Goodbye, little beloved, most dear little being — o yourself, my life, my other self.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Wednesday [24 July 1940]
My love
I’m rather discouraged. Here’s the end of the month drawing near, but there’s no sign of you. I wonder if my letters reach you, and am so sure they don’t that writing fills me with repugnance. How I’d love to see you! I dream of you every night, but always in a nightmare atmosphere. And waking up is so painful: I wonder vaguely in my sleep why there’s such an impression of sadness linked to your person, then find that it’s because you’re quite out of reach, my love. I love you. Lots and lots of heartrending memories come back to me, and I’m amazed at all the virtues adorning you in my remembrance. Yet I know when I see you I’ll be even more amazed, to find you more delectable than all my memories. My sweet little one, I can’t help weeping this morning as I write to you. I so want to see you smile at me and to touch your little arm — to be folded in your arms, my love! Dear little being, dear face, how nice you were with me! — you were the nicest — how precious you were! Oh! I miss you, I pine for you, the world’s empty — how hollow people are, how flat the days! I feel deeply lonely — I can’t exchange a single word of what I really think with anyone but myself. I do nothing from dawn to dusk but wait for you and count the days.
These past few days form a great, shapeless mass behind me — I’m not quite sure when I last wrote to you. Kos. was in Paris, she’s still here and we trail around together all day long. I think she’s leaving tomorrow. She’s dismal, tired and spineless, and also obstinate and stupid so far as current events are concerned — it’s just like hearing her father speak — yet she’s keen to talk about them. I find her so superficial, I no longer have any wish to open my mouth in her presence. She has rarely been lower in my esteem, and I’m bored in her company. It’s raining, which adds nothing to the charm of her stay. We trail round to the Dome or the Deux Magots. On Sunday we went to a concert in the Salle Gaveau. It was odd to see that crowd — two thirds French, one third Germans — filling the hall, for a programme made up of the most timeworn old standbys: 5 th Symphony, Afternoon of a Faun, Damnation of Faust. You get the impression people are greedy for any kind of distraction. On the other hand, we went twice to the cinema — to see Tempête sur I’Asie280 in the Latin Quarter and a fairly entertaining German film, The Tiger Woman, on the Champs-Élysées — and the auditorium was empty both times. As another distraction, we spent one afternoon in Place du Tertre watching the Germans troop past to take photographs of the Sacré-Coeur. And on Monday we went to dinner with Toulouse. She was all in white, with a long dress, a burnous and long tresses — she looked like a Valkyrie. She was enthusiastically making plans for the future, since she thinks the moment of her glory — and the flowering of her genius — has finally come. They’re hoping to play her version of Plutus in the Arènes de Lutèce in September, and she’s adapting Aristophanes’s Knights too, which is a satire against demagogy. She’s also hoping to act in her own play this winter. She seems to hold Dullin wholly in the palm of her hand. She was eager to get me (and you by proxy) to share her point of view. For my part, I was bored to death and thought of you with a heavy heart.
Meanwhile, I’ve seen a bit of Bienenfeld, though not much — which she complains of, albeit very mildly. She’s nice at present, and has a human intelligence compared with Kos. I’ve also seen Sorokine — there were two very pleasant evenings on Friday and Saturday, since in order to let Kos. have a good sleep I went and met S. at the hotel, which made her very touched and happy. But then she was gripped by fury because I was seeing Kos., so on Monday we quarrelled for an hour — and this morning, when I opened the door to go and see her, I found her crouched sobbing on the landing. She’d spent the night there wallowing in jealousy and rage. I first berated then consoled her, and we parted on so-so terms.
There! Tomorrow I’m going to get back to Hegel and the bicycle. I’m glad Kos. is leaving, because I’m a bit sick of her. I’m going to take up my diary again for a while, so as to bring you properly up to date on my life and little private troubles when you get back, o little eagerly awaited one. My little one, we love one another so much — how marvellous it will be for both of us to recover each its other self, to recast our lives together, to recreate a common past out of all these times, my dear little one!
Apparently it’s going to be possible to send parcels — I’ll put in all the books I can and some food.
I’ve got your dough — and will keep it for you carefully. I found them strangely curt at your bursary, which intrigued me. I find people pretty sickening: Kos., Toulouse, Dullin. I caught sight of the Lunar Woman, back from exile and unbearable. Kos. and I were determinedly rude to her.
Goodbye. My love. If only I believed these letters arrived! I’m still basically in good heart, but yearn most agonizingly to see you — nothing counts but that. You’re so present to me, almost physically, little being, most dear little being. I’m all melting with affection for you. My love.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Monday 29 July [1940]
My love
Exactly like the day before yesterday, I’m writing to you from that table overlooking the front part of the Dome. It’s 10 in the morning, the weather’s fine and there are crowds of people at the crossroads. We’ve just seen a long procession of Germans pass down Boulevard Raspail on bicycles. Inside the Dome they’re washing the floor, so there’s a strong smell of soapsuds. I have Faulkner’s latest novel with me,281 and will read it once I’ve written to you. Then I’ll go off to work on Hegel, see your mother, and read a bit more — after which I’ll go and have dinner at my parents’ place, while listening to a Wagner festival on the wireless. I’m telling you all this because my whole programme for the day is present, here in this morning hour. Loads of German lorries are going past, and loads of cars still full of returning refugees.
Anyway, it was Saturday when I wrote to you, after which I went to the Nationale — where I made considerable progress with Hegel’s Logic, I’ve done one part out of three — and am no longer finding it too tedious. Then, at 5, I went out with Sorokine. Since we hadn’t had any lunch, we bought rillettes, onion tarts and raspberry tarts and went to eat them all in a little cafè, talking the while about my novel — which she’s busy reading in minute detail. She kept me company to the Métro station at Passy. She radiated contentment — because she’s delighted with me in general — and was charming. I went to the tabac on the Quai de Passy - to write a little letter to Bost — then climbed up to the room that Bienenfeld has fixed up for herself on the 6th floor of her building: it’s quite pleasing, with a wide view over the roofs. Levy and Ramblin were there. I ate a fruit salad — made out of blackcurrants and gooseberries, sprinkled with wine — then we listened to some records. (For the past 5 minutes there has been a long, silent parade of German infantry down Bd Montparnasse — with lorries and field-kitchens, a veritable army — and pedestrians and cars are at a standstill.)
So we listened to a lot of Bach and a bit of jazz. During the jazz, Ramblin and Bienenfeld jigged about on their chairs to mark the rhythm - it was mildly ridiculous. Then the two men went off, while I stayed for the night. There was an hour of tenderness and passion, alas! — after which I went to sleep on the couch, in a sleeping-bag smelling of rubber, while Bienenfeld went downstairs to the flat. We’d decided on a long bicycle-ride next day — I on her beautiful, brand-new red bicycle, she on a bicycle belonging to her sister. We left at 8, and you should know that we actually did 75 km. in the course of that day! Bienenfeld was tired, but I wasn’t in the least. We went first to Maisons-Laffitte: it’s agreeable because, as the bridge has been blown up, you have to cross the Seine in a small boat. Next we went for a ride through the forest of St Germain, before returning to St Germain itself where we had lunch. In the afternoon we climbed into the Bois de Ville-d’Avray, crossed the Bois de
Fausses-Reposes — where we used to go in the old days by car, with Guille and That Lady — then returned home via St-Cloud. Bienenfeld grumbled a bit — because she had dreams of sitting holding hands in glades, whereas I wanted only to eat up the kilometers on my bicycle. It’s a new joy in life that I’ve discovered and, instead of wishing for a car, my desires will henceforth be limited to a bicycle of my own.
We arrived at the Salle Pleyel just in time for the concert. I was supposed to meet Sorokine there — and did indeed meet her, but she was wearing a sullen look because I’d been out riding all day with my red-haired friend. We exchanged a few cool words, then listened to the concert. A certain Cécile Borgman had organized it, and I think that must have been the only way she could find an audience for her own voice — the whole hall was laughing at her. There was some Schumann and some Lully — an agreeable programme, but none too well executed. After that, there was an unfortunate mishap. I was supposed to take Bienenfeld’s bicycle back to her on foot, accompanied by Sorokine; but when I went to unlock the bicycle, I realized that Bienenfeld had given me the wrong key — so we had to carry the disabled bicycle, which was an arduous business. Sorokine complained bitterly. We toted the wretched object as far as the Étoile. People were looking at us askance, since we must have looked like two looters — a crazy amount of bicycles are being stolen these days. So we then ensconced ourselves in a cafè on Avenue Wagram, and I phoned Bienenfeld to bring me the right key. The cafè was full of Germans, and four good ladies in long silver dresses were playing the [...] Symphony — just the sort of good ladies whom you find so amusing: bespectacled like piano teachers, but all powdered and curled and in shiny dresses. At 8.30 B. finally turned up and liberated us from the bicycle. After that, I walked with Sorokine to Montparnasse and we had dinner at the Dome. The sculptor282 is hovering round her a lot, but he has disappointed her enormously by the absurdity of his ideas and his unjustified intellectual pretensions. She decided to drink a Pernod, which made her half-tipsy — and she was full of delight at being tipsy and agreeable. In the meantime, we made peace spectacularly. We went home to my place, spent a tender while, then I slept till 8 and she accompanied me to school It’s the bac exam today, and I wanted to know if I’d have anything to do — but they left me in peace. In theory lessons don’t end till 8 August, but I don’t think I have a single pupil left.
That’s all, my little one. I’ve rather given up expecting you hourly. I fear I may still have a lot of days to spend without you. If I only knew you weren’t too bored! Once again, I feel that when I see you I’ll faint with joy. I know I shan’t really — but the idea of seeing you so overwhelms me that it’s genuinely almost unbearable. My sweet little one, I’m living with my heart outstretched towards that corner of Meurthe-et-Moselle where it’s forbidden to go, but whence you’ll one day emerge. I love you, my beloved.
Your charming Beaver
A further two-and-a-half-month break in the correspondence occurs at this point. Although Sartre was receiving her letters, De Beauvoir heard nothing from him after the pencilled note which arrived on 11 July (aside from a couple of delayed items written earlier). In mid August, Sartre was moved from captivity in Lorraine to a prisoner-of-war camp near Trier in Germany. Only in mid October did correspondence become possible again — at least on De Beauvoifs side — on official forms. (See The Prime of Life, p.462.)
[Paris]
17 October [1940]
My love
How hard it has been to spend these last two months without a sign of life from you — without even an address. Now, once again, I know you’re alive somewhere in flesh and blood; and I’ll see you again; and, even if we have to wait some more, we’ll still have a long life ahead of us, to love one another and be happy — my dear little one. I feel full of courage. I know you are too, and that sustains me. Apparently, one mustn’t write too much.283 So I won’t tell you all about the last two months. Apart from a gloomy fortnight when Olga was ill and I was alone with her in Paris, they were entirely agreeable: I spent 10 days at Montpellier with Bost,284 bicycled round Brittany for a week with Bianca Bienenfeld, bicycled round Paris alone or with Sorokine. I read American novels, etc. Now Bost’s in Paris, I see a lot of him and very agreeably. I have a preparatory class for the École — just 9 hours’ teaching. I’ve got down to my novel again and it’s going marvellously. Things couldn’t be better for me. I love you more passionately — and more exclusively — than ever.
Your charming Beaver
Envelope
KRIEGSGEFANGENPOST
Prisoners of War
Sartre Jean-Paul
Sanität Stalag XII-D
Mle 10788
Kranken-Revier
Deutschland
Sender: De Beauvoir Simone
21 Rue Vavin Paris
[Paris — official form]
18 October [1940]
My sweet little one
I told you in my last letter that all was well with me: school, work, relations with Bost, Sorokine, Olga. I’ve more or less broken with Bianca. There were tears (I told her all about Bost), but she’s having an idyll with Ramblin, so that’s working out. Olga has a part with Dullin: the little bathing-girl in Plutus. Yesterday was the premiere, all’s going well and she’s earning some dough. I’ve seen everybody again. Zuorro — who spent the whole war in Algeria and is blooming — I see him often and find him entertaining. Guille just missed being taken prisoner — he’s in Paris and expecting a kid. Nizan has disappeared, the Lunar Man is a P.O.W., Pierre Bost too. Merleau-Ponty got off with pneumonia — he has recovered now. Gégé has started work again. Denonain is a P.O.W. That Lady’s still at La Pouèze. I’ve seen Brice Parain — very amiable: the N.R.F. is publishing a few books, but gradually. People, concerts, lots of work — it’s a decent life, as you can see. We’ve made hundreds of applications on your behalf. I’ve some slight hope. I’ve seen the Boxer, quite charming, and also Seltzer: their enthusiasm for you is very touching. I’ll write again in a few days. My whole life is nothing but waiting for your return.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
19 October [1940]
My love
It’s such a fine autumn in Paris at present that my heart’s in utter turmoil. I’m at the back of the Deux Magots and working — it’s 2 o’clock. This morning I rose early, it was still a bit dark when I met Bost at the counter in the Rotonde where we ate breakfast together, then I walked to his school with him. He’s a teaching supervisor (in philosophy, to his despair) at a school in Rue Denfert, at 1,500 F. a month — it’s a pretty cushy job. He met up with me again at the Mahieu, we went for a walk, then I worked at the Mahieu from 10 to midday. I had lunch with my parents. I’m planning to work till 5, then go to a concert with Sorokine. After that, I’ll spend the evening round the Theatre de Paris (Théatre Dullin currently) with Olga.
There you have a typical day — I spend lots just like it. I’m working extremely well. But, my dear little one, my whole life is as though ‘bracketed off — it’s not valid, it doesn’t count. How curt these little letters are, when I’m suffocating with things to tell you — suffocating with love and need for you.
I forgot to tell you that W.’s in Paris — she must have written to you. Maheu’s in Toulouse, where Merleau-Ponty bumped into him. How quickly I’d leave Paris and everybody and even my work, in order to rush to your side and share your life, if the choice were left to me, my love.
[Paris — Official Form]
Monday 29 October [1940]
My sweet little one
How my life has changed since I had your letter!285 Moreover, I’m beginning to have some hope of actually seeing you again soon — lots of reassuring rumours are going round. I’m living with you once more, you’re all alive. I feel almost happy. I’ve still the same little pattern of life. On Thursday I made Mouloudji practise his geometry a bit. He told me some entertaining stories about Savin and Delarue, who have ta
ken him in hand entirely and don’t much like us. I had lunch with the Ziuthre,286 and found him as entertaining as ever. Then I worked and in the evening went to a fine concert with Bianca. Evenings with her are painful, because she keeps sobbing at the idea of going away — she’s leaving in a month’s time. On Friday it was again work, school, concert, then 2 hours with Sorokine and the same amount with Olga. It’s all idyllic with Sorokine, though interrupted by jealousies and bad moods — but we no longer come to blows. Olga’s as dismal as ever — the play isn’t going very well. Everybody strikes me as rather wretched. There’s only you, prisoner though you may be, who seem solid and give me a taste for life. It’s precious, my dear little one, to feel that for you and me, in the worst circumstances, the world remains interesting and strong and our lives full. I’m serene. I know that I’ll be marvellously happy again. I love you, my dear happiness, and my lovely little absolute.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Tuesday 29 October [1940]
My dear little one
I’ve written you lots of little letters, in a very careful handwriting so that the censors don’t take umbrage. But what I’d give to know you received them! They’re so curt anyway, those little notes, when I’ve so many things to tell you, so many others to discuss with you. But I’m starting to hope it won’t be long. Perhaps a month from now you’ll be sitting beside me, on one of these benches, just the same as ever, jaunty and full of experience. I still recall sitting outside the cafè Victor in Rouen, when you so longed for some extra-sentimental experience — like crossing the Sahara in a half-track. Well, now you’ve really had one. And may the Heavens presently grant you the life of Tennyson287 at my side for a long while — that’s my dearest wish. As I’ve already told you, I find the idea of your return infinitely romantic. Apart from your mother, we won’t tell anyone for as long as possible, will we? I have such need of you, my little one. It’s going to be so amazing to find myself happy like in the old days. And I’m so eager to know everything that has gone on in that dear, industrious head of yours. You’ll be the same, but where will you be in your thoughts? For the first time I’ll be finding myself confronted by fine, brand-new theories that won’t have been tried out on me, and that I shan’t have fought against step by step. Seven months that I haven’t seen you, my little one!288 Yet, in a sense, it’s as though I’d left you only yesterday. I feel I’m going to recover myself in recovering you. There are so many things in me that are of no use, finding no purchase, when you’re not there. But now once again — as in Rue Froidevaux on one fine day of your leave — the world will become all wide and rich. Come quickly, I’m waiting so eagerly for you!
Letters to Sartre Page 46
