Letters to Sartre Read online

  I had a little letter from Toulouse yesterday, on black-bordered paper because her father died at the end of the holidays. She’s at Férolles with Dullin, waiting to see how events unfold, and is getting ready to write her novel. She’s kindly inviting me down for a couple of days, so I’ll arrive there on Saturday and leave again on Monday. I’ll probably leave Kos. in Paris for these two days, with 20 F. Then I’ll spend another 24 hours with her, and on Tuesday evening I’ll leave for Quimper, where I’ll stay ten days or so. Apparently Mme Bienenfeld is furious about my coming. On my way back I’ll spend a day at That Lady’s — if it’s convenient for her — since I’ll almost be passing through Angers. All of this is going to cost a bit and I’ll just last out on my month’s pay, even though I’m living here on only 50 F. a day for two. But anyway I shall last out.

  Did you get the letter in which I told you to write to the N.R.F. at Rue Sébastien Bottin, asking them to send me the money? I’d like to know as soon as possible how much I’ll have available for the Kos. sisters. Bienenfeld’s asking if I could pay her father back — I’m not quite sure how I’ll manage.

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  I’m pleased at the idea of changing my life — of going to Férolles and Quimper. Go on writing to Paris, I’ll have everything forwarded. Goodbye, dear little being. I’d like to know that you’ve got my letters. I love you, my dearest love. I’d give anything to kiss your little face. Do write to me, your letters are all my happiness.

  Your charming Beaver

  Établissement Dupont

  Paris, Friday 15 September [1939]

  Dear little being

  I had a little letter from you this morning: Sunday’s. They arrive late, but very regularly. I’m glad to know that you’ve had my first big letter — I feel properly connected with you now. I hope that you’ve had the second one too, and the Gide, and all the subsequent letters. There were also two little letters from B., who has reached some place or other after two days in a coach. It’s dated Tuesday. He doesn’t give any details. I’m most uneasy about his fate, though he is asking for books — which presumes a somewhat longer respite. Have you written to him? Still to the same address — I’ve given him yours. There was a letter from C. Audry, with whom I’ll spend a moment or two next Tuesday. And a demanding letter from Bienenfeld. She’s angry because I didn’t come straight to Quimper. I wrote explaining to her that I couldn’t just run off from Paris without knowing anything about you, my family, money matters, or what job I’d be going back to, and that I absolutely had to take care of Kos. I have an absolutely clear conscience, since I really couldn’t have organized myself differently. If she mentions it to you in her letters, do defend me. This situation’s annoying: if I behave correctly with one of them, the other at once starts moaning. I told Kos. candidly that I was first going to stay for two days with Toulouse and then going to see Bienenfeld at Quimper, and she took it very well, without ceasing to be charming. Actually, I could have arrived two days earlier at Bienenfeld’s, by giving up the idea of seeing Toulouse. But I’ll enjoy seeing Toulouse, and it interests me on Kos.’s behalf. I won’t tell Bienenfeld I’ve been there, though, as she’d think it lightminded — I’ll just give Kos. as an excuse. Tell me what you think. I won’t get angry this time, my love. So I’m setting off tomorrow for Férolles, where I intend to spend Saturday evening, Sunday and Monday. I don’t know whether Kos. will wait for me in Paris or not. At any rate, I’ll leave again on Tuesday for Quimper, where I’ll arrive on Wednesday morning, and I’ll there till the end of the month — I’ll take books and some work with me. I’m glad to be changing my life, as things are dragging a bit here. The weather’s bad, we can’t even go for a stroll, and whatever efforts we may make at conversation the inactivity’s still getting both of us down.

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  This morning, after a rather hasty breakfast, I went to pick up my mail. I wrote a note to Bienenfeld from the Rallye (since Rey’s is closed), and another to Bost. Kos. and I had lunch at the Milk Bar, sent off some parcels and then came here, where we’re writing side by side before going to the cinema to see Snow White. On a streetcorner we met Levillain — your pupil from Le Havre — resplendent in the uniform of a cavalry officer. He gave up medicine and went through Saumur91 — now he’s a grown man. He announced to us, with heroic and winning gaiety, that he was leaving for the front in a few days — he was so marvellously true to himself that we were really impressed.

  That’s all. The red benches are crowded with people and there are budgerigars in the aviary: that hasn’t changed here. I’m not bored, I’m not unhappy, I’ll never be unhappy as long as I have you — even far away from me. All in all, the war hasn’t yet changed my soul. My novel still interests me, and all of my past remains rigorously valid — even the passions and jealousies relating to B. I questioned myself about this yesterday, and find that — even in the face of tragic prospects — relations with an other’s consciousness (and all that’s involved in them) still survive.

  I can’t wait for your next letter, in which you will ‘answer’ me. I’m in a hurry for us to be able really to talk to one another by letter. It’s already good to have news of you, but when we can think things together again it will be even better.

  Goodbye, dear little being — I love you — I kiss you with all my might.

  Your charming Beaver

  I’m really upset about Bienenfeld

  116 Rue d’Assas

  [Paris]

  Saturday 16 [September 1939]

  Dear little being

  I’ve just had your long Tuesday letter. The fact that it was so long and affectionate gave me real pleasure, my love. We’re as one — I feel that at every instant. I love you. I’ve received all your letters all right, and hope you haven’t missed out any either. The Gide was sent c/o M. le Cure, and registered. If it didn’t arrive, let me know and I’ll make a complaint. Lots of letters too were addressed c/o M. le Cure. No other mail this morning, except a letter from my mother in which she describes some woman as ‘a charming colonial’s wife who has read everything’! She’s going to come back to Paris, and though I couldn’t give a damn about that, Poupette’s threatening to do so too — which I’d find the hell of a nuisance.

  Yesterday after writing to you we went and saw Snow White. The dubbing, the music, the script and many of the images are of an appalling vulgarity. There are just a few fairly agreeable touches. With it they were showing a passage from a concert by Paderewski, who plays like a god. It was a good show for wartime — but not absorbing enough all the same, since in the middle I was overcome by gloomy thoughts: still about Bost, who’s the real black spot. I feel a kind of impotent, yet intense remorse when I think of the fate of all those fellows. We came home slowly, cooked some rice and pasta, and chatted in a macabre, playful vein about the expediency of killing people in given circumstances and what the results would be. We went to bed at about 10.30, but I couldn’t sleep for a long time. I finished Portrait of a Lady — which I found hard going, because the observations at the end are all dreadfully muddled — and began rereading Jane Eyre, which I’m not finding too boring. I woke early, so am feeling a bit shattered today. I thought of putting Kos. in my hotel room (she doesn’t want to stay at Gégé’s on her own) while I go and visit Toulouse. But even if one locks away the most compromising things, one can’t be quite sure what she might unearth at the bottom of one’s trunks. I told her the landlady wouldn’t accept that arrangement, so she’s returning to Laigle this evening I’d really like her to be able to come back in October, so I’ m gomg to look for a job for her.

  I’m going to send you Dabit’s Journal right away,92 and some exercise-books. Send it on afterwards to Bost (51st Inf., 5 Company, Zone 170) if you can, like all the books you’ve read which you don’t need any longer. Tell me whether you’ve written to the N.R.F. about the money.

  Tomorrow and Monday I’ll write long letters about Toulouse, but they’ll probably be slow in arriving, being sent from C
récy-en-Brie. From Wednesday on, I’ll be in Quimper. Perhaps you could write poste restante to Quimper, but not for long, because on the 29th at the latest I’ll be back and your letters arrive so slowly — one has to reckon on 4 or 5 days I’m glad you’ve settled in well, you’re not unhappy and you re working well. I’m not at all unhappy either, not glum in the least — in fact, I feel full of beans. Goodbye, sweet little beloved being, I kiss you most passionately.

  Your charming Beaver

  Mme Nizan has certainly left.

  [Crécy-en-Brie]

  Sunday 17 September [1939]

  My Love,

  I’m sitting in Toulouse’s garden bathed in sunlight. It’s midday. They’ve gone off shopping, and there’s just the sound of water simmering in a saucepan coming from the kitchen. It’s so agreeable — this fine weather, these flowers, this charming little house — that I feel quite softened. You should be there too, my love, in the next room with your pipe, and every now and then you’d smile to me through the window.

  After writing to you yesterday, I stayed for another hour chatting to Kos. We tidied up the flat, I went to buy you some books and paper and send them off to you, then we had a drink at the Versailles. I told Kos. to tell Wanda you were hoping for some money from your books, so there were good chances she’d be able to come to Paris, at least for a while. After that Kos. saw me to the Métro. I was rather pleased at the idea of changing my life and being without her again. And yet, as soon as she’d left me I felt somehow disoriented. It was my whole individual life I was leaving, along with her; and I was once again merely a rootless being — without either a home or expectations — absorbed in a tragic collective history. And it was as though you and Bost were yet a little further away from me. When I arrived at the Gare de 1’st, that morning I left you there still seemed terribly recent. I reread my black notebook, with all the details on your departure, and recalled exactly all the tragedy of those hours. Like you, I caught the train on Platform I — a stopping train to Nancy and Strasburg — and I followed the same route as you as far as Esbly. There was a violent stench of war in the station, on that wheezing train, and at every one of those innumerable stopping-places. In a sense, I took pleasure in being entirely recaptured by the world. Through the window I looked at the Marne Canal: it was gentle and melancholy in the gathering twilight, with silent bicycles on the towpath and barges and children. It was reminiscent of excursions from Rouen, or other train journeys when I’d be going to Amiens, and for a moment I really could recall what being happy was like. Yet I didn’t feel it was painful to be a consciousness withdrawn from happiness and unhappiness, and I understood how one can be detached painlessly too even from the will to live — i.e. accept the idea of dying. I think it’s the first time this has happened to me. I also thought about Bost. I’m almost convinced that I shan’t ever see him again. This paralyses me when I write to him, and even where thinking about him is concerned. What can you make of a person you’ll never see again? In this way I reached Esbly — it was past 7 and beginning to get dark. I was told there wasn’t a train till 8.30, and vaguely thought how extremely crass it had been of me to announce my arrival for 7, on the strength of a railway clerk’s word — but I really didn’t care. I didn’t think about arriving. I installed myself outside a cafe near the station, and it wasn’t in the least like a halt in the middle of a definite journey. On the contrary, it seemed like a true moment in which I was anywhere and aimless. All the rest — my life with Kos., my visit to Crécy — appeared like some trick or rosy dream offering respite from that truth. I stayed there for an hour in the fading light writing up my journal, which was very behindhand. Beside the open window a tableful of people were drinking Pernod and talking of war and death. They were talking about some woman who’d received a cable: ‘Husband dead on field of honour’, and voicing their indignation. ‘Normally’, one fellow was saying, ‘it’s the mayor who comes along and tells her: “Your husband’s seriously wounded, my poor madam” — that’s not so cold.’ Trains went through, and yet more trains, many of them filled with mute soldiers. The darkness was dense, with two or three blue lamps illuminating the tiny groups of tables outside tiny bistros. At 8.15 I took the little train to Crécy — pitch dark, with just blue night-lights. We passed through a few little stations — equally dark, with stationmasters shouting out their names in the night — and eventually I arrived. I expected to have to make my own way, but Dullin was there, wrapped in old shawls and mufflers, and he took me in his arms. Apologizing profusely, I climbed into his old cart.

  After that tragic and poetical journey, another story began — with a comic dominant theme, as you may imagine. We climbed slowly towards Férolles. The carriage had one lamp missing, and the horse was often frightened. There are troops everywhere here, and we were halted once on the way. Dullin kept repeating: ‘It’s terrible, terrible’, in that familiar voice. He’s especially sickened by the people in the rear, especially Jouvet,93 who with several films already begun has declared: There’s nothing more to be done for the theatre. We must devote ourselves to the cinema — finish off the films already begun and then devote ourselves to supporting French production.’ Giraudoux94 has put him in charge of film production, so he’s very happy. As for Dullin, he has conferred at length with Baty and the idea of going to America or some neutral country revolts him. He’d like to try tours in France — which certainly won’t be subsidized, but they’re going to try on their own initiative. He again expressed his respect for Kos., saying: ‘Well, so her career has once again been interrupted.’ I’ll talk to them about her more specifically today.

  Eventually we arrived at the edge of the village, where Toulouse appeared on the scene holding a blue torch in her hand. As she escorted us some soldiers joined the escort, making fun of the strange old boneshaker. They’ve bought another house next to their own and that’s where we put the horse, unharnessing it by the blue light of the torch — they take as many precautions here about lights as in Paris. Then we went into the house, where Toulouse’s mother was waiting with a stern look. She flung herself upon me and kissed me on both cheeks. She has aged enormously since we last saw her: she’s 74 and looks it. She’s still red-headed, but with white roots — and a puffy face, bulging eyes, a drooping-mouth, and speech so abrupt and jerky that I thought she was mad. Not mad, however, but — just imagine! — once she was installed at Crecy in the next-door house, they realized she was a total ether addict. She’d first taken ether for her chronic asthma, but she soon became so used to it that she needed a litre a day. She had it brought up to her by all the people in the village, sniffing it openly in front of all and sundry. There was a reek of ether all round the house, and she’d often fall flat on the ground and almost crack her skull. It became particularly tragic when Toulouse’s father began to develop encephalitis lethargica, which required a lot of nursing. His wife went on drugging herself, and there were lots of scenes which the village witnessed in outrage. Toulouse eventually sent her father off to a nursing home at Lagny, where she took care of him with Zina’s help while keeping her other eye on her mother. Her father’s final illness was lengthy and painful — apparently it was extremely traumatic. Toulouse claims that her mother kicked the habit after his death — that’s a month ago — but she looks strange. She seems to hate Dullin. It was quite funny at table, because there was tomato salad and sausage, to which we helped ourselves, and Dullin asked whiningly for more sausage — saying that he didn’t eat tomatoes, so could he have a little more sausage — and then his mother-in-law attacked him savagely, saying: ‘I took only one slice, so as to leave more for you’, and Dullin apologized, and it just went on like that. Yet she calls him Lolo and kisses him before going off to bed. Toulouse sent her off as soon as dinner was over, and Dullin told me about his war years. He actually enlisted and did 3 years in the trenches, without getting the least pleasure*. Through his stories, it all seemed to retain a human character, with ethics and freedom still operative.
He interested me. I told them stories of my own, then remained alone with Toulouse till past midnight — that’s when she filled me in on the family dramas. She handed me the prologue and first act of her play,95 which I started to read yesterday evening in bed and have just finished. It’s neither ridiculous, nor clumsy, nor even very boring; but despite a certain liveliness of the dialogue I find it dreadfully flat. I didn’t expect that at all. It’s sober and lacklustre — impossible to know without the remaining acts how it would turn out on the stage. It’s definitely better than Plutus, but one can’t conceive why it was ever written.

  I slept in that room Toulouse occupied one night when you had a temperature and we slept in the Corsair’s Room.96 The Corsair’s Room has become even more splendid, there’s an old trunk and sumptuous draperies — it’s so pleasant here that it’s quite affecting. I slept like a log till 11. I woke up feeling sad, but that’s [...] too. In normal times, what exacerbates my sadness is the fact that it shocks, scares and revolts me, and reflection turns it into a drama. Whereas here — at present, I mean — I at once accept it with good grace, and anything extra that comes along is welcome.

  I was just finishing writing when Toulouse and Dullin showed up in the car. I greeted them, we unpacked the provisions, and we sat down to eat a sumptuous lunch under the cloister. Do you recall how agreeable this spot is, dear little being? There was good wine and vieux marc and the lunch was pleasant. Dullin’s relations with his mother-in-law are enchanting: ‘You know’, she says sternly, ‘that magic dye doesn’t work at all’ ‘Well’, says Dullin, gimlet-eyed but in a dulcet, casual tone of voice, ‘is it in keeping with the principles of dyeing to hang up the object you’ve just dyed for two days in the rain?’ The woman retorts with dignity: ‘I left it in the rain on purpose.’ ‘Oh! Well then,’ says Dullin, ‘if you did it on purpose!’ It’s like that from morning to evening, and quite hilarious.