Letters to Sartre

by Simone de Beauvoir

  So I finished my letters yesterday evening and went to bed. I slept sparingly (for a little over 7 hours) but very well, and woke up fresh and cheerful, with one good day behind me and another ahead of me, with letters in prospect, my work, and — further away on the horizon — the Easter holidays with Bost and your leave. Now I’ll be prolonging that by a summer spent with you — how splendid that would be! We’d look out for a convenient little querencia, we’d get hold of lots of books, we’d talk and work and I’d manage to find some way of gadding about a bit — and we’d be so united and happy, my love! It would remind me of our holidays at Ste Radegonde,260 do you recall? That’s already an age ago, but it warms my heart whenever I remember it. We were reading Point Counterpoint at the time, and you were working on La Légende de la Vérité.261 We didn’t have any money, but you could picnic in the woods for ten francs. Do you recall the little pilgrimage we made to Tours? That was only two years ago. We really loved each other there too. Alas! if you were to abandon me — from authenticity or any other whim262 — there’s no doubt about it, I shouldn’t endure the blow with as much dignity as Bienenfeld. I can’t imagine what would become of me, the world would crumble beneath my feet. [...] I think you should write to her once at least — to answer her, and to say that you find writing pointless — since she told me sadly: ‘He’s hostile.’ She still goes to the post office to look for your letters, which I find pitiful.

  [...]

  My detective story’s still very enjoyable, and I’ll send it to you. Now I’m going to write to Bost, then I’ll meet Kos. and spend the evening with her. I’m ashamed of these letters, so much shorter than yours, but it’s also the case that I don’t have such moral and sentimental tempests. My life’s uneventful and subdued, albeit illuminated by the satisfaction of good work done and all those pleasing hopes on the horizon. My little one, how splendid it would be to live with you, even in the wretchedest hole in all flea-ridden Champagne! Goodbye, dear, dear little being. You’re my life. I love you

  Your charming Beaver

  [Paris]

  Saturday 9 March [1940]

  Most dear little being

  I’m writing to you again from that little Café Perrier, since I’m off to another concert at the Salle Gaveau. It’s piano this time, with a lovely programme: lots of Bach, some Mussorgsky, and a tiny bit of Liszt. Tomorrow I’m going to the Conservatoire again, so I’ll have had plenty of music this week. On the other hand, I’ve absolutely stopped reading — I haven’t even finished 48 yet. Since you left I’ve just read a detective story and two issues of the N.R.F.. I quite like the Saroyan story in the last number, though it’s a genre which can also seem a bit stereotyped. I haven’t yet had your letter, but hope to find it at home when I get back, and I’ll answer before going to sleep. Let me repeat, do write to me at home from now on — since the Kos. sisters have stopped coming here — and do send me some books, my sweet little one.

  [...]

  It’s after 12.30, and I’m going to write a note to Little Bost — but a very short one, I think — then go to sleep.

  Goodbye, my love. If you’ve been clever enough to write to me at home, I’ll have a letter tomorrow. I love you so intensely, my dear little one — you haven’t forgotten, have you? Your little letters are so sweet. How happy we’ll be in three weeks’ time! How we’ll talk! And I’ll once again see you wake up beside me with your little arms cradling the pillow. I love you

  Your charming Beaver

  [Paris]

  Sunday 10 March [1940]

  My sweet little one

  What a tender little spring evening this is! It fills your heart with sweet melancholy. I’ve just come out of the concert and I’m at the Café de la Poste Montmartre. I’m meeting Kos. at the Touraine in half an hour, and I’d really like to stroll through the streets of the Butte and take advantage of this lovely evening. Lots of little memories have come to moisten my eyes during today. How I’d love to stroll through the streets, on an evening just like this, clasping your little arm. But that’ll come, my little one, and before very long. I’m beginning to miss you again, miss you dreadfully, o yourself — joy and salt and happiness of my life.

  [...]

  I got down to work. I was writing a rather hard scene, and racked my brains over it all day. I don’t know if it’s all right, but I’ll have another look tomorrow. Barely pausing to snatch a bite, I went at it so hard that my head was throbbing. Bienenfeld came and worked alongside me, elegant and rather beautiful, but with the most appalling dumb-show of sidelong glances, discreet mysterious smiles, hesitations, etc. — all in order to, ask me passionately on a Métro platform whether I still loved her just as much. Really, what gets into her? Does she imagine I could just say no and be done with it? I’ve already told you how stupid and blameworthy I find that method. So I said yes — without too much warmth — and she clasped my hands reverently. But she admits she no longer feels any great surges of passion for me. She’s getting over it so far as you’re concerned, but there’s still just a little painful flare-up every so often — and a feeling of disenchantment. She’s prophesying doom like a Cassandra (what’s new?) and hesitating between the concentration camp and suicide, with a preference for suicide: she calls this sensing her destiny. I’ve been delighted about your rupture, since on my own I find I’ve incredibly much more freedom where she’s concerned. For example: (after the war) no more Bienenfeld at winter sports — the two of us will go on our own to that little Chalet Ideal-Sport. Moreover, the road’s open for her to love someone else and detach herself tearfully from me.

  After that I rushed over here by taxi, so as to have time to write to you. This is a very humdrum letter, my dear little one, but my heart’s not dusty, as you well know, and I love you — o dear little one, so full of life. It quite wrings my heart to think of you in that dismal hut, in your exile, and none too cheerful yourself.

  Do send the books to me and to Bost too.

  You’ll now get two letters on Tuesday and none on Wednesday, but too bad! — I’m still going to post this one straight away. Goodbye, my beloved, I love you.

  Your charming Beaver

  [Paris]

  Monday 11 [March 1940]

  My sweet little one

  I’m going to write you a first little letter before Bienenfeld arrives, then I’ll write again this evening before going to bed. But I must tell you straight away that from Saturday I’ll be at Nettancourt (Meuse).263 So write to: Poste Restante, Nettancourt, Meuse. Wednesday’s letter is the last you should send me in Paris (the letter written on Wednesday and sent as usual: that’s how they arrive — in a day — if I understand right, so that I get them two days after the date of the letter, which is what you haven’t understood this time). My little one, how happy I am about all the things you tell me, o little busy one! I’m pretty busy myself this evening, and so happy. So you’ll be moving back? We’ll go and eat at Soleil d’Or, at that nice little St-Cyr.264 But I’m wondering, of course — being what they call the worrying kind — how we’ll manage to hide from Kos. the fact of my spending so many evenings with you. For if you tell Wanda, she’ll undoubtedly make a fuss. If I don’t tell Kos., what can I come up with instead that won’t stick out like a sore thumb? Well, if it’s in June or thereabouts that’ll be easier, as I shan’t have school any more and can organize my time far more easily. But how glad I am, my little one! I’ll be spending my holidays with you, then? Perhaps I’ll live actually at St-Cyr. I can work as I please, eat at the Soleil d’ Or — like that lady-boarder we used to see there, in the days of your military service — and every so often we’d go to Paris and celebrate. At any rate, no more separations!

  If you come on the 26th, I’d infinitely rather you saw Wanda first. I reckon you’d join me on the morning of the 30th — which would make three days and four evenings for Wanda like last time — wouldn’t you? That would be perfect. We’d have the whole of Saturday and Sunday, when there’s no school. My little one, i
n 3 weeks’ time at this hour, I’ll be having dinner with you — and perhaps precisely at Lipp’s, which is where I’m writing from. I love you.

  I thoroughly approve of your letter to Bienenfeld, which I’ll give her in ¼ of an hour. [...]

  I shan’t spend any money while I’m with Bost, since I shan’t even eat lunch in the middle of the day — I’ll tighten my belt. I’m really pleased to be going off to see him. I’m going to work hard down there, so I’ll have a hundred little pages to show you after all I’ve just been given my pass.

  Goodbye, my little one. Tonight I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing since yesterday. There are one or two tiny things that will make you laugh. I love you — with busy, contented kisses. Goodbye for now, my little one.

  Your charming Beaver

  [Paris]

  Tuesday [12 March 1940]

  Most dear little being

  I’ve been a very unworthy morganatic spouse. Bienenfeld left me so late that I couldn’t write to you last night, but just fell asleep. I’m going to write you a huge letter now, though, and have taken measures to have all the time I need for it.

  Do you know where I’m writing from, with this lovely green ink — a capsule of which I’ve just stolen? From Dullin’s private office, where Toulouse ensconced me while she’s busy in the prop-room. I can see that little Rue d’ Orsel through the window, and enjoy being here at the heart of the Atelier: in that converted box at the top of the stairs — do you know it? I’ll first tell you about yesterday evening, since you may be a bit anxious about it. I met Bienenfeld at 8 and at once informed her that I had a letter, which she might or might not be pleased with. We talked for a while and I began eating, then a moment later she asked me for it. She read it through, and at this first reading — without actually reacting against anything — found it disagreeable. She then reread it, however, and was more or less soothed. She said that one of the hardest things at this time had been precisely being left without a letter — in a vague uncertainty that was like being enmired in gloom — but that things would go better now. We left Lipp’s fairly soon and, as it was a mild, star-spangled night, went as far as the Seine. Twelve searchlights were criss-crossing in the sky and the scene was really beautiful. The guns fired twice, then it was all over. We came back and sat in the front part of the Flore, not far from Sonia. The Flore was full, and I saw Gégé who fixed an appointment with me for tomorrow (which is good, since I can put the squeeze on her too). Adamov was there, and Chonez, and Fargue, and all the usual gang including lots of pleasing, pretty women. We stayed there till 11.30, shivering just the tiniest bit, and I felt myself more in sympathy with Bienenfeld than for a long while. She was rational and calm and straightforward. She did weep a bit, not because you said this or that to her, but because it was a letter from you — and that simple reaction seemed rather touching after all her metaphysics. She said, too, that she’d thought she’d removed you from her life — because you were far away, there weren’t any letters and everything seemed easy — but in fact at the first letter she’d found herself all cut up again. But this was said perfectly calmly. She said that actually, out of your entire past, it was only she with whom you’d severed relations. Also that she quite understood, she was too little; and that this was what used to torment her, when you’d tell her about your life or write your notebooks and she’d always have the impression that it was against her; that she wouldn’t be able to catch you up; and that she’d spent last year waiting and thinking about the perfect happiness she’d share with you in the future, but she’d been wrong not to feel her age — and she did feel it now. And she said that, in a sense, the path taken by this affair struck her as necessary; and it was this, above all, which poured some balm onto her wounded heart — but a bitter balm, since she felt it was rotten for her all the same. She feels astonished by the crazy speed of her affair with you, and at having fallen for you so quickly. I told her it all seemed rather artificial — love grown in an incubator — but she protested a bit, saying that it still wouldn’t go away so easily. That made me laugh, since it has almost gone away in 3 weeks — proving, on the contrary, quite incredibly easy. She says she finds it strange to think that you’ve been ‘an episode in her life’, but she’s beginning to contemplate that idea even so. I asked her whether a rupture with me would have hurt her more or less, and she reassuringly answered: ‘the same’ — which does indeed reassure me, since I’ll be able to break off when my day comes without wrecking her life. It’s funny how she’s scared of things in advance — quite frantically so — but then absorbs them. She’s scared of herself in a way: scared precisely of her life being reconstructed in a different way — scared of the future she knows she’d like to have. We talked about her. She admitted she’d been ‘intoxicated’ last year. She made me laugh when I told her she didn’t like things but people and she protested, saying she was so sensitive to atmospheres that on Sunday - for 5 minutes — she’d regretted resuming work. She said that if she’d really cared about that affair with you, she wouldn’t have resumed work - and though she was too rational for that, of course, it was what she’d wanted. That really sums her up, don’t you think? I found her helpless and pitiful, but I can’t contemplate spending a week on my own with her.

  [...]

  I love you, my little one, and have felt it really strongly these past days, with a combination of joy and suffering. I feel it as more of a separation than last time, perhaps because you yourself feel alone — and that rather distresses me. I need you. In 18 days’ time I’ll be seeing you, my little one. I feel a certain regret and remorse not to be coming straight away, but it would be silly to lose 3 days of Bost and have to spend 3 days in Paris — with you there but without my being able to see you. This way I’ll arrive, pick you up and not let you go again. Why did you tell your family about this leave? Write to Nettancourt (Meuse), poste restante. I love you, my beloved.

  Your charming Beaver

  Brasserie at the Hotel Lutétia

  Square du Bon Marché

  [Paris]

  Wednesday [13 March 1940]

  Most dear little being

  I’m very annoyed and jolly dismal. I’ve just received a note from Bost — in utter despair — telling me they’re moving him somewhere 20 km away, this week. That doesn’t make it impossible to go and see him, of course, but it’ll delay things a lot, since he doesn’t know exactly either where or when he’s going, or whether he’ll find another room for me to stay in. I think I’ll be able to manage to get my pass altered, but suddenly nothing’s certain any more and it’s one of those things that plunge you into gloom. As I’ve told you, moreover, I’m finding everything dreary in general since the leave periods ended, especially these days — so I was just carelessly letting things drift, shoulders hunched and eyes fixed on that Saturday which seemed to set the limit on my present life. But that limit’s now receding — so here I am, suddenly plunged into dreariness until Heaven knows when. I’ll doubtless get another letter at 5, so I’ll add a note to tell you how things stand. Meanwhile, write to Paris, poste restante, because I’ll have the mail forwarded but don’t want to tell the hotel where I’m going.

  The weather’s fine this afternoon. I wouldn’t care a hang for anything else, if I thought you’d appear — with your busy step, and your smile that has just come back to me so vividly — and lead me through the streets on your little arm. I love you, my little one — but, as I was telling you yesterday, with a touch of distress: with need and urgency. I love you, and in a fortnight I’ll see you. My love.

  Your charming Beaver

  [Paris]

  Thursday 14 March [1940]

  Most dear little being

  No letter from you this evening — I’m a bit disappointed and need two tomorrow. But yesterday I got your lovely typed letter: how clever you are then, my little one, and how you did surprise me! I’d no idea you’d be able to type so beautifully — there are hardly any mistakes and it all hangs together very
well. My sweet little one, in two weeks now it’ll be the 28th and I’ll be on the point of seeing you — or more or less so. You’ll be in Paris, at any rate, and only my ill nature will be preventing me from seeing you. My love, we’ll be as happy as last time in that little Hôtel Mistral. I love you so much, little man.

  I’m far less nervy than yesterday. I’ve had some more reassuring letters from Bost. First, he may not be moving — and in any case he won’t move far. I’ll go to Vitry-le François on Sunday anyway, since he’ll definitely be able to spend the day there and make plans with me. Keep writing poste restante to Paris — I’ll have everything forwarded and give you another address as soon as I’m settled.

  After taking my leave of you yesterday I caught the S, which conveyed me to Place Médicis. I spotted Sorokine, who had a wild look and — uninvited — was keeping watch on the gate to the Luxembourg through which she expected to see me arrive. She was quite surprised when I touched her on the shoulder, but accompanied me to the staff meeting at school. I was expecting to get off with 10 min. but actually spent ¾ hr there — though I did manage to correct a pile of essays, so it wasn’t time wasted. I met her again in front of the Mahieu, looking grim and already convinced that I’d gone away on purpose to spite her. I took her with me by taxi to the post office, where I found Bost’s second letter. I was terribly put out and tense — as I warned her, with profuse apologies — but did my best to be nice. It went pretty well, we talked a bit about my novel and about her. We kissed, but I warned her that she’d have to leave just before eight, so that I could finish some letters — though I’d make up the lost time to her with interest, through an extra hour. But she still pulled a long face and began to wrangle, so I said irritably I couldn’t comprehend what pleasure she could take in staying, when I wanted her to leave. At this she went with dignity to collect her coat and proceeded out of the door, but she couldn’t even bring herself to go as far as the stairs. Instead, she waited openly for me to bid her come back — and when I said nothing returned of her own accord. She let out a stream of apologies, so did I, and we parted tenderly.