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Letters to Sartre

Page 40

by Simone de Beauvoir


  When I arrived back, I found the woman looking very scared and mistrustful. I spent an hour prostrate on my bed, after which the lieutenants came back, as affable as could be. C, who lived just opposite me, invited me over for a brandy at his place. Man to man, they considered the chances of the captain of gendarmes not cancelling my safe-conduct. Then they came back to search my room. They leafed through your notebooks, making comments — and proud of finding themselves in a position to despise the intelligentsia. C. asked me severely how a person could accept being just a meteorologist, instead of waging war properly. They inspected my own notebooks and my novel — politely, but with an intolerably superior attitude that I was obliged to endure. They left in sportive mood, promising themselves to take me next day to the gendarmerie and explain everything to the captain.

  I flung myself on my bed. I was deeply and painfully humiliated. I depended upon those people — and not just as pieces of machinery but on their consciousnesses, which I was flattering and bowing and scraping to, because in their hands they held something about which I cared so much. I understood and felt lots of things that I don’t have time to elaborate here, about humiliation and despair — and the absence of freedom. In the depressed state I was in, all this was magnified — becoming vast and overwhelming. I remained motionless for over two hours, crushed by my feeling of utter gloom — though this kind of full gloom is ultimately less painful than gloom due to emptiness. In any case, you reach a point of such nervous exhaustion that you can eventually endure anything.

  At this point Bost turned up, carrying a bottle of Barsac and all smiles. He knew nothing. I told him what had happened, but for quite a while — until tears came to my eyes — he thought I was just teasing him. Then he was horror-struck, and touched me both by his despair and by his subsequent indifference to any punishment, if only I could fix things so as to stay on. He was summoned to see that Lieutenant M. he talks so much about, with whom he had the following exchange:

  - This morning, when I met you, I asked you where you’d been and you told me: “To post a letter”. Was that true?’

  - ‘No, sir.’

  - ‘You’d just been seeing her?’

  - ‘Yes, sir.’ He smiled. ‘She’s not the first woman to have come here.’

  - ‘No, but she’s the first to get herself caught.’

  He returned, after first begging some fellows to stand in for him next day at the range. We were pretty distraught for a time, and I even had a fit of sobbing — I was at the end of my tether. Again we didn’t eat, but went to bed very early and set the alarm for 6: we were already in bed by 9 and tried to get to sleep at about 11 — and I did in fact manage to sleep, without too much inner turmoil.

  From 6 to 8, we stayed in bed and talked, with heavy hearts. Then Bost came back again from 8.30 to 10 and from 11 to 1, but we still didn’t eat — or just some sardines and chocolate, washed down with Moulin a Vent. I don’t know why, but our hopes were reviving somewhat and we chatted almost cheerfully. We were pretty pleased to have seen each other at any rate for those 24 hrs — there was that at least. Bost went off, and I wrote the first part of this letter. I was waiting for the lieutenants in much the same mood in which a person awaits gaolers taking him before a judge — I wasn’t feeling too bright. B. came back again for a moment, then the lieutenants arrived. J. was to conduct me on his own to Seunaize, 15 km away, to see the captain of gendarmes. He was slightly encouraging — but not over much — so I set off in the military vehicle with him and two soldiers, feeling pretty desperate. We drove through the countryside, arrived at the gendarmerie headquarters and waited for the captain. I’d lost all hope. The captain arrived — a splendid man with wavy blond hair, dark eyes and a swarthy complexion — and the sight of him restored a bit of vigour to my spirits. The lieutenant was closeted with him to plead my cause, while I discussed with the gendarmes. Then they brought me back in to face the captain alone. I allowed my eyes to brim over with tears that were in any case not far away, since I felt that an attitude of weakness and despair was good policy. I also made good play with a strangled voice. The fellow explained to me the reasons for their suspicion almost apologetically, then hesitated, before eventually authorizing me to remain in Nettancourt — for which he even gave me a stamp, which beats all!

  I’ve now just found a taxi and am leaving for Nettancourt. All I now hope is that they’ll agree to put me up. I know there’s room in the hotel, but what if they think I’m a spy? I’ll show my papers and have another go at winning them over.

  That’s all — till tomorrow, my little one, my taxi’s waiting. I love you with all my might.

  Your charming Beaver

  My love, I think I’m finally at peace. I’ve found a room for this evening at the hotel and a definitive private lodging from tomorrow. The lieutenant of whom I was brazen enough to make the request has promised to inform B.; and although I’m not sure whether that’ll be done quickly enough for me to see him today, I’ll certainly do so tomorrow — and we’d anyway arranged that he’d call in here tomorrow. The only problem is that the place is outside the area of his billet — but apparently there’s almost no chance of his being nabbed. I’m going to try and get your letters forwarded to me, and also the money I requested from That Lady. We’ve already had some money problems, as we needed some for taxi expenses and hadn’t got a bean, but B. eventually managed to borrow what we needed. I must either retrieve what was sent to Ch. or else have some more sent.

  Goodbye for now, my little one. Write to Poste Restante, Nettancourt, Meuse — we’re back to there. I feel as though I’d lived through a week in these past three days. And all I’ve eaten since Saturday evening is: three cakes (Sunday), 3 eggs and three sardines (Monday), 2 sardines and a packet of petits-beurre (today). Now I’m going to buy myself something for dinner. The good lady of the house is going to cook for me, which will be perfect. I’m not sure whether I’ve told you the whole story properly. So far as yesterday’s concerned, you must situate it all in a black state of depression and nervousness that made me feel the war, fascism, the concentration camps, as violently as Bienenfeld does — but in a more intimate way, I think. You know: a nature that, once grasped, needs only to be extended for it to attain full dimensions.

  My love, you’ve been my only comfort all this time. I love you and kiss you most tenderly.

  Your charming Beaver

  [Nettancourt (Meuse)]

  Thursday 21 March [1940]

  My sweet little one

  It’s only 8 in the morning, and I’m too wide awake to go back to sleep but still too sleepy to work, so I’ll start a letter to you. I wanted to do so anyway, since my heart’s swelling with love for you and I felt disturbed last night at the thought that, in those last agitated letters of mine, I can’t have told you sufficiently how much I love you. My beloved. In a week, my sweet little one, I’ll be within two days of taking your little arm and giving you a big, big kiss. What a lot of things we’ll have to say to each other, my love, and how happy we’ll be!

  [...]

  We looked to see whether the coast was clear and B. left. I went back up to my room, slipped back into bed, and am now feeling as happy as can be. I’ve read a bit more of Fear and Trembling: it’s badly constructed and long-winded, but that fellow did realize what an existential ethics was — and you can already sense there what Kafka owes to him. I’ll read the other one too, since he interests me more than I expected.

  But now I’m going to try and get down to some work, despite everything. It’s a delight to have a blank day ahead of me, like a day of sickness without being sick. Goodbye for now, my sweet little one. I’m quite melting with affection for you, and moved at the thought of getting your letters — as though I were going to see you in the flesh. I love you.

  Hullo again, my love. It’s 4 and I’m just off to the post office. I’ve spent an excellent day. The good lady departed and here I am on my own, like the owner of this big house. I’ve installed mysel
f in the kitchen where there’s a vast table, and since 9 this morning I’ve done barely anything but work. Someone sold me some eggs on the doorstep, so I put three of them to boil on the range — which was blazing away behind my back and has kept me nice and warm. This evening B. will relight the fire and make us a proper dinner with steaks. I’m going to do the shopping, keeping close to the walls. This afternoon was really delightful in this lovely warm, bright kitchen. There are cats in one corner, hens and a lamb in the courtyard, so it’s all still full of life — this house where there’s no human being but me.

  I’m a bit uneasy about going out — I hope nothing will happen to me. It’s going to the post office that’s furthest — but I do so want your letters.

  Goodbye, little beloved. I hug and kiss you. I’m happy to think my adventures have given you some entertainment. I love you, my dear little one.

  Your charming Beaver

  I love you — and while writing your address was seized by a passionate desire to tell you so, loudly, loudly, loudly, my little one.

  [Nettancourt (Meuse)]

  Friday 22 March [1940]

  My dear, dear love

  How I was longing to get some letters from you! And here at last are two of them, somewhat old — they’re from last Friday and Saturday — but even so it’s your little writing and your affection that are restored to me: my heart was bursting all morning. My love, I’m so grieved to have made you postpone your leave. I find it rather disturbing to be so far away from you, in terms of power to communicate. All you have to do now is wire NETTANCOURT — MEUSE (Poste Restante) and I could certainly be in Paris the day after you send the cable, if need be. I’d never get over it if I missed you, even for only a day. I need you, my little one. My being so happy here now is all to no avail — a mixture of need and anguish is fixed there inside me. I love you, my beloved.

  I’ve also had the money from That Lady, so I’m altogether contented now. There remains just the tiniest blur of insecurity, connected with Host’s visits and my healthy fear of the gendarmes.

  [...]

  I’ll add just a word. I feel a vague remorse with respect to you. I delayed your leave, my little one, and though I know you don’t hold it against me that does distress me. I don’t like sacrificing the least thing about you to anything else at all, so I’m on the verge of nervous tears. I always feel I’m not nice enough to you, whatever I do. That’s because you’re so terribly nice yourself, my love — terribly, terribly.

  I approve with all my heart — and both hands too — the plan for a prologue.269 That’ll be so moving and agreeable.

  You’ll have to see Bienenfeld for 2 hrs but no more while I’m at school. Wanda certainly wasn’t pregnant — but why the devil was she so unhappy? She left last Sunday for Laigle, but you must know that by now.

  Goodbye, my love.

  My sweet little one. It’s now 4.30 in the afternoon. I’ve been working the whole time, stopping only to smoke cigarettes and put coal into this stove that’s blazing away behind my back. I lunched off biscuits and apple jam, but am hoping to eat properly this evening.

  I’ve reread your letters, and rather than rending my heart they made me happy. You love me so nicely, my little one, and make me feel it so clearly! How I’d love to hug you in my arms — but that’ll come, in a week. My love, I’m so afraid you may think my heart’s dry as dust, when in fact it’s bursting with life, you know. I love you, my little one, quite violently — with need, and with all the tenderness in the world. I’d like to hold you in my hands.

  Your charming Beaver

  [Nettancourt (Meuse)]

  Saturday 23 March [1940]

  My sweet little one

  I’d be spending a good day today, if I weren’t so disappointed at not having a letter from you. But perhaps at 5 Bost will bring me one from Charmont. I’m hoping the old woman will hand him the one I told you to write addressed to him — although she did make a great fuss yesterday when he went to pick up his things, on the pretext that we weren’t married and had caused problems for her. At the post office, in any case, nothing had been forwarded. I also realize that I don’t know where to write to you. You’ll have left on leave by the time this letter arrives. Being cut off from you like this weighs upon me and makes me nervy. I’m scared Heaven knows what may happen, and couldn’t feel more ill at ease. However, I think you’d wire if you needed to. I’ve had a note from That Lady, who kindly forwarded on to me a very kind note from Kos. — that was the entirety of my mail.

  [...]

  I called in at the post office and bought some cigarettes. I also jubilantly bought 4 enormous steaks, since this evening we’re intending to eat two each. I was at work by about 10.30, but it didn’t go all that well. I ruminated a bit, and was vaguely sick of my opus — from over-saturation. What’s more, this is the phase when you stop inventing anything — when you exploit earlier inventions without feeling anything — and that seems sterile. So, because I was getting bogged down, I simply changed chapters and began one about Gerbert, which I’m quite enjoying. That’s the lot — that’s where I’ve got to. I’m going to write to Sorokine, and to Kos., powder my nose a bit, then go back to my book for a while. I’m delighted with Little B. and glad to be here, but I miss you too much. If only I’d got your letters! I’m still under the effect of having made you postpone your leave. It’s a disquiet that will pass only when I’ve kissed you, my love, as I so long to do! I’ve also been upset by rereading all your last letters — you’re so, so nice to me, my little one! I so long to have your love back, in flesh and blood. I love you, with a passionate need, my love.

  Your charming Beaver

  Footnotes

  58Sartre, called up, had left for Nancy on 2 September (see The Prime of Life, p.379).

  59They were to remain separated from 2 September 1939 until the end of March 1941, though they did see each other when De Beauvoir visited Brumath in Alsace, where Sartre was- stationed, in early November 1939, and again in Paris during Sartre’s two periods of leave in February and April 1940.

  60Bost, a private in a regular regiment, risked being sent to the front.

  61The Gare de 1’Est.

  62See note 54 above

  63Toulouse: nickname of Simone Jollivet (’Camille’ in De Beauvoir’s autobiography, stage name ‘Simone Sans’), actress and playwright. An early love of Sartre’s (they met in 1925), she later lived and worked with Charles Dullin (see note 33 above). She remained a friend of Sartre and De Beauvoir, despite political differences during the Occupation, until her tragic decline into despair and alcoholism (d. 1967).

  64De Beauvoir’s war journal survives. Drawn on for The Prime of Life, it was finally published in 1990 as Journal de Guerre.

  65The Soviet writer Ilya Ehrenburg, like Fernando Gerassi, had fought in the Spanish Civil War. The events referred to here are obviously the Nazi-Soviet Pact of August 1939.

  66 A brasserie in Avenue du Maine, called Les Trois Mousquetaires, described in The Prime of Life, p.315.

  67Pardo: a friend and future second husband of Gégé.

  68War was declared on 3 September 1939 at 17 hours.

  69Sonia Mossé: see The Prime of Life, pp.350-52.

  70De Beauvoir and Sartre were eventually to meet Alberto Giacometti through Nathalie Sorokine in the spring of 1941 (see The Prime of Life, pp.486-9), and they were thereafter to become good friends.

  71Mané-Katz and Moise Kisling were painters (see The Prime of Life, p.280). André Breton, the surrealist writer, had been an early influence on Sartre, and De Beauvoir was subsequently to analyse his poetic notion of woman — as everything except herself — in The Second Sex.

  72For Pierre Bost, see note 22 above.

  73By Fyodor Dostoievsky.

  74The Guilles: Pierre Guille (in De Beauvoir’s autobiography ‘Pagniez’) had been one of Sartre’s closest friends at the École Normale Supérieure, and from 1926 also the friend - and probably lover — of Mme Morel (see note 3 ab
ove). A teacher at this time, he was married and lived on Boulevard St Michel.

  75The school was the Lycée Molière in Passy, in the rich 16th Arrondissement of Paris, to which De Beauvoir was appointed in 1936 following her stint teaching in Rouen, and where she taught until the defeat of France in June 1940 — although, from the outbreak of war on, it had been amalgamated with the Lycée Camille Sée.

  76Short for piège à loups (’mantrap’), a term which Mme Morel popularized in her circle of intimates for homosexuals of either sex.

  77 Gégé’s first husband.

  78Her patron and friend.

  79Gégé’s employer.

  80Former lover of Stépha’s, met at the Bibliothèque Nationale in 1929. See Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter, pp.298-300.

  81Bullfighting term, adopted from Hemingway both by François Mauriac and by Sartre, meaning a ‘haven’ or favourite spot.

 

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