Letters to Sartre
Page 7
Gégé returned and I set off for the Dome, flanked by two beings convulsed with tension and sadness. Exerting myself I told endless stories, after which — as everyone was talking about air raids — I went back to sleep at their place again.
My love, the Dome’s emptying and I can’t manage any more. You’ll have the sequel tomorrow morning — there are hundreds of things left to tell you. I’m sending you Gide’s Journal; tell me quickly what else you want. Until tomorrow — I love you. You haven’t left me.
Your charming Beaver
Gégé has given me a photo of you, which I like a lot.
Envelope:
Private Sartre
c/o M. le curé de Ceintrey
Meurthe-et-Moselle
(Forwarded to Observation Post,
Artillery Headquarters, Postal Zone 108)
[Paris]
Friday, 8 September [1939]
My love,
Here’s the continuation of the letter I had to break off yesterday, because of sleepiness and the blackout. I slept well, there wasn’t any airraid warning last night, the weather’s terrific and I feel fresh. So I’ll go on with giving you a full account of everything.
I’d reached Monday night. Well, I’d gone off for the second time to sleep in Gégé’s lovely little blue bedroom, and was sound asleep when she turned up looking somewhat haggard: The sirens!’. There was a wailing in the darkness that was both sinister and beautiful. I slipped on a dressing-gown, and from the window we watched people hurrying to the shelters beneath a magnificent sky. Gégé and Pardo were nervous: ‘It’s because I can’t find my dressing-gown’, Gégé was saying,’I can’t stand not being able to find my things’; and Pardo, all of a tremble, kept repeating: ‘Let’s get a move on!’ We went downstairs. The concierge had already donned her gas mask, but we needed only a second’s reflection before going back up to bed, convinced that it was a false alarm, I went back to sleep beautifully till the All Clear, at 7 in the morning. But then my room was invaded by Gégé, and who was doing the packing, Pardo, and some little female from the Flore — a very plain script-girl whom they were taking with them to the country, who was quite convulsed with fear. It was very entertaining, at 7 in the morning, to see people emerging from the shelters. There were two women in flowered dressing-gowns, tall and thin, who looked quite terrifying, with cloths wrapped round their faces which I think were improvised gas masks. I was still there when they left: they crammed a pile of bundles into their little car, and at about 10 they set off, leaving the flat at my disposal. Now I can put up Kos. there, which will save me some expense. There are books, records, a bath — it’s agreeable. I wasn’t bothered by the poverty of the resources that had been left me. On the contrary, I’ve always enjoyed picturing very deprived lives in which it’s necessary to make the most of the tiniest little things, so I’m well set up; and though I’ll probably get tired of it, for the time being the very fact of filling my days still provides me with entertainment. It’s a kind of challenge that I’m meeting very well, in fact — I haven’t even had time to go to the cinema since Trafic d’armes. After their departure, I got dressed and then called in at the hotel, where I got your first letter. It moistened my heart somewhat: when I think of your little flesh-and-bone being in its fatigues and forage-cap, I grow moist; and when I think of your boredom, your solitude and your arrested life, I feel anguished. But I’m not like Poupette, who used to meditate in the style of Loyola. I think about it as little as possible. It’s only rarely and despite myself that it comes upon me, and I feel as though I were plummeting into a void — then it passes. I love you, my life’s own self. I went to the Dome to write up my diary. Fujita was there82 — a bit calmer than usual, if anything — and I caught sight of T [...] too,83, and lots of familiar faces. I had lunch with the Boubou, and ate that sausage and lentil dish you’re so fond of, my love. But I’m beginning to be so desiccated that objects of that kind no longer appear to me like memory traps, to be escaped from as quickly as possible. Now, when memories arrive, they’re equally dried out, embalmed, and utterly blunted. In the afternoon, therefore, seated at a table outside the Deux Magots, I was able to spend hours on that square — which reminded me of so many things to do with you and Bost — and recall it all without any echo within myself. All the Flore crowd had migrated to that spot, and I sat down just behind Sonia and Agnes Capri.84 They cut far less of a dash than before, and were now thinking only about skedaddling to Nice:’I can’t spend another night like that’, Sonia was saying as they made feverish financial calculations. The square was dead, beneath a blazing sun. There were fellows in blue dungarees shifting sandbags in front of the church. Once a man played a sad little tune on a flute, endlessly protracted. I stayed there reading Gide, especially his notes on August 1914. There were lots of similarities — and lots of differences too. It was interesting. At moments it threw me into a state of panic.
I called in at the N.R.F., which is moving. I think you should write to them directly for the money, to 5 Rue Sébastien Bottin — they’ll forward the letter. Write and tell them to send me the money, I’d like to have it for the Kos. sisters. I’m fairly wealthy this month. I’ve paid back the Boubou, settled the hotel bill, and bought Gide’s Journal; but I’m living comfortably on 50 F. a day (I’ve found a restaurant in Rue Vavin where you can eat magnificently for 10 F.) and I’ll have enough to keep Kos. for a week and travel to Quimper, so things are fine. There was an ambiguous piece in the paper implying that you might possibly be paid your salary, but it’s not certain.
I went home to pick up my mail; there was only a nice note from Kos., which I answered as nicely as possible. Nothing from Bost, to whom I wrote a little letter — and, as I wrote, was overcome by a truly unbearable anguish. Actually, it has been like that all these days: calm mornings, then lingering afternoons sliding gradually towards a kind of horror. I had an appointment with the Hungarian at 7 in the Dome, so I went to meet him and he took me to an outside table at a little restaurant on Bd Montparnasse (the one where Zuorro wanted to take us, I think). He began to discuss general ideas, but I couldn’t say a word - I was all tensed up and in despair. To my great shame, as he was telling me how he’d last set eyes on me in June with a charming young man, I burst into tears. After that I wasn’t so tense. I drank a lot of wine - and afterwards, at Les Vikings, Akvavit — and was completely blotto (well, not completely, but enough to talk a lot and get the Hungarian talking and not be bored). He told me he was sexually ‘perverted’, a masochist who can love only women stronger than himself, in whose arms he can lose himself like a little child. Once you’ve seen the fellow, it’s hair-raising to picture his ideal type of woman. He found one capable of lifting him at arm’s length, so he took her out of the brothel where she was and teamed up with her. The most entertaining thing of all is the following. He fell sentimentally in love with a slender young girl, and convinced himself that this meant she’d dominate him intellectually; he managed to sleep with her only by repeating certain words to himself, such as ‘the boundless sea’, or ‘adrift on the ocean’. The word ‘infinity’, in particular, never failed to deliver for him. That’s what he meant about Cherubino — do you remember? — it fits his case splendidly.85 He also told me he was a serious alcoholic, and used to have hallucinations — but I couldn’t get any details out of him. One night he did quite genuinely break a tooth, rushing at an old beggar-woman he’d seen coming in through the window. And when he wakes up in the morning, he’s often being punched or slapped. All this quite entertained me, and helped on by drunkenness I managed to be so amiable that on several occasions he pounced on my hands and kissed them, apologizing for being a ‘pervert’. I was in such a state that I think I’d have slept with the fellow that evening if he’d wanted, though God knows he repels me. But I’d have been very sorry next morning. For in the mornings despite everything I feel very solidly anchored in my life, whereas in the evenings I’d do anything in order really to blot out the moment. He t
ook me to his place on Bd St Michel to read me bits of his novel about Stépha; but he mumbled them, and it became most damnably boring — so I left him and walked back to my place through pitch darkness. I went to bed, but suddenly after two hours’ sleep was woken by the sound of gunfire. I leapt out of bed, astonished that no air-raid warning had been given. Still half asleep and unable to find my things in the darkness, I felt a momentary nervousness. Going down, however, at the foot of the stairs I found people who were quite calm and who told me the sirens had sounded an hour earlier. I stayed there for twenty minutes, but then as the gunfire had stopped I went back up to bed — I think the others did the same — and just kept my clothes on till the All Clear. I then slept until 10 in the morning. It’s extremely pleasant having a shelter right there in the building, as you can wait to go down till the shindig actually starts. Next morning, I was at Key’s drinking my coffee when they suddenly lowered the metal shutters and everyone started running — the sirens again. I went home, to find the landlady still tranquilly doing the dishes and everyone standing about in groups outside the shelters, calmly chatting. As for me, I read in my room and before long we heard the All Clear. I had lunch at the Dome, read Le Canard Enchainé — quite funny — I’m keeping it, because of its excellent collection of foolish sayings. I saw the Boubou for a moment, sent Kos. 50 F. to get here with (the trains are running normally), then spent the afternoon at the Dupont, reading, writing letters and filling in my diary. Sorokine has written me a note — she’s looking after kids in the Pyrenees. I read at the Dome again till 9. Sylvia Beach has closed down, and Monnier too,86 and all the public libraries, but this journal of Gide’s has at least filled my days. He’s a man of manners — a wretched kind of life — and by the end he becomes doddery and an unspeakable bore. The rest I’d like to discuss with you, but still have too many things to tell you.
At 9 I met the Boubou, who carried me off to his place. There were biscuits and brandy, which we consumed while listening to the wireless: we had quite a fine Mozart symphony, some harpsichord music by Bach, some Russian songs, and three minutes of Chinese music (unfortunately cut short). It gave me enormous pleasure to hear a bit of music again. I’m going to go and listen to Gégé’s records, and the Boubou’s too. I stayed on there to sleep, thinking there’d be another raid. I slept well, and in the morning the Boubou came prowling round me — I think he’s entertaining fresh hopes — but to no avail. So now it was yesterday. I went to take my morning coffee sitting outside at the Dome, and as I was reading Gide’s journal a chap leaned across to me: ‘What a comfort to see someone reading Gide at a moment like this!’ It was a certain Adamov, a frightful wreck whom we often used to see at the Dome — slightly hunch-backed, toothless, face all pock-marked — and who knows Wanda a bit and was supposed to read her fortune. He told me he’d long wanted to know me, and to know you too — though he didn’t entirely hold with your views — and expressed astonishment that we used to be seen around formerly in the company of Kos, senior and are now seen around with her younger sister. He’s vaguely surrealist, and a pan-psychist, and a total imbecile. I killed an hour talking to him. In the afternoon I saw him again at the Dome, and he lent me his manuscript ‘Endless Humiliation’, which he’s typing out carefully in three carbon copies. He’s another masochist, but their lyricism renders totally uninteresting his accounts of women’s high heels and muddy sandals trampling his chest and face. Like lots of the foreigners here, he’s not too sure what’s going to happen to him — they’re all in a state of some perturbation. I abandoned him and popped back home, where I found your last letter. I love your letters so much, my beloved, you’re so alive in them and I find so much of you there. I went to eat in my little restaurant, then drank coffee with the Boubou and read Marie-Claire. It was an all-purpose issue, designed to serve equally well for war or peace, with advice both about hay-boxes and about passive defence. In the washrooms at the Dome (perhaps I told you this yesterday) I saw a tart doing her eyes: I’m not putting on any mascara’, she said, ‘because of the gas.’ Then I went to the hairdresser’s. I was really glad to find my hairdresser his usual self — it shows there are some limits! He gave me a lovely hair-do, which nobody will admire: it was with a pang of anguish that I found myself really beautiful. After that I read Gide, and then had your letter. I went and had some pancakes at the Crêperie Bretonne, then on to the Dome to write to you — after which I went home and slept.
This morning I was woken by a telephone call from the Hungarian — he’s leaving tomorrow. I took breakfast with him at the Dome, and he admitted to me that he wasn’t Hungarian at all but a Slovak and a Jew (that fierce anti-Semite!), He told me stories about his life, devoid] of interest. I went to Bienenfeld’s to collect my papers: my heart was wrung by that empty flat, and her room, and all her notes put away so neatly in her desk. I write to her almost every day, but have no news of her.
I went home and tidied up my papers, books and clothes. I’m quite settled in now, so perhaps I’ll get back to writing. I met the Boubou for lunch and coffee, which we took at the Dome. They make you pay for your order now as soon as they bring it, because people leave in such a rush when there’s a raid. The Boubou had seen Ehrenburg yesterday, and Malraux — who’s been declared unfit for service and about whom he told me nothing interesting. I’m finding him more and more exasperating. He talks about doing some painting, full of self-wonder: ‘You know, Ehrenburg thinks what I’m doing at present shows extraordinary energy!’ But he doesn’t do a thing except trail around after all and sundry — it’s all so spineless that it’s sickening.
Nothing from Bost at midday — I’m once again filled with unbearable dread. But how lucky I still am, my love! If you were in the front line, what would my days be like? Even as it is I have moments of real torture. If something bad does happen to him, perhaps I’ll be so accustomed to the idea I shan’t be devastated — but getting used to it still involves a few jolts. Apart from that, I’m not at all unhappy. The objects: ‘happiness’ and ‘unhappiness’ quite simply no longer exist. I no longer have a ‘life’ — not for a second so far have I had the reflexive attitude that might allow regret or hope. I’m conscious either of a specific object — a page of Gide, or a face — or else of the situation in general, which excludes tenderness and suffering alike. Even my fears have no face, no regrets, no sweetness — I’ll talk to you again about all this.
At the same time as this letter, but under separate cover, I’m sending you a note from the N.R.F. and a letter from Wanda. I’ve read the letter, and I’m afraid it may make you a bit sorry to have left her so hurriedly. On the other hand, my love, having you with me uninterruptedly for those last few hours was so very precious to me, that I hope it will take away some of your remorse. I think I’ve told you everything properly — I’ll write to you every day. Write to me too, every letter gives me so much peace of mind, confidence, and even happiness. I don’t feel alone for an instant, I’m with you, I feel your presence in every one of my thoughts — we really are one person, my beloved. I kiss all of your dear little face.
Your charming Beaver
What books do you want? Only good ones, or rubbish too if any comes my way?
Envelope:
F.M.87
Private Sartre
c/o M. le curé de Ceintrey
Meurthe et Moselle
(Forwarded to:
Observation Post, Artillery Headquarters
Postal Zone 108)*
116 rue d’Assas, VIme88
[Paris]
Saturday [9 September 1939]
Most dear little being
I’ve received another little letter from you — it must be Tuesday’s — in which you tell me about your bucolic existence picking plums. You’re the best little one in the world to write to me every day like this. I received a letter from Bost at the same time, and felt as though my soul were being released from a vice — for after writing to you yesterday I did indeed go through hours of th
e most terrible distress. For the time being he’s in absolute safety, standing by. He doesn’t seem excessively dejected, merely bored. His address is 51st Infantry Reg., 5th Company, Postal Zone 170. You ought to write to him — I’m going to send him some books. This is my first really relaxed and even happy day for a week. Kos. arrived yesterday evening: she’s as nice as can be and really thoroughly likeable. But I’ll tell you everything in order.
First, after writing to you yesterday and sending you Gide’s Journal, I met the Hungarian at 5 at my place; he brought me some books and a huge, spherical glass timepiece weighing a kilo, which I’ve since given Kosakiewitch as a present. He’d drunk too many Pernods in celebration of his departure, while I was in great distress — it had suddenly gripped me, I had a lump in my throat and conversation was impossible. I got rid of him almost at once, then took the Métro to Montmartre and began walking round the boulevards like a madwoman. I wanted to try and face things and think them through, but it was impossible: from the first images, my stomach would contract and all I could do was try not to think at all and walk straight ahead, utterly empty. No letter that evening. I dined off two pancakes, while reading Grand Cap by Thyde Monnier — which is dreadful. But I was forced to skip the descriptions of trenches, for if I’d let my thoughts dwell on them I’d have burst into tears in front of everyone, or screamed. I went inside at the Dome — it was just like a catafalque, more gloomy than ever — to continue my reading and write up my diary. And I thought how everything was just beginning, and how it hadn’t done me much good to have husbanded and reinforced myself so carefully to get through the past eight days, since I had Heaven knows how many times that number still to get through.