Anyway, I calmed Sorokine down and she told me lots of amusing stories about her life in Paris during my absence. For 8 days she earned her living peddling newspapers — she says you can make 45 F. a day, but only by flogging yourself to death — but then they prevented her from continuing since she didn’t have a work permit. She’s really wondering what her future’s going to be, and it doesn’t in fact look any too bright. She also told me how, for two days after my departure, Paris had been black with soot, because fuel trains were burning everywhere and belching out thick clouds of smoke — Zebuth had told me about this too. The Parisians all looked like chimney-sweeps, and apparently it was strange: a certain quality of the light that made you think of fine weather, combined with a black ceiling overhead.
I went and had dinner with my parents. The difficulties of finding provisions were the main subject of conversation, of course — it was harder than it is now. After that I went home, where I found Sorokine. We divided the beds — to give ourselves one each — and after an hour of tender conversation fell asleep.
[...]
My little one, I’ll go on in full detail this evening or tomorrow — I enjoy telling you it all. As for today, it’s already noon and I’ve spent all morning reading L’Imaginaire and writing to you. I’ll call in and see whether there’s a letter from you. If not, I’ll mail this letter as it is. Goodbye, my love. Here I am now, as close to you as can be. I’m so happy about it. I love you and am waiting for you, my love.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Saturday 13 July [1940]
My sweet little one
It’s 5.30 and I’ve nothing to do till this evening except write to you. Only I’m rather afraid these letters may not be reaching you (this is the fifth), which paralyses me somewhat. I haven’t had any news, of course, since your pencilled note. I had some vague hope this morning — now I’ve transferred it to tomorrow. How happy I’ll be when I have a real letter, my love.
I’ve had some more detailed news from Kos. She says that Laigle hasn’t suffered all that much. There were a few bombs, but really only one family was devastated. All the locals had left, and they themselves stayed only because, as usual, Mme Kos. felt ill enough to be at death’s door. She’s going to come to Paris any day now — but I’ll keep her for only three or four days. Bienenfeld has written to say she’s coming back too, but it’s not certain that she’ll stay.
I’m first going to tell you about the past two days. As you’ll see, my life is calm and even melancholy, with dull throbbings of desire whenever I think how you’re there in flesh and blood in a particular spot in France, and that a train — and permission to board it — would be enough to bring you back here in five hours. My love, I don’t know if you can feel the need that I have of you. I’ve borne it with all the patience I could muster, but now that I’m relaxed — because I’m no longer worried — it utterly suffocates me.
So yesterday I spent the morning reading L’Ilmaginaire and writing to you. I walked to the Latin Quarter, then over towards the Seine and on to the Palais Royal. I went to eat at the Fleur de Lys — near the Bib. Nationale — where the Llama used to take me on days of particular jollity. Then I read Hegel from 2 to 5 at the Nationale. I’m beginning to understand — it’s at once interesting and irritating. I’m now on the Phenomenology of Mind, after which I’ll move on to the Logic. Reflecting on him and Husserl, I’ve realized I’d forgotten a great deal of Husserl — so you can explain him to me again, while I’ll expound Hegel to you.
After that, I went to pick up my case at the Gare de Lyon. I found my papers and clothes all right, and took them home — where I proceeded to make a few sartorial adjustments, then went off to meet Sorokine at the Dome. It was a dreary occasion, since the evening before we’d had a big scene. I’ll tell you all about it at the right time, but I find such scenes so tedious that the very idea of telling you about them bores me stiff. After that, at 8.30, I went up to my parents’ place to take simultaneous advantage of dinner and the concert, which was excellent (there’s a concert every evening now on the wireless): some very pleasing early music, some Bach, and some Debussy. Then I walked home with Sorokine and went to bed.
This morning, school from 9 to midday, then lunch and total reconciliation with Sorokine. Hegel from 2 to 5, and now I’m back here again. It’s raining. I’m deeply and intimately bored, and think you must be intolerably bored. Are you with Pieter? You surely can’t read, or even write if you’ve only a pencil. Did you manage to save your drafts? My love, I’ve shed as many tears over Mathieu275 as over you yourself — nothing has been more painful to me than the uncertainty of his fate. Truly, my sole concern has been to ascertain what will become of your life.
I’m going to go on with my story — I’d reached Thursday 4 July. I had school from 9 to 11, then went to the Deux Magots and sat outside reading Gone with the Wind, which Zebuth had lent me. It’s less boring than I’d thought, but less enjoyable than people say. I had lunch with the family, where I ate beef for the first time in ages. I went back to the Deux Magots, to read and write to Kos., then for an hour went bicycling — with enjoyment, weariness and skill. After that I read a newspaper at the Dome, from which I got the idea that prisoners-of-war weren’t going to be released. This put me in a black mood, so that when Sorokine came along at 7 and I thought how I was going to spend 4 hours with her, I started to hate her. We left on foot for the Palais Royal, where I had the vague intention of looking at the prisoner-of-war lists — the idea being to beguile my uncertainty. We quarrelled vaguely, because she wanted me to take various steps to get hold of a bicycle and I didn’t want to. Then we saw that the place where they kept the lists was closed (apparently there are not many names posted, and queues of 600 people), so we left — she dragging her feet, I striding out — which opened up huge distances between us. We met up again all the same near the café de la Paix, where in a hate-filled silence we ate delicious pineapple sorbets. It was full of very smart Germans — but, apart from that, deserted and gloomy.
We returned via the Tuileries and there — at the sight of an old madwoman, wracked by nervous twitches, dropping her knickers behind a tree with a hunted look — we laughed and made up.
I came back to settle in at my grandmother’s — where we had dinner, gorging ourselves with sausage — then went off to bed, read a detective story for a while, and slept for almost 11 hours. I dreamt about you: you were dressed as a soldier and you were a murderer and wanted to strangle me. After that you calmed down, and I was kissing you and caressing your hair. But then, while still dreaming, I started up in fury at my dream — finding it out of place and painful — and woke up on the spot. It was already 11 o’clock. I went to do some shopping with Sorokine, since at that time she liked to think she could prepare my meals — and was determined to do so. She boiled some rice, but spilt almost all of it on the floor as soon as it was cooked. Then we went to the Sorbonne library, where I read an interesting big book on Debussy. The idiotic thing is that the libraries are open only from 2 to 5, otherwise I’d have educated myself about both Hegel and music, whereas I had to choose. Then I came and sat down at the Dome, where the waiter expelled me from the interior to an outside table, saying they no longer accepted unaccompanied women. Actually, they accept them perfectly well — but the fact was, he’d taken me for a tart. During the first days the Dome had reassumed its brothel-like aspect of yore, with all the tarts in the most prominent places. Then they’d been relegated to the rear. And after that they’d stopped coming, because they were looking for German clients. There’d been crowds of Germans at the Dome those first days, you see, but now there are a certain number of cafès — the Dome, the Deux Magots, some of the Dupont chain — which have signs forbidding Germans from entering. The managers are very unhappy about this, and nobody knows where the ban originated. Anyway, I sat down outside, had a bite to eat, then went home. Sorokine dropped in from 9 to 10, then I went to bed.
I w
oke up with a thick head and feeling really low. I set off down Rue Froidevaux, which always wrings my heart because it’s one of my last memories of you and your leave, when we walked down that street and I was telling you that what I found with you was the totality of the world. (This next time it’ll be different. I really have the impression — in my solitude — of being in contact with the totality of the world. So it’s just your individual experience that I’m awaiting so impatiently.) I drank a melancholy coffee at the Trois Mousquetaires, then went on as far as Duruy, where I taught for two hours. After that I read at the Deux Magots, then had lunch with my family. There was a first postcard from Kos., and a long letter from Poupette in Portugal. Those were the first fresh letters anyone had received for ages, and they gave me as much pleasure as a first escape from prison. I walked to the Nationale, and that was when I began to decipher Hegel’s Phenomenology — with the help of Wahl’s book and some English commentators. But it’s discouraging, since each of them makes clear at length how he understands nothing. I found it agreeable to be back there — it reminded me of the time long ago when I was preparing for my agrégation. Also, it restored my equanimity to rediscover philosophy and books — all those things which are truly real, and so solid, and which we’ll never be without. I went back to Rue Vavin, read, then saw Sorokine, whom I forced to practise her maths — which I quite enjoyed — then took home for some pate and conversation. I told her stories, and we exchanged innumerable marks of affection — it made a pretty agreeable evening.
Goodnight, my sweet little one. At 7 I left the Dome and went to say hello to Zebuth, who kept me to dinner. Her fellow was there, we talked, it was neither enjoyable nor boring — but I was gripped by an intense sadness. It’s raining. What’s rain like in a prisoner-of-war camp? It must be gloomy. Today I’m less optimistic about you than the day before yesterday, I think you must be so bored that it makes me want to cry. If only my letters reach you, my love! That would connect you to the world a bit. If I were sure you got my letters, I’d write morning, noon and night. I’m going off to the Red Cross to see whether I might by any chance be able to send you a parcel. If that is possible, I’ll put in everything that’s allowed — books and food. I’ll also ask if I can send money. I recall your first letter from a barracks in Nancy, when you wrote to me that you felt ‘absurd and tiny’, sitting in a corner on a wooden box. That’s how I picture you. And I’m wracked by grief and love for you — I can’t bear you to be unhappy. And there are assuredly moments when the days must seem so long to you. O my little one, you’ll see how nice I’ll be when you’re back with me again. I’ll try to be really very nice. And what a welcome I’ll give you, my love! — as good a one as the flies at Ouarzazate (it was Ouarzazate, wasn’t it?).276 I’m all weighed down with tender memories, and images of you, and a love that’s utterly humble and straightforward. If I could only be with you — exactly where you are, sharing your lot — that would be happiness indeed! My heart’s no dry bone, my love, since you’re alive within it. This evening of all evenings, you’re altogether present to me. And since you sometimes feel yourself all perfumed, it’s that very perfume of yourself that I feel in me. Goodbye, my love. I kiss you passionately.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Sunday 14 July [1940]
My love
It’s fine and cool this morning. It gives me a strange feeling to write this date: 14 July. In other years that meant going off on holiday — a long time to be spent entirely with each other, seeing the world. Sometimes it would mean long, agreeable walks through a festive Paris. But today it’s out of season, since there’s not even summer weather: the weather being so ill-defined, it has no place in the year. I’d thought of going off on a long bicycle trip, but I’m too spineless — all I want to do is let myself gently stagnate. I slept late, came here to eat my breakfast, and am going to write to you, read the rest of your Imaginaire, and draft some notes on Hegel. How I long to see you! Above all, I’m so impatient for that happiness which has once again become certain for me — and almost close at hand: your presence beside me, my dear little being.
I’m going to finish telling you about my life in Paris. That way, if you put my letters end to end, you’ll have a detailed history of my life over this past fortnight. I’d reached last Sunday. I rose as late as possible — at about 9.30 — since the moment of waking is always among the most painful. Then I accompanied Sorokine down for a cup of coffee on the Avenue d’Orleans. Next, I went and picked up her bicycle. It was only the third day I’d been riding, yet I was perfectly able to go for a real ride — first to the Pare de Montsouris and back, then to the Closerie des Lilas and back. Once I ran into a dog, and another time into two good ladies — who were very indignant about it — but for the most part it was a glorious performance. On Boulevard Raspail I passed some armoured cars laden with Germans, all in black. They were tank crews, I think, with their black uniforms, big berets and death’s-head insignia. I sat down at the Dome and read some selected passages from Hegel. I found one sentence that would do marvellously as an epigraph for my novel:
‘In so far as it is the Other who acts, every consciousness pursues the death of the other . . . The relation between the two self-consciousnesses is thus determined as follows: they test themselves and each other by a struggle to the death. They cannot avoid this struggle, since they are forced to raise this certainty of self to the level of truth.
‘Every self-consciousness must pursue the death of the other . . . The essence of the other appears to it as an other, as external, and it has to transcend that externality.’
I suddenly experienced a brief moment of intellectual ardour. I felt like doing some philosophy, talking to you, taking up my novel again. But I’m too undecided to get back to the novel — I shan’t be able to touch it before seeing you again. I had lunch, wrote to Kos., made up my diary, read, and at 5 went for a really long bicycle ride. I called in at Rue de Charenton and saw that the people who had my suitcase were back277 — but they weren’t in just then, so I returned home empty- handed. I did two hours’ cycling, but since this was on very badly paved roads, where I was jolted dreadfully. I returned home very tired. Moreover, I’m in a constant state of nervousness — which is necessarily reduced when I’m alone, but which Sorokine’s presence readily exacerbates to the highest degree. This brought about a violent and farcical scene. When I turned up, I found Sorokine busy making fried potatoes — and also a packet of letters forwarded on from La Pouèze by That Lady: they were six fairly recent letters from Bost (up to 18 June). At first I felt violently disappointed at not finding anything from you, but then Bost’s letters themselves brought tears to my eyes and wrung my heart, and I’d have liked to be alone to brood over my sorrows. Instead of that, I knew Sorokine was expecting to have a good time, with a person of amiable disposition, full of interesting ideas and entertaining stories. I found having this role to play for 4 hours hateful. She sensed that. She resented my having received so many letters, and wore a sulky expression as we ate our fried potatoes. As for me, I resented her asking me nothing about those letters — never being interested, for a single second, in my life for myself. An hour went by in dreary politeness. Then we moved from the kitchen to a bedroom, where I began — at her bidding — to explain Valéry’s Eupalinos. She at once started grumbling about how she didn’t understand, so for an hour I explained to her — in a harsh, spiteful tone of voice — while she listened in fury. There were another two hours to get through and they seemed endless to me. To create a diversion I wanted to reread a letter I’d written her from La Pouèze, which was lying around there. She tried to stop me — out of pure spirit of contrariness — and I was shaken by a black rage which led me to tear the letter to shreds. This was followed first by sulking, then by a vague reconciliation. After that, I obligingly set about finding subjects of conversation, but she let them all drop, seizing my hands and rubbing her head on my shoulder — which I found detestable. I w
as increasingly choking with anger. Eventually she declared that she didn’t want to talk as long as I just sat in my armchair like that. Then I exploded — reviling her stupidly. She left the room, while I took a detective story and read — which calmed my spirit. At about quarter to eleven I went to look for her, in order to send her home. At first I didn’t find her, calling and searching for her in vain. But eventually I discovered her at the back of the kitchen, crouching beside the meat-safe with a look of fury. I told her to leave, but she said she wouldn’t — and when I tried to shake her, she pummelled me with her fists. I nevertheless dragged her as far as the front door, dinning it into her ears that if she didn’t leave I wouldn’t see her for a week. That intimidated her, so she went out through the door, yelling that she’d remain on the stairs. I slammed the door in her face. I went to bed and, of course, a quarter of an hour later the doorbell rang. I went to open the door, trembling with rage — I wanted to be alone, have some peace, and sleep. I frankly hated her. She wanted to ‘talk’, but I refused angrily and threw her a mattress, a pillow and some blankets — so that she could make herself comfortable on the floor — then with dignity returned to my detective story. She quietened down then, and dragged her bedding off to the corridor. I read for a while, then fell asleep — and awoke with restored equanimity and even affection, when I recalled how the evening before she’d had great black streaks on her face, from attempting to sleep on the doormat. Moreover — although I find her tyrannical, indiscreet and unbearable in the same way that a stubborn child can be — in the scene in question, a good share of the fault had been on my side. Accordingly, I greeted her in the morning with smiles, to which she responded likewise with smiles; we took breakfast together; and after school I met her for lunch at the Milk Bar, to begin one of those grand explanations in depth which are the joy of her life. They’re just like the confessions of depressives, who go round in circles while every time believing they’re yielding up the innermost depths of their souls — but, after all, it does help to pass the time. She was quite overwhelmed when she grasped what all the trouble had been about — and admitted she’d never regarded me as anything other than an object to exploit. She accompanied me to the Nationale, where I read Hegel. Then, from 5 to 7, I went for a long bicycle ride — over towards the Rue des Francs-Bourgeois — and began to find traipsing round Paris on a bicycle absolutely delightful. After that, I went to finish off my detective story over a glass of sherry at the Deux Magots. I dined at home, then saw Sorokine again for a while — we had a drink together on the Avenue d’Orléans.
Letters to Sartre Page 44
