday [15 July 1938]

  Dear little being,

  It’s rather meritorious on my part to be writing to you, since we’re in a real hurry to go off walking again — but, after all, I love you and want you to know what’s becoming of me.22 First, in the little corner where you settled me I spent quite a good journey, but got hardly any sleep. There was an Italian beside me who had an amazing resemblance to Mussolini, and who squashed me with his fat behind. At 4.30 in the morning, I changed trains. The weather was marvellous, a clear sky still containing a bright moon and stars though it was already dawn, and white mists to be seen everywhere over the countryside, with black mountains rising above them — it was quite lovely. The train conveyed me through the most beautiful scenery as far as Annemasse, not far from Geneva, where I transferred into a little electric tram running along a road. We were entering a region of high mountains and could see snow and high peaks — I was in ecstasies. I met a woman there whom I’d known at the Cours Désir,23 and we kept up a pitiful conversation for the entire journey. At 9 the tram halted at the foot of a mountain amphitheatre, and I found Bost already tanned and looking very nice in his yellow pullover. He recounted his journey: on the first day a lorry had conveyed him in state all the way to Dole, then he’d gone to Lausanne — in the hope of finding a sister whom he didn’t in fact find — crossed Lake Geneva, and made his way back by bus after bankrupting himself among the Swiss.

  [...]

  I told Bost the story about Boutang, he was captivated and shocked.24

  Goodbye, my love, I’m hoping for a letter from you soon, at Chamonix, I’ll write tomorrow.*

  A big hug and kiss — I’ve lots of little Erlebnisse for you and I’m not forgetting that you have some for me too, all teeming fresh — I love you.

  Beaver

  *So write to Bourg-Saint-Maurice (Savoie).

  Col de Balme [Haute-Savoie]

  Simond Frères,

  Propriétaires

  17 July 1938

  Most dear little being,

  Here I am, at that same Col de B
alme above Charamillon which we never visited together when we were at Argentières: it’s a pity, because there’s a fantastic view over Switzerland and the Chamonix valley. We’ve just had lunch here — only an omelette and sautéd potatoes, since we’re extremely careful with our money. I’m already quite tanned, and look like a woman of the wilds. I’ve my left hand all bandaged up, since I acquired a magnificent wound yesterday — I’ll tell you the whole story.

  First of all, the day before yesterday I finished off a letter in the hotel at Buet, where the rain finally obliged us to spend the night: a room with twin beds, all very proper, and as much hot water as you wanted — so we washed for a week. The rain came down all night. We’d asked to be woken at 6, but it was still raining and we went back to sleep until 9.30; then, opening our eyes, we saw that it was quite fine and we were in danger of wasting a day, so we set off determinedly for the mountain we planned to reach — the Buet — rising 1,800 metres above us. At first we went up a decent path winding through gorges, but then we had to scramble across scree and firns. The place was really wild and magnificent, and it was great fun crossing huge stretches of snow. We had some very fine views up to about 2,800 metres, but above that there was a thick fog — and an icy wind that chilled us to the bone. All the same we went stubbornly up and up, it was terribly steep, my heart was going like a hammer; but 50 metres from the top, as the fog wasn’t lifting and there was still a big firn to cross, we decided to go back down. We opened a tin of sardines for a bite to eat but hail began to fall, so we raced down across some slate and in ten minutes found ourselves below the fog. We hurtled across the firns too, letting ourselves slide — either upright or sitting — but that’s when, having picked up a bit too much speed, I tried to brake by catching hold of a rock which split my left hand between the fourth and fifth fingers, I didn’t feel a thing, I noticed only a few seconds later that my blood was spurting everywhere — it was deep and quite nauseating. We made a bandage out of a handkerchief, which didn’t prevent my blood from spurting everywhere, but in the first chalet-hotel we raced down to Bost washed my hand in spirits and put on a new little dressing. But he insisted I should go and see a doctor, so we went back to the hotel, packed our bags and took the little train you and I often used to take to Montroc — but this time on the other side of the tunnel, towards Switzerland. The run was delightful, the little train sped high above splendid wild gorges, and after half an hour we arrived at Finhaut, the first hamlet on the line which possessed a doctor. We asked the stationmaster for his address, and he pointed to one of the actual passengers getting off the train. This was the doctor, who led us genially to a very Swiss kind of chalet-pharmacy, all in wood, with little bottles and mechanical armchairs everywhere: this was his house. He put on a long white smock, carefully disinfected my hand and suggested putting in a stitch, so that the scar would look better; but I rejected this with horror, so he just gave me a good, solid bandage that I can take off in two or three days. I feel absolutely nothing, and in fact am quite proud when people ask me if I’m badly wounded. Then we bought bread, chocolate and cheese and went for a melancholy stroll beside waterlogged meadows. Then I had the idea of sleeping in a barn. I asked some people to direct me to one, and they directed me to the village hall — which serves as the mayor’s office, I think, at the same time as being a hotel and cafe. There, a very kind lady led us to a charming barn, with a little wooden balcony; we ate our meal sitting on the balcony, drank water from a fountain, then wandered round the village a bit while Bost smoked his pipe. The view was wonderful, mountains, clouds, little red lights in the night and I couldn’t have felt more at ease. We slept well, except that the single sleeping-bag links me tightly to Bost, who kicks all night and filled my face with hay. At 7 this morning the weather was marvellous. We washed a bit at the fountain, breakfasted in the garden of the village hall, off milk and what the good lady called ‘artificial’ honey, then had to plunge to the very bottom of deep gorges in order to get up on the other side. Bost tried to make friends with a nanny-goat, which butted him hard in the midriff — but she didn’t have horns. Then, at about 3, we reached the Col de Balme where we had lunch. I started to write to you, then we climbed to a peak from which there was an infinitely more stupendous view over the snow-covered peaks of huge mountains. Picture us constantly in landscapes resembling the Zugspitz, with that strange mixture of icy wind and blazing sun. We hared downhill to Montroc — our ski slope looks quite flat at this time of year — and just caught the little electric train running to Chamonix, There I bribed a railway clerk (it was Sunday) to hand over Bost’s second sleeping-bag, and Bost bribed the postal clerk to hand over our mail: a letter from Bienenfeld and your wire, but no letter from you. I’m having everything forwarded to Bourg St Maurice, so that’s where you should write until further orders. We jumped aboard a coach which in two hours travelled all the way down the Chamonix valley and up again past Sallanches to Cluses. There, dazed by sun, hunger and exhaustion, we wandered from shop to shop buying stacks of food, then looked for a spot to camp and found only an ugly patch of grass surrounded by houses. When we’d eaten and pitched our tent, we felt like kings; changing into slippers, we went back into Cluses and had a drink and a chat sitting outside a cafe, just like some sedate couple on holiday. I’m finishing off this letter while Bost writes up our travel log. He’s so proud of it, and indeed it isn’t half bad: 7½ hours walking and 1,200 metres climbed even today, which was a kind of rest day. Now we’re off to sleep in the tent ready and waiting for us. We’ll take a coach at 9.30 for the Chartreuse du Reposoir — which inspired Henri Bordeaux25 — and we’ll climb a mountain that’s ‘easy but vertiginous’: we’re afraid we may chicken out of going up, since we’re rather cowardly about vertigo, but we’ll have a fine outing in any case.

  Bost is revelling in the story of M. flume26 — he likes to read me extracts out loud while I’m writing to you or sleeping.

  Goodnight, my love, I’m going to sleep. I love you very much

  Your Beaver

  [Nancroix, Savoie]

  Friday 22 [July 1938]

  My sweet little husband,

  I’ve been waking up these past few days with a keen longing to see you. And I’m beginning to count the days that separate us — still over a week to go. Yesterday, as it was theoretically a rest day — which we really needed — I took the opportunity of dragging Bost by bus to Bourg St Maurice, where I found your long letters. I read them at my ease in a little shady cafe, and today I’ve just read them again. They entertained me greatly and I’m waiting impatiently for the sequel. I find Gibert very likeable and the story elegant, but I’m shocked to see old Merleauponte abandoning his role as an impartial, tranquil monk.27 You’re very sweet to have told me the whole story in such detail, my love.

  [...]

  This morning we left at 9, climbed to a peak from which there was a splendidly sinister view, then made our way down to a village called Nancroix where we’ve just had lunch. Bost was half-dead: he ate half his meal, but immediately went and threw it up again in the garden. I had to endure the chambermaid’s commiserations. In the garden I found Bost relieved and gay, but was overcome in turn by a violent nosebleed — I don’t think we’ll be walking much this evening. We’re now drinking coffee and writing letters like real holiday makers. Apart from the nosebleed, I’m in marvellous shape actually, I’m full of beans today.

  I’ve had some letters from Bienenfeld, full of passion. I’ll be at Annecy on the 27th in the morning, write me a last little letter there.

  I’m not doing much thinking. I’m blissful, I long to see you, I’m beginning to feel the greatest impatience to see you, my beloved, I love you quite passionately.

  Goodbye, my love — thank you for your agreeable long letters — have a good time and come and join me with a thousand little Erlehnisse to do the courtesies to my own.

  I kiss you most tenderly

  Your Beaver

  Envelope

  Monsi
eur Sartre,

  Hôtel Mistral,

  Rue Cels, Paris 14

  postmarked

  ‘Bourg St Maurice at St Pierre d’ Albigny’*

  Hôtel de la gare

  Albertville (Savoie)

  Albertville, Wednesday [27 July 1938]

  Dear little being,

  I’m not going to write you a long letter, though I’ve hundreds of things to tell you, because I prefer to tell you them in person on Saturday. You should know, however:

  1. First, that I love you dearly — I’m quite overcome at the thought that I’ll see you disembarking from the train on Saturday, carrying your suitcase and my red hatbox — I can already picture us ensconced on our deckchairs overlooking a lovely blue sea and talking nineteen to the dozen — and I feel a great sense of well-being.28

  2. You’ve been very sweet to write me such long letters, I’m hoping for another this evening at Annecy. You tell me countless pleasing little items of news, but the most pleasing of all is that you’ve found your subject. The big page looks extremely fine with that title, just the perverse kind you like: Lucifer — I can find no fault with it.29

  3. Something extremely agreeable has happened to me, which I didn’t at all expect when I left — I slept with Little Bost three days ago. It was I who propositioned him, of course. Both of us had been wanting it: we’d have serious conversations during the day, and the evenings would be unbearably oppressive. One rainy evening at Tignes, in a barn, lying face down a few inches away from one another, we gazed at each other for an hour finding various pretexts to put off the moment of going to sleep, he babbling frantically, I racking my brains vainly for the casual, appropriate words I couldn’t manage to articulate — I’ll tell you it all properly later. In the end I laughed foolishly and looked at him, so he said: ‘Why are you laughing?’ and I said: ‘I’m trying to picture your face if I propositioned you to sleep with me’ and he said: ‘I was thinking that you were thinking that I wanted to kiss you but didn’t dare.’ After that we floundered on for another quarter of an hour before he made up his mind to kiss me. He was tremendously astonished when I told him I’d always had a soft spot for him — and he ended up telling me yesterday evening that he’d loved me for ages. I’m very fond of him. We spend idyllic days, and nights of passion. But have no fear of finding me sullen or disoriented or ill at ease on Saturday; it’s something precious to me, something intense, but also light and easy and properly in its place in my life, simply a happy blossoming of relations that I’d always found very agreeable. It strikes me as funny, on the other hand, to think that I’m now going to spend two days with Bienenfeld.