The little Oranaise is lying low in Oran, and well and truly stuck so far as the diploma Lionel was going to do with her is concerned. Did you appreciate the little anecdote about the rhinoceros in the Green? I found it charming.
Levy told me he’d met one of your colleagues, a Communist teacher of German, who made a full-scale attack on you: you deprive your pupils of all critical spirit, you divert them from the real problems — such as the problem of eating — and you give them an aesthetic attitude that makes them very disagreeable.
My love, it’s half past one now. I’ve made up my journal, written to Bienenfeld and Bost, and read a bit of Anthony and Cleopatra — for Kosakiewitch has lent me her big Shakespeare in the Pléiade edition, and
I’m going to reread the lot. Poupette came back again and we had lunch in Rue Vavin — she’s sweet, and quite bearable really. We came via the Luxembourg to have coffee at the Capoulade, then she left me and I’m off to school — my cold’s a little bit better. But I feel quite abandoned: still no letter from you. Nor do I know if you’re receiving mine. It was so agreeable when we could really speak to each other by letter — now we’re writing to each other at random. I’m going to begin my preparations for 1 November, but I’m still going to need certain kinds of advice.175
I looked again at your photos, which have already caused mirth in more than one quarter. It quite moved me, seeing my ski-shoes on your feet again.
I’m going to take my sister to the cinema, and then take her out with Kos., with Gégé, with the Lunar Woman, and with the Gerassis — just to liven things up a bit. The Lunar Woman saw Kos. yesterday for 1½ hours, and asked her why she didn’t splash out a bit. For her own part, she was negotiating to buy a waterproof cape from a mounted policeman. Pardo told me that at Youki’s they called her ‘the Caca Kid’, but I’m not really sure why.
Goodbye, distant little being. I’m off to see my six pupils again, and not looking forward to it — I don’t enjoy myself enough.
I want to see you, and want your letters. Most dear little being, do your cheeks still smell of cake? I cover them with little French kisses. I love you, o yourself.
Your charming Beaver
Le Dôme
Poste Restante Office 43
Rue Littré
(N.B. 43 is the number of the office,
not the street number)
Paris, Saturday 21 October [1939]
My love
A letter from you at last — I didn’t have anything yesterday or the day before. So the letter of the 12th is definitively lost, and the ones of the 15th and 16th haven’t arrived either — it’s the one of the 17th that I’ve had. Well, whenever you tell or ask me anything important, you must repeat it not just once but twice. As for an address, you’d better write as well to Poste Restante, Office 43, Rue Littré — that’s the most convenient, since I already go there to pick up Bost’s letters176 — and I’ll keep your letters in those lockers at the school. My love, how abandoned and miserable I feel when your letters don’t arrive properly! Today or on Monday I’ll begin taking steps to go and see Emma on 1 November. People say they give permission for that without too much difficulty — I’ll keep you posted.
I’m glad you approve of my plan. My idea was to stop my novel at the start of the war, just as the fellows are all going off. And even if the war’s over before my novel is, I think I’ll stop there. It’s of little importance what becomes of Pierre and Gerbert; and as for Françoise, what matters is for her to be alone in front of her past and the whole uncertain future. It makes me rather bitter to speak of this, since I no longer have any time to work since Poupette has been here — and I’d so like to get started again. I’m not tragic these days, I don’t weep, but I feel alone, bewildered, far from you, far from everything — nothing has any meaning. Do write to me, my love, and make certain to put on the right address — these lost letters and gaps are infuriating.
Well, I wrote to you yesterday before going off to school. I gave my lesson, and there were only five pupils. But then I had a little boost to my self-esteem. While I was at the post office in Rue Cujas sending a money order to Bienenfeld (and behind me there chanced to be a teacher from Molière who’d hated Bienenfeld, and who saw me send the money — how shady I must appear!), a little girl came up to me with a letter in her hand. With a foreign accent and a pleasing manner, she told me she was glad to find me — since she wasn’t too sure where to send her letter. Though I probably didn’t know her, she already knew me very well. I transcribe the letter here — it really flattered me. ‘I am one of those victims whom fate has plucked from your lessons and plunged into another where they cannot fail to find themselves somewhat disoriented. I regret the loss all the more keenly in that I had begun to understand, and your way of teaching had in any case fascinated me. I want only to tell you that already, after the few hours we have spent together, you have been able to make pupils unhappy to leave you — and all the more unhappy because the separation was so unexpected and sudden, and because we have to switch abruptly from “Consciousness” to the history of philosophy and then on to Logic . . .’
Isn’t that just too romantic? I think when I’m sixty they’ll be killing themselves for love in the middle of the class — for it’s growing worse year by year. What’s more the other teacher is Mme Meyerson, whom I’ve seen, and whose face explains a great deal.
I went to the Capoulade to meet Kos., who’s sweetness itself with me. We chatted for two hours, then I went to the Mahieu to meet Poupette, whom I took to the little Alsatian restaurant on Boulevard St Michel for a quiche and some good white wine. Then we went to the Cinema du Pantheon to see the end of Silver Moth, which is absurd even though Katharine Hepburn’s so beautiful, and Jean de la Lune, which I found rather enjoyable.177 We came home in the most marvellous moonlight — I never tire of those country sky effects over Paris. I never tire of Paris, actually, it’s the one thing that warms my heart somewhat. In my pigeonhole I found Spanish Testament,178 left there no doubt by the Boubou; I took it to bed and couldn’t put it down. It’s an excellent book, without artistic pretensions, but simple and agreeable in tone and incredibly moving. If I can get it on permanent loan, I’ll send it you; otherwise, if you want it just say so and I’ll buy it for you.
Have you sent any books to Bost? He has bags of time to read and would really like some.
I went to sleep, got up at 7.30, drank a coffee at the Dupont, then went to Camille See. Two hours’ teaching, then I called in on the bursar, who turns out to be my old bursar from Rouen. I didn’t recognize her - but it wasn’t too obvious — and we had a long talk about Delort, Jahan and C. Audry:179 ‘Such a lovely specimen’, she said admiringly. After that I met up with Sorokine who was there waiting for me, still all melting and delightful. She has managed to register at the Sorbonne, I’ve promised to see her, and she’s almost happy. We went by Métro to Montparnasse, sat ourselves down at the Versailles — which couldn’t have been gloomier (she likes only deserted cafes) — and held hands tenderly as we talked. I went to pick up Bost’s letters — there was a little one and a big one. He’s moving — only 4 km. — and reckons to stay there till March — well, there’s that at least.
[...]
I went and did some shopping with Poupette. I’d like to get my mother to make me a warm coat. Everybody says I’ve never looked so good as in these lovely turbans, which I wear over my ears like a real Indian — but that’s not much use to me. This evening we’re going to the Jockey - Poupette, Kos. and I — it should be fun to see.
I’ve kept forgetting to tell you the following: at La Pouèze, That Lady showed me the announcement of M. Jollivet’s death. It was formulated like this:
Mme Jollivet
Simone Jollivet
Mlle X (in religion Sister Y.)
Monsieur Charles Dullin
have the unhappy duty to inform you . . . etc.
Isn’t that delightful?
Tell me which letters you haven
’t received, and tell me if there was anything important in your missing letters (perhaps I do have the one of the 15th, after all — I even think so — but not those of the 16th or 12th).
Wanda has announced her arrival for tomorrow.
Goodbye, my love — how far away you are! I have a desperate need to see you and talk to you. I can’t believe all this is going to last. I love you, o yourself, and am nothing without you.
Your charming Beaver Tell me, when you have time, what you’ve written about your historicity.
[Paris]
Sunday 22 [October 1939]
My love
I’ve just found a letter from you at Gégé’s. It’s dated the 19th, so has got here fast. But in fact only half of it has come, and the one dated the 18th is missing, and the one of the 16th before that, and the one of the 12th before that again — so it couldn’t be more infuriating.
I collected your friends together, and found them interesting.180 I’m taking steps to go and see Emma. I certainly shan’t manage to be there before 1 November, but there’s some chance I could go there then — it’s complicated, but might work out.
I’m sad, sad, sad. But not tragic. Not gloomy. I’m not bored, and even have some very good times, but the need to see you is killing me.
Don’t tell Bienenfeld any longer that you’re continuing with your journal — and you’d better say you’ve lost the first notebook. I too find her letters very boring.
I find it rather annoying that you should no longer be writing to my place. It’s also annoying to think that when you get some leave, I shan’t be able to show you my room or go with you to our favourite places in Montparnasse or St Germain-des-Prés, we’ll have to skulk in some corner. If only it could happen at a time when Wanda was at Laigle. She hasn’t arrived yet.
[...]
I’m going to write a note to Bienenfeld, who thinks I’m neglecting her a bit, then I’m off with Poupette to meet the Lunar Woman at the Dôme.
My love, it’s true what you say: you’re an absence rather than a presence for me, and that’s painful. I’m living in a provisional state, everything around me and in me is provisional. I wait — quite patiently — but do nothing except wait. I wait for you, and will perhaps wait for years like this. You’re everything for me, my love
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Monday 23 October [1939]
My love
“I’ve received your letter of the 16th and am so glad it wasn’t lost. It was really long and vivid, so I feel truly close to you once more — in uninterrupted conversation with you. Perhaps this evening Gégé will bring me the ones of the 18th and 20th. There’s only the letter of the 12th which seems definitively lost. I love you, little being, passionately — but with a trace of distress. I so wish you’d be given back to me.
This morning I began my preparations to go and see Emma. They’re well under way and all I have to do is wait, but it will take at least 8 days. I don’t actually have any leave for 1 November, but that doesn’t matter, I’ll take the following Friday, Saturday and Sunday off. That’s convenient, because on the Friday I have lessons only at H. IV, and on the Saturday only at C. See, so it makes only one day’s absence at each school and there’s no need even for a doctor’s certificate.
Yesterday after writing to you I met Poupette and we walked over towards Montparnasse. There was a marvellous sunset over the Carrousel and the Seine, you can’t imagine how beautiful Paris is just now. How lovely it would be to take a walk with your little arm in mine! We went to Gégé, but stayed only an hour. I called in on Kos., then went to the Dome to meet Poupette again and the Lunar Woman. Wanda was there too, having just arrived. She was all of a fluster and quite ugly: very fat, with a blotchy complexion and looking like a peasant. When I saw her today Kos. had cut her hair and she was a little bit better - but not much. We exchanged innumerable compliments. I think she’ll take the room under her sister’s, since she really likes the hotel, having met an old friend from Dreux there. This hotel’s crammed full of women — it’s almost like a girls’ boarding school. That buxom brunette from the Dôme is here — the one who’s a model, and whom Stepha thinks has a lovely body — and yesterday she knocked at Kos.’s door and asked: ‘Got a cigarette, Madame?’ ‘Hello!’ Kos. said to her, with a friendly, even intimate look. The woman stared at her round-eyed.
We left the Dome and went off for pancakes and cider at the Crêperie. Then we went to the O.K., which is a hot, lively nightclub, quite agreeable, where I’ll take you on your first leave if there aren’t any restrictions on your movements. I was dropping with exhaustion, and the Lunar Woman was talking non-stop. She’d seen Thérèse — the mystical instructress — again, who told her that Yuki and the soldier were quite embarrassed next day to have quarrelled like that the night before. ‘But’, said Thérèse, ‘it was just the kind of evening he needed. When he gets back to the front, it’ll provide him with a fantastic memory and he won’t be able to think about anything else.’ Thérèse was meanwhile complaining, in the presence of her exhibitionist husband, about how he was now going after children. At the same time she was singing great paeans of praise to chastity, supported by quotations from the Bible. Apparently the exhibitionist really loves it when people talk about his vice in front of him. I’m glad to have seen one of them in private, because whenever you see one in the exercise of his functions you always wonder what he can be like in conventional life. Apart from that, the Lunar Woman didn’t sleep with the blond fellow. She found out he was married and her rule is not to touch a fellow when there’s another woman, as it brings bad luck. She said this, moreover, without any animus — she actually likes me, and has bought me a Gilles et Julien record,181 which is the acme of kindness since I don’t even have a gramophone. Then, while walking me home, she told me: ‘I lied to Wanda last year. I told her I’d had seven lovers, but I’d like you to know that isn’t true. I was lying to her because she kept wheedling stories out of me. You never do that — I simply tell you them.’ She told me at length the story of her Vienna lover, and also how she had 300 F. stolen from her on Sunday by the wife of the mounted policeman from whom she was trying to buy a trench-coat: they were taken from her bag while she was visiting the house. But to tell the truth I didn’t find all this in the least entertaining. I felt like going to bed, and was wondering in bewilderment what the hell I was doing with those two women. I’m heartily sick of such wartime relationships — and of Poupette, in particular.
I went home to bed and collapsed in a heap, despite Kos.’s cries from the neighbouring room — which soon stopped in any case. I woke up, as always, with an almost pathological dread. I never like the alarm-clock’s ring in the dark of a morning. But these days returning consciousness also brings back my wartime life and your absence — and I have a dreadful moment to get through. However, the weather was fine. I went to C. See and taught for two hours, interrupted by an airraid drill that passed off as benignly as everything else, then went to the 15th Arr. police station. I had my photo taken — here’s one of the snaps, in which I’m none too beautiful but in which you can see how nice my turban looks — then came back to Montparnasse and found two letters from Bost, to whom I wrote a short note from the Versailles.
Letters to Sartre Page 18
