I’ve had a note from Merleau-Ponty, who’ll be on leave on the 18th. I’ll have a long evening out with him, which will be fun. On the 17th I’m going to see the Boxers. It seems Bienenfeld won’t come to live in Paris this year in any case, so there’s that comfort at least. Perhaps next term I might manage to have a bit of time to read, which I’d really enjoy.
[...]
Listen, little one, do put pressure on Emma to do everything she can, and then I’ll do the same — I’d so like to see her! It doesn’t matter there being no trains — that didn’t stop Simone Jolibois in similar circumstances. If she’ll just invite me to come down, in a letter I can show to my mother, they’ll let me leave. Otherwise I’ll go winter-sporting — I’ve already written to Megève.
Till tomorrow, my love. I’ll write more properly. But it’s really a dull day — not dismal, I’m never dismal, but dull. Why didn’t you tell me to send some money sooner? I’ll send some off without asking your opinion — I’m angry you should be eating nothing but sausage. Goodbye, little beloved. Send me some nice photos. I kiss you most tenderly, my love
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Wednesday 6 December [1939]
My love
I’ve just received your long letter of Sunday. I think I understand perfectly what ethic you mean — but I’d like to talk to you about it.
[...]
So, after leaving you yesterday evening, I went to meet Kos. downstairs at the Dupont. There was another wire from Bienenfeld, which depressed me. She’s coming on Thursday for 4 days, and her mother’s allowing her to attend lectures at the Sorbonne — which means she’ll be coming every week. Seeing her one evening a week wouldn’t bother me, but she’s bound to be terribly demanding. I’m going to talk to Kos. about it in a minute, and that’s bothering me.
[...]
My handwriting’s so bad because I’m writing too much. Also, I never have enough time for everything I want to tell you — so I write flat out. Bost complains bitterly about not being able to decipher a thing. I’ll make a bit of an effort.
You know, my love, I think it’s a bit difficult for me to tell your mother you won’t be sleeping at her place — it’s better you do that.
I’ve finally got the joke about the rheumatic patients — but it was really hard.
I worked at the Dôme, then Kos. asked if she could bring Mouloudji along to lunch with us — at her expense. I accepted and we went to the Rotonde, where we had salt pork with red beans — delicious! It was lucky Bost had admitted he’d been to Marseilles,220 since Mouloudji came right out with the fact that he’d seen him, in a way that left no possible doubt. He’s really agreeable — even more so than last year — and I found him delightful.
I arrived home to find an extremely affectionate note from Merleau-Ponty, who says he’ll be most happy during his leave to see me for a long day ‘in the same way that people see each other on a boat or a walking-trip’. I’ve also had a letter from Bienenfeld, very sweet, saying that she won’t be demanding and will let me keep all my appointments. At once, I’m glad to be seeing her. I spoke about her to Kos., who took it with nobility of soul: that girl has become a veritable angel.
I’m finishing off quickly since at 6 I’m expecting Sorokine, with whom
I’m going to The Damnation of Faust.221 I’ll tell you about that tomorrow.
Goodbye, my dear little one. How sweet your letters are, and what savour they impart to my life! In my own, it always seems to me that I’m unable to tell you sufficiently how I love you, and all that you are for me. O my love, how I long to see you! I’m beginning to be in agonies. I love you, my sweet little one
Your charming Beaver
Are we going to tell Bienenfeld I’m returning to see Emma again? Concealing, of course, how I persuaded her.
[Paris]
Thursday 7 December [1939]
My love
This morning I had your Monday letter, which once again filled me to overflowing with love for you. I’m glad you’ve finally received the books and that you’re pleased with them. I’m longing to know how you’re going to be billeted, and what resources you’ll have there. Also, whether you’ll find some friendly laundress222 — that’s so important.
Well, Sorokine arrived at 6 yesterday and, by sundry signs of nervousness, made clear to me that we should get down to kissing right away — which was done. After that, we went and caught the A.F. at Montparnasse — having first bought some cakes, bananas and dates. We ensconced ourselves in a little cafe next to the Opera, and I told her lots of stories — she was in seventh heaven. Then we took two seats at the back of a ground-floor box and listened to The Damnation of Faust. You know its merits — there are some very agreeable bits. The singing was lifeless and the production absurd, but I still enjoyed hearing it from beginning to end. Sorokine was clasping my hands and kissing me in the dark. She was really happy, and her happiness and affection made her quite beautiful. She’s unlucky to have come into my life so late — I could have cared a great deal for her. We stayed till the last interval, when — on perceiving to our astonishment that while the orchestra was playing Invitation to the Waltz, the curtain was rising upon a Louis XV salon — we fled into the night. We had a lot of trouble finding a cafe willing to serve us, because it was almost 11. After that, we circled for a further 10 minutes round our Métro stations. She said she loved me ever so much more than her girl-friend, and recounted to me all her happy and unhappy memories concerning her relations with me. She’s pleased at the thought that we’ve made so much progress in 3 months. I said: ‘Yes, things couldn’t be better than they are now.’ But she protested vigorously, considering on the contrary that lots of improvements could still be made. Here, I think she’ll be disappointed. She howled like a banshee, of course, when I finally went down to my Métro, so that we almost parted in anger. However, at 12.30 this morning she was all smiles — bringing me a chocolate treat, and paying me hundreds of other little attentions. Whatever shall I do with her? I really don’t know. I’ve warned her that all this is exceptional, and after the war I’ll have much less to give her; but I’ve also told her I’ll never drop her. All the same, I’m not worried. I know I’m going to work and to see you — the rest will always fall into place. Arriving home, I fell asleep at once and carried on till past 8 this morning. I went to the post office, then to the Versailles to read your letter. I did an hour’s work. Since yesterday, I’ve been revising the novel from the beginning. I’ve had enough of inventing drafts; everything’s in place now and I want to write some definitive stuff. I’m enjoying it enormously, and it seems terribly — quite seductively — easy. I went to school, had lunch with Sorokine, then Henri IV, then I came home and am writing to you while waiting — neither joyfully nor sullenly — for Bienenfeld, who’s arriving at about 5.30. So I’m reading those gloomy Garnets de Moleskine — which are quite good, really.
Goodbye, my dear little one — tomorrow I’ll tell you in detail all about Bienenfeld. She’ll be less oppressive than last time. I still have no news of Bost.
Till tomorrow, my love. I do so, so long to see you without delay. I’m living in impatience and uncertainty these days, and wholly focused upon this uncertain Christmas. I love you, my little one — with a tender, tender love, young and fresh and even a little moist. I kiss you, most passionately.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Friday 8 December 1939]
Most dear little being
So you’re a switchboard operator now? I laughed at the thought of you in front of your infernal machine, like the fat woman outside the washrooms at the Dôme. But I do hope it won’t take up too much of your time, my luckless pet. I’m waiting impatiently for tomorrow’s letter, which will tell me the whole story — and also perhaps tell me where things have got to with the Emma business.
Yesterday, as I waited for Bienenfeld and the dressmaker, it was the Lunar Woman who turned up — she’d come
to see the dressmaker. She told me her husband had written to me, which astonished me, but I haven’t actually received the letter. She also told me she was delighted to be going out with me on Saturday and would put on her beautiful dress. And she added with a smile: ‘Just for the sake of it — I still feel all dolled up in my Sunday best when I wear it.’ You probably know about Wanda helping her compose a letter to her lover, the Pole. The lover was so moved by it that he came back to her, telling her she was wonderful. We chatted like this for a while. No dressmaker. But Bienenfeld did turn up, disconcerted in the first flush of her passion by the Lunar Woman’s presence. The three of us conducted a proper, worldly conversation. The Lunar Woman said she was anti-semitic in general, but not in particular — which really made Bienenfeld laugh. In the end, I left the Lunar Woman in my room to wait for the dressmaker (who never turned up actually), while I went off with Bienenfeld. We went to the Coupole, where I stuffed myself like a pig. But there was a modestly-dressed fellow next to us who was stuffing himself far more shamefully. He ordered good wine, red caviar, and a truffle cooked in the embers — which is a really splendid dish. They bring you a big buttered-paper package, covered with embers; you pierce the paper, and take out a splendid little puff pastry; you open the pastry, and inside you find an enormous truffle. He ate it with an air of calm restraint. After that we went to Les Vikings for a glass of akvavit — it was altogether deserted. My feelings for Bienenfeld were quite tender, but as so often it was all gentle to the point almost of boredom, against a background of benevolence and esteem. She’s probably going to come back to Paris, but that doesn’t dismay me. I’ll give her two evenings a week, taken from Kos. who’ll still have 5 — she doesn’t ask for more, plus an hour gleaned here and there. It makes no difference. We chatted — about her work and her life — and she was charming. I could feel the charm in the object, but without warmth in myself. Yet, you see, it’s quite different from the other time, since there’s affection and friendship this time, and moral approval. I at once recovered the normal tone of our physical relations: easy and limpid like rock water. We anyway skimped the embraces rather, leaving more time for sleep.
[...]
After that I went to school, and I’ll tell you the rest tomorrow. I’m with Bienenfeld and don’t have time now. Till tomorrow, when I’ll have further entertaining things to write to you about. I love you, my sweet little one.
Your charming Beaver
Le Dôme
Paris, Sunday 10 December [1939]
Most dear little being
I’ve hundreds of little stories to tell you, but I don’t know if I’ll have time, since I’m expecting Kos. at any moment. I’ll start anyway, and tomorrow I’ll be able to write a long letter at my leisure.
[...]
After leaving [the Opéra-Comique] we kept to the boulevards, and Bienenfeld confessed to being upset, because she’d read a little note I’d written to Kos. — but never sent — and found it tender. It had struck her, above all, as something concrete. I explained carefully how things like that are always concrete, saying she was too straightforward and needed to see things in their complexity — and we talked rationally and agreeably about love, jealousy, freedom, etc.
[...]
My love, I can really feel how your life is, at the Hôtel Bellevue.223 You describe it so well, and I can feel how it’s like a strange kind of nature. I’m sad today, which is the first time for ages. It’s not a matter of being gloomy or anything, but precisely sadness — because of the Christmas holidays, because I’m losing hope. I’m scared of going really crazy once that’s definitely lost.
Following my conversations with Bienenfeld, I’ve started an investigation regarding men’s opinion of me physically. For normally it’s only women who find me pretty. Kanapa thinks I’m good-looking, but not the pretty kind. Levy, on the other hand, thinks I’m pretty and even quite beautiful. The Lunar Man thinks I’m very good-looking. I’ve seen a hilarious letter from him, in which he tells his wife he’s going to write to Poupette and to me, seeing that upon reflection he has concluded he basically doesn’t know us well at all. I’ve recovered my warm feelings for Bienenfeld, in a calm way — but they’ve always been like that.
Goodbye, my sweet little one. Tomorrow I’ll write you a nice letter. I miss you, my love, and have such a need to see you. Solitude may well be of benefit to me, but how hard your absence is for me! I long for your little face, your voice, your gestures, and your tenderness. I’m quite melting with tenderness for you today — and it’s painful. My love, I don’t know what I’d give to see you. I kiss you passionately, little beloved.
Your charming Beaver
Since Kos. isn’t arriving, Ill begin my story. You can reread the beginning along with tomorrow’s letter to make a whole, since it was entertaining.
The Lunar Woman turned up at the Dôme, truly splendid — with a fur-lined coat, the most beautiful brown moleskin hat that suits her to perfection, a shoulder-bag, and an extremely modish umbrella. Wondering where to go, we chose La Villa — you know, on the corner of Rue Vavin, one of the few nightclubs we’ve never been into. It’s comical, a bit like a provincial dancehall — and, in particular, like the Royal at Rouen: same shoddy decor, poor band, hostesses in worn satin. The Lunar Woman ate a cold platter, and we drank a bottle of Chablis between us. We chatted, while the hostesses dressed themselves up as chorus-girls and came out to do little turns on the dance-floor. People were dancing, moreover, which greatly surprised us — but it was only yesterday the dancehalls reopened. The chorus-girls were atrocious. They turned up first in Eton collars, with short, pleated skirts, tartan bows in their hair and tartan collars, leaving just their breasts bare as in certain Chinese sculptures — isolated in this way they had the look of unwholesome excrescences. The Lunar Woman studied them with interest, since she’s interested in women just now, and particularly appreciated those that were really large and heavy. After that, they came on disguised as Polish, English, etc. soldiers, to the strains of the Madelon,224 and it was just like a bad parody of some music-hall in 1917. After that they made further costume changes — but it was always just as wretched. The one pleasing thing was that at about 1.30 the cops turned up — with their fine gleaming helmets and torches strapped to their chests — and mingled with all those satins, and that music, and those glittering officers (for there were some), and asked people for their papers. That made it like a real wartime evening — it was powerful stuff. At first the conversation was rather glum, since the Lunar Woman subsequently confessed she’d come along with no desire to tell me any of her stories — having the idea that relations between us had soured — but little by little I got her talking and she told me some marvellous ones. Just imagine, the other evening at Youki’s there was another session of the same kind as that one I attended. Everybody left gradually, leaving Blanche Picard (that former actress from the Atelier with the dark, passionate soul who hates Kos. and Toulouse, and whom people used to call hysterical because she no longer screwed around), whom they sent to bed; Youki; her latest pimp Pierre, whom the Lunar Woman and Wanda admire, and who whenever he sleeps with a woman binds her hands behind her back; and the Lunar Woman herself. She wanted to leave, but Youki made her stay on. Youki took off half her clothes and started dancing and doing gymnastics; then, at a certain moment, she went off to throw up the alcohol she’d drunk during the evening and came back saying: I’’ve taken off my panties, that’ll be easier,’ and sat down on Pierre’s lap, having first taken care to dress him in a Japanese kimono. The Lunar Woman began playing and listening to a gramophone record, which she put on four or five times without daring to turn her head while the others were screwing — though she later blamed herself for her timidity. Once that was over, Youki rushed off and fetched a tiny basin and, in front of the two others, sat on it and began washing herself. ‘It was funny’, the Lunar Woman said, ‘because all three of us were so big and the basin was so very small.’ After that, Youki invited the
Lunar Woman to stay the night — so she obediently went and stretched out beside Blanche Picard, who was whimpering with rage. B. Picard has slept with Youki, and is jealous of her privileges. Youki and Pierre screwed again in the dining-room, then — when the Lunar Woman was already asleep — Youki arrived, turned on the light, and made such a noise she woke everyone up, before stretching out next to the Lunar Woman who was thus sandwiched between Blanche and her. Youki began toying with her breasts, saying: ‘I can’t sleep’, but the Lunar Woman disengaged herself. In the end, however, albeit refusing any reciprocal favours, she had to resign herself to ‘putting Youki to sleep’, while next to her Blanche was fuming with rage. Don’t you find that a lovely story?
[...]
After that they threw us out. The Lunar Woman was still thirsty for alcohol and Stimmung225 but as I could offer her neither one nor the other I let her vanish into the streets alone while I went home.
Now I’ve told you the lot, it’s 3 o’clock and Kos. isn’t here yet. So much the better. You can see how conversation, alcohol and the setting interlocked to provide a really entertaining evening.
[Paris]
Monday 11 December [1939]
My love
I’ve just received your letter and one from Bost, and a great, gloomy coldness has spread across the world. Partly because of Emma — if she can’t do anything, what shall I be able to do with only three or four days left? I’ll make an application on Thursday, but almost without hope — but above all because of Bost. He has written me a letter from the other world, and I’m paralysed by the thought of writing to him — I feel as though I’d be writing to a spectre. Even his handwriting has changed. I’m sending you it — a copy should be made of it in toto. It’s not gloomy, it’s worse — he’s somewhere else and lost. It’s almost as strange, coming from Bost, as though he’d gone mad.
Letters to Sartre Page 27
